Loving Hard: A Chesapeake Blades Hockey Romance (The Chesapeake Blades Book 2)

by Lisa B. Kamps

  Mac obviously had other ideas because he kept rustling the damn paper and making humming noises as he read. First a mutter. Then a chuckle. Then another mutter. Jonathan blew out a deep sigh and pinned Mac with a scowl.

  "I'm trying to fucking work here."

  "No, you're not. You haven't been working since you walked in. Doodling isn't work."

  "I'm not doodling."

  "Dude. You're scribbling lines on a scrap sheet of paper that used to be my notes from the other day. You're not working."

  Jonathan frowned then glanced at the wrinkled sheet of paper. He looked closer, noticing the sloppy scrawl of Mac's handwriting for the first time. Over that were deep lines and gouges, made by Jonathan's own pen. He swore under his breath, wadded the paper in his fist, then hurled it across the room.

  "Fuck."

  "Uh-huh. I'm thinking that's your problem. Too much build-up. You need to get that taken care of."

  "Fuck you."

  "Sorry, but you're not my type." Mac raised the newspaper in front of his face, but not fast enough to hide the grin. The scar that sliced across the lower part of his face turned the grin into something that looked more like a clown face—or the sinister scowl of a boogeyman.

  "Don't you have something better to do?"

  Mac glanced at him over the top of the paper, one dark brow raised in amusement. "Don't you?"

  "Just put the fucking paper down and—"

  "When I'm finished reading."

  "Christ." Jonathan pushed away from the desk and grabbed a file from the stack on the cabinet behind him. It was nothing more than busy work, something to keep him from ripping the paper out of Mac's hands and shredding it to pieces.

  Something to keep his mind from that stupid fucking article.

  Not that there was anything wrong with the article itself. It wasn't even a full page, unless you counted the pictures. It talked about the new hockey team, the obstacles they were facing, how the Blades were competing in a market that already had a professional hockey team—the Baltimore Banners.

  It could have been a total downer and filled with negativity, but it wasn't. The article focused instead on the strength and perseverance of the women on the team and talked about the spirit and gumption they needed for success.

  And yeah, the writer of the article—one TR Meyers—had actually used those words: spirit and gumption. Seriously? Whatever. More power to him. Or her. That wasn't the issue Jonathan had with the article. No, his issue was on the player the article featured: Sammie.

  And how they played up the fact that she was a single parent struggling to juggle her dreams of playing hockey with a full-time job, all while meeting the demands of motherhood.

  Just another shot straight to his heart. One more reason for the guilt to eat at him even more than it usually did.

  Fuck.

  "You know, your wife is actually pretty damn cute, especially in all that gear. She's—"

  Jonathan hurled the closest object—which happened to be the pen in his hand—toward Mac. "Shut the fuck up."

  The other man batted the pen away with a laugh. "Touchy, touchy."

  "She's not my wife, okay? Just—fuck. Just drop it, okay? Let it go."

  The door opened behind him. Jonathan spun around in the chair as Daryl walked through, a cardboard tray with three large cups of coffee balanced in one hand. He kicked the door closed behind him, his pale gaze darting between Jonathan and Mac.

  "Is that the article about your wife?"

  "She's not my wife."

  "Not anymore. And not yet. Again. Whatever." Daryl placed the cardboard tray on the edge of Jonathan's desk then passed the coffee around. "But I think I came up with a game plan to help."

  Jonathan's gut twisted and he damn near dropped the coffee. He sat the cup on his desk then leaned back and aimed a scowl at Daryl. "What the hell are you talking about? I don't need a game plan. There's nothing to plan for. I told you—"

  "Yeah, whatever. I don't know who the fuck you're trying to kid with that bullshit lie you fed us earlier, but we know better."

  Fuck.

  Fuck him.

  Fuck his buddies.

  Fuck everything.

  He should have never opened up to them. Should have never told them about Sammie. Not that they didn't already know—they did. About everything. Because they'd been there with him, playing in that fucking sandbox. They knew exactly what he'd done because they'd given him hell about it and called him every kind of fool.

  They weren't wrong. At least, not then. But now?

  Fuck.

  Yes, he wanted Sammie back. He'd give anything to have her back. But it wasn't that fucking easy, not after what he'd done. Mac and Daryl didn't see it that way. To them, it was a simple matter of talking to Sammie and making things right.

  But how the fuck could he do that without explaining why he'd done what he did in the first place? He couldn't. Hell, he couldn't even manage to string together coherent sentences in her presence—last weekend was proof of that. Showing up at her parents' place like that, unannounced and out of the blue. And then just standing there, not knowing how to say what he'd gone there to say, not even knowing what the hell he wanted to say to begin with.

  Fuck.

  Yeah, Mr. Warner should have thrown him off the porch face-first. It was no less than what Jonathan deserved. He was still surprised that Sammie had stopped her dad from doing just that.

  Seeing her, talking to her, had been harder than he'd thought it would be. And to hear her say he was no longer part of her life…fuck, that had hurt.

  Because it was true. He wasn't. He hadn't been for nearly three years. He'd been so fucking stupid back then, thinking he was doing what was best for Sammie and Clare.

  And he was still paying the price, still dealing with the gaping hole in his soul.

  "Do you want to fucking do this or not?"

  Jonathan gave himself a mental shake and looked over. Mac and Daryl were both watching him, their shrewd gazes seeing way too much. "Do what?"

  Mac shook his head in disgust. "Stupid fucker. I don't even know why we're bothering. Get your head out of your ass and get with the program, Reigler. Do you want your wife back or not?"

  "It's not that easy—"

  "That's not an answer." Daryl propped his hip on the edge of Jonathan's desk, folded his arms across his broad chest, and stared down at him.

  "I told you—"

  "You haven't told us shit, except to make excuses. Do you want to do this or not?"

  "I—"

  "You only have two options for an answer: yes or no. Which is it?"

  Jonathan bit back a curse and shook his head. What the fuck? They knew his answer. Why was Daryl fucking pushing?

  He reached for the cup of coffee and took a long swallow of the strong brew. It was nothing more than a stalling tactic and both his buddies knew it. Jonathan blew out a heavy sigh, his gaze focused on the worn paneling covering the far wall.

  "Yes."

  "Fine. Then I need both of you clowns to head down to the Blades' office at zero-nine-hundred tomorrow." Daryl shifted and pulled something from the side pocket of his cargo pants. He unfolded it, his brows lowering over his pale eyes as he skimmed it before shaking his head. A hint of a smile played around his mouth as he shook his head again.

  Jonathan exchanged a questioning glance with Mac. "Why the fuck are we going down there? And what the fuck is so funny?"

  Daryl pushed away from the desk as he tossed the sheet of paper at Jonathan. "Apparently the owner of the Blades is looking to hire a security firm to cover their games. I'm figuring this would be a great job for Cover Six Security until other shit starts rolling in."

  Jonathan didn't bother to hide his confusion. Why the fuck would a hockey team need the kind of security they provided? He glanced at the paper, frowning as he read it.

  And read it again, just in case he was missing something.

  He wasn't.

  "Are you out of y
our fucking mind? This isn't for us. This is for—"

  "You want an in or not?"

  Mac kicked out with one foot and sent his desk chair rolling across the floor. He snatched the paper from Jonathan's hands to read it for himself. The expression of disbelief that crossed his face matched Jonathan's.

  "You have got to be fucking kidding me. They're looking for mall cops, not a personal security group."

  "We all have to start somewhere."

  "But—"

  "Hey, it's up to you. If you want your in, there it is." Daryl grabbed his coffee and stepped away from the desk. "If you want it, be there at oh-nine-hundred. If not, don't show up. It's up to you."

  "Where are you going to be?"

  "I'm heading down to DC first thing in the morning for meetings." Daryl paused outside his office door and leveled Jonathan with a meaningful look. "Shit's about to take off, so I wouldn't waste too much time deciding."

  Jonathan grabbed the paper from Mac and looked at it again, his fingers tightening around the edge and creasing it. As far as ideas went, this one ranked right up there in stupid-land. There wasn't even a guarantee this would get him closer to Sammie. In the same building, yeah, but anything other than that? Probably not.

  Was it better than nothing? Yes.

  Would it work? Doubtful.

  Was Jonathan willing to toss a chance, no matter how slim, out the window? No way in hell.

  He nodded in Daryl's direction then passed the paper to Mac. "Looks like we have an interview tomorrow morning."

  "Well fuck."

  Chapter Seven

  They were coming off the ice from warm-ups when Sammie nearly tripped and fell because someone knocked into her from behind. She caught herself at the last minute then turned and shot at scowl at Shannon.

  "What was that for?"

  An identical scowl creased Shannon's face but it wasn't directed at Sammie—it was directed to someone in the stands. The goalie pushed Sammie again, urging her forward.

  "I think you have a stalker."

  "What? What are you talking about?"

  "I just saw the guy from the bar last weekend."

  "What? Where?" Sammie's heart skipped a beat then raced inside her chest. She tried to look around, wondering what Shannon was talking about, unable to dismiss the brief slice of—not fear, not exactly, but something close—that sent a chill scraping down her back. But she couldn't see anything because Shannon kept pushing at her until they were in the locker room.

  "Are you sure you weren't seeing things?"

  Shannon pushed the helmet up on her head and gave Sammie a look that silently asked if she was crazy. "Um, hello? This is me we're talking about. I don't see things."

  Taylor and Dani stopped next to them. Dani's gaze slid from Shannon to Sammie and back again. "Don't see what? What aren't you seeing?"

  "Reigs has a stalker."

  "What?"

  "I do not. You're just imagining things." Sammie put more strength into the words than she felt and forced a smile to her face. She didn't want to believe Shannon. The idea was too…too ludicrous. Unbelievable. Silly. She didn't have a stalker. Why would she? She wasn't anyone special, she didn't do anything to garner attention. She taught kindergarten, for crying out loud!

  "I know what I saw, and I'm telling you, it's the same guy that was watching you at the bar last weekend."

  "But that doesn't make sense. It can't be the same guy. He wouldn't even know where to find me." And crappola, now she was talking like a fool. She shook her head and made her way over to the bench, hoping to just sit and relax, get her mind on the game for the next few minutes before they headed back to the ice. Her teammates had other ideas because they joined her, crowding around her with varying expressions of curiosity and concern on their faces.

  Taylor dropped to the bench beside her. "He might, if he saw that article this week."

  "Somehow I doubt that." But another shiver danced across her flushed skin, chilling her. There had been nothing wrong with the article, and Sammie was actually proud of it, proud of the way it had portrayed the team in such a positive light, proud at how TR had focused on the strengths and challenges without making all of them sound like a bunch of whiny, wimpy little girls.

  But there was no denying that the article had definitely brought some unwanted attention to her. Well, maybe that was exaggerating things a bit. Some of the faculty at the school had commented on it, teasing her a little, but mostly it had been all positive. Except for Chris Godfrey—and all he had done was start asking her out again, with maybe a little more determination than he had before.

  "Shannon, are you positive it's the same guy?"

  "Um, yeah. What the fuck? Of course, I'm positive. There's no way I'd confuse him with anyone else."

  Taylor turned back to Sammie, a frown creasing her forehead. "Maybe I should say something to Chuckie. They just hired that security team for the games so maybe—"

  "No. Absolutely not. Good grief. I don't have a stalker, so just stop. And even if I did, it's not like those goofy mall cops would be able to do anything about it. And seriously, why did Mr. Murphy even hire them? It's not like we need them—not when there isn't even a crowd."

  Taylor pulled her lower lip between her teeth then looked away with a sigh. This was a sore subject for all of them: the lack of a crowd, low ticket sales, the constant worry that the newly-formed league wouldn't last.

  At least they'd made it past four games. That had to say something, right? Because a few weeks ago, everyone had been convinced the rumors were right and that the league was going to fold before the fourth game.

  "It looks like it's a bigger crowd this afternoon. That has to be a good sign, right?"

  Everyone turned toward Dani and stared. A small flush crept along her cheekbones, making the freckles scattered across her fair skin stand out. "What? Stop looking at me like that. I'm trying to stay positive, okay?"

  "Yeah, sure." Shannon rolled her eyes. "Now back to your stalker—"

  "I don't have a stalker." Sammie pushed to her feet and grabbed her stick. "And I think Dani is right. The crowd does look a little bigger tonight. Has Chuckie said anything?"

  "Not really, no." Taylor grabbed her own stick then hooked it behind her neck, twisting from side to side. "But he seems a little more upbeat about the way things are going."

  Shannon laughed and tapped Taylor on the leg. "That's only because he's getting laid on a regular basis now."

  "You did not just say that."

  "Of course I did. Do you expect anything less from me?"

  "Okay, enough. No more talk of stalkers or ticket sales or—or—or Taylor getting lucky. We have more important things to worry about."

  "You're just jealous, Reigs. Admit it."

  "No. I'm not." Sammie bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. The effort was wasted. "Well, okay. Maybe a little. Are you going to say you're not?"

  "Ooo, zing." Shannon grabbed her chest and stumbled backward, a broad smile on her face. "Hit me where it hurts the most."

  The three of them laughed at Shannon's antics, then quickly muffled their laughter when Coach Reynolds called for everyone's attention. A few minutes later, after being properly pumped-up, they headed back out to the ice to do their best to beat Philly.

  At least, Sammie hoped they'd beat Philly. This was already their second time meeting the team on the ice, and the Blades had been soundly throttled the first time. They needed this win.

  And she needed to stop being so pessimistic.

  Sammie slid into position, slightly crouched, legs bent, the blade of her stick against the ice. The puck dropped, and action exploded around them as the Blades took possession. Taylor zipped to the right and took off, trying to get clear of Philly's D. But she was boxed in, unable to move past them.

  Taylor glanced behind her then shot the puck between her legs, passing it to Sydney Stevens. One of the Philly players reached it first, spinning around to take it back.

&n
bsp; Sammie crouched low and raced forward, her legs pumping as she sped across the ice. And crappola, she wasn't going to get to the net in time, not even close. And how the heck had that happened?

  No. She wouldn't let it happen. Not this soon in the game. She crouched lower, increasing her speed as the Blades' other defenseman, Heather Witten, caught up. She could see Shannon in the net, getting into position to block the shot.

  Sammie lunged, just like she had done last week. But her timing was off, she had moved too soon, before the Philly player had even pulled back to shoot. Sammie's shoulder caught the player in the chest, and they both went sprawling to the ice. Sammie rolled to her stomach, swept her stick across the ice and shot the puck behind her, away from Shannon, then scrambled to her feet.

  Something hit her from behind and nearly sent her flying again. She regained her balance then spun around, frowning at the Philly player standing there, braced for a fight.

  "Come on, let's go."

  "What?"

  "You heard me. Let's go." The other woman dropped her gloves to the ice with a wink. Sammie glanced around, frowning in confusion.

  "We're not supposed to—"

  "You really care about the rules?"

  "But—" Sammie never finished because the other woman took a swing at her, catching her on the chin. It wasn't a hard hit, not even close, but her jaw was still sore from last week and it hurt. Not enough to bring tears to her eyes but enough to make her wince.

  Sammie hesitated, but only for a brief second. Then she tossed her own stick and gloves to the ice and swung out with her fist. Once, twice. Once more. Not hard, not even close—Sammie knew nothing about fighting, only what she'd seen on television. But they weren't really fighting. At least, she didn't think so. This was just for show.

  Wasn't it?

  The other woman's fist caught her in the mouth, hard enough that Sammie started to wonder if maybe she had been wrong and this was a real fight. She tasted the bitter metallic tang of blood then clenched her jaw and drove her head into the other woman's chest, reaching around her to grab the hem of her jersey. They kept scuffling, arms and fists flying and occasionally connecting until Sammie finally pulled the jersey over the woman's head and pushed her down.