The shrill blast of a whistle finally registered and she turned to see the officials motioning to them—to her. Sammie blinked, surprised at the cheers and applause echoing around them. Her gaze darted around the ice, noticing the smiles on her teammates' faces—and on the faces of the Philly players as well.
Well, crappola. Maybe they should have done this a few games ago if people were going to get so excited about it.
Sammie straightened her jersey then leaned over, offering the other woman a hand up before collecting her gear from the ice.
"Not bad, short stuff."
"Thanks. I've never done that before."
"First time for everything, right?" The other woman laughed then grabbed her own gear. Sammie started skating back to the bench but was stopped when someone tugged on her arm. She turned, surprised to see the ref glaring at her.
"Wrong way, 88. In the box. Both of you."
Sammie bit back a smile then skated over to the penalty box, her stick raised high at the continuing cheers. She shouldn't be smiling, she knew that. And she'd probably get in trouble later—they weren't supposed to be fighting or hitting or body checking or anything like that. That was a big no-no. But it had been fun—not that Sammie would admit that out loud. Well, okay, yes she would. To her teammates at least. And the crowd had obviously enjoyed it.
Her gaze scanned the crowd, still cheering and clapping as she stepped into the penalty box. Then something caught her eye and the smile died on her face. She tripped and nearly fell, too stunned to do anything more than stumble to the bench, her gaze still focused on the single face standing by the glass.
Still focused on that intent, dark gaze looking back at her. Concern, laughter, pride, worry. She saw all of that and more in the space of a frantic heartbeat.
It couldn't be. She had to be seeing things.
But she wasn't. And there was no mistaking those eyes, that face. Not when he was standing less than twenty feet away, watching her.
Jon.
Chapter Eight
Sammie had never been so furious before. Upset, yes. Frustrated, absolutely. Angry, sure. But this…this rage that was running through her veins was something new. Potent. Powerful. Searing.
She'd heard the phrase seeing red before, had always laughed at it as nothing more than a colorful cliché—but it was true. Oh, so true. She really was seeing red, her vision clouded by a dark mist that colored everything—including all reason.
She'd drawn a handful of penalties throughout the game, the total minutes exceeding those of every single combined penalty minutes she'd ever had before. It was a new personal record. Not one that she was proud of, and one that had Coach Reynolds chewing her out. Repeatedly.
Any other time, Sammie would have been mortified at being the subject of the coach's ire. Would have been humiliated at the idea that she'd let her team down.
Not that anyone other than Coach Reynolds seemed to be upset by her performance. Her teammates had congratulated her, tapped her on the legs and arms with their sticks every single time she came out of the box—like they were proud of her for some reason.
Any other time, she would have berated herself for causing the Blades to lose—and their loss was her fault. Philly had scored on the power play during her last stint in the bin, putting them ahead by one point.
It turned out to be the game-winning goal.
Yes, at any other time, Sammie would be beating herself up over it. But not now. Not tonight. She was too furious to care—about the loss, about disappointing her teammates, about her own dismal performance or the verbal set-down Coach Reynolds had given her.
The only thing she cared about was the man she had seen watching her during the game, with those dark, haunted eyes focused solely on her. Sammie wanted to run out of the locker room and track him down, confront him. Cross-check him then slam him into the boards.
It was the urge to do violence that finally cut through the fury boiling her blood. Sammie wasn't violent. She never had been. This urge, this anger, was new to her. Too new. Too confusing.
Too overwhelming.
She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly, like she had seen Shannon do a hundred times before in preparation for a game. Maybe there was a trick she didn't know about, or something else she needed to do besides take deep breaths, because it wasn't working. Instead of finding an elusive calm, all she was doing was making herself lightheaded.
She sensed someone sitting beside her. No, make that two someones—one person on each side. Sammie inhaled again, long and deep, and tried to pretend she was alone.
"What are you doing?"
Sammie shook her head, silently telling Taylor to go away. Her friend didn't move, so Sammie released the breath with a long sigh and sucked in another one, deeper this time.
"Are you trying to make yourself pass out?"
The question came from her right—Shannon, her voice filled with just a hint of laughter.
Sammie shook her head again, released her breath, pulled in another. Again. Once more. Something nudged her in the side—hard—and she exhaled with a small grunt before opening her eyes and shooting a glare in Shannon's direction.
"Leave me alone. I'm trying to calm myself down."
Shannon's brows shot up in disbelief. "By hyperventilating?"
"I'm not hyperventilating. I'm doing deep-breathing exercises." Sammie forced the words from between clenched teeth then pushed to her feet. The room spun and strange little dots flashed in front of her eyes. She blinked and dropped back to the bench.
"Yup. Hyperventilating." Shannon muttered something else then placed her hand on the back of Sammie's head and pushed her forward so hard, Sammie smacked her nose against her knee.
"Ouch! What are you doing?" She pushed against Shannon's hold and sat up. "I'm not hyperventilating. Just leave me alone, okay?"
Taylor's hand closed around her arm, holding her in place when she tried to stand again. "Are you going to tell us what the hell happened out there? It was like you were possessed or something."
"Not necessarily in a bad way. I mean, I know Coach wasn't happy but damn, girl, you were unfuckingbelievable out there." Shannon offered her an angelic smile then ruined the effect by nudging Sammie in the side so hard she jostled against Taylor.
"Nothing happened."
Both women snorted their disbelief. Sammie rolled her eyes, grabbed her bag off the floor, then pushed to her feet once more. Shannon and Taylor fell into step beside her, like they were her own personal bodyguards.
Sammie almost snorted. Bodyguards? Not likely. More like they were intent on getting answers and wouldn't leave until she gave them some.
"Guys, I'm serious. Nothing happened. And I'm not talking about it."
"Which means something did happen." Taylor pushed through the locker room door, turning to the side as she held it open. Shannon nudged Sammie through then darted in front of her, walking backward with a grin on her face.
"And you know us. You're not leaving until you tell us."
"There's nothing to tell." Sammie tried stepping around Shannon but the other woman simply moved in front of her, stopping her. And Taylor was right there with her, effectively blocking her escape.
She knew they meant well, that they were worried about her despite the teasing laughter. But she didn't want to talk about it. Not now, not when the anger and fury were still so close to the surface. Not when talking about it would open wounds she had no desire to acknowledge.
And not when she was so afraid that her anger was nothing more than camouflage for deeper feelings she had thought long dead and buried.
Sammie adjusted the grip on her bag and tossed it over her shoulder then forced a smile to her face. "Guys, seriously. There's nothing to talk about. All I want to do is get home. It's already late."
She motioned around the rink with a nod of her head. It was late—the Philly team was already on their way back home; the crowd was gone, leaving nothing behind except
the ghostly echoes of cheers and jeers. Even the majority of her teammates were gone, already on their way home instead of heading out like they usually did after each game. The Thanksgiving break was coming up, meaning they had off for the next week. Some of her teammates were heading home, to Boston and Maine and Minnesota.
And that's where Sammie wanted to go: home. To spend time with Clare in front of the fire, reading stories or playing dolls before her daughter's bedtime.
But Shannon merely shook her head, determination glinting in her eyes. "It's not that late. It's not even six yet. We should go out and talk—"
"No. I don't want to go out. I want to get home and spend time with Clare. Okay?" Sammie pushed by Shannon, her steps quickening as her two teammates followed her. The frustration that had been simmering in her chest the last few minutes came dangerously close to exploding, surprising her. Sammie's steps faltered as she fought the urge to kick and scream and hit. What was with her? Why was she so angry?
She knew why. But why was she so dangerously close to taking it out on her friends? This wasn't like her, not even close. Maybe she should tell them, just to get everything off her chest. Maybe that would help, like some kind of therapeutic cleansing.
No, she couldn't. She wouldn't. They'd ask questions. Lots of questions. Questions she didn't feel like answering because it would be too painful. And God, she didn't want to drag everything to the surface again. She was past that. Or she thought she had been—until seeing Jon last weekend.
Until seeing him tonight.
Why? Why was here? What did he want? It had taken her eighteen months to get over him. To forget about him. To forget about what he'd done and how much he'd hurt her.
Except she had never truly forgotten. Not really. She didn't think she ever would. Not because of Clare—their daughter was the single ray of hope that she always clung to. No, she was afraid she'd never truly forget because she still felt too much—and she probably always would.
What kind of pathetic statement did that make about her and her life?
No, she couldn't tell her friends, no matter how much she might want to. If she did, she'd end up admitting things she didn't want to admit. Things she'd prefer would just go away to wither and die so she could finally move on.
Sammie blew out another breath, trying to release some of the frustration that kept building inside her. She readjusted her grip on the gear bag and tried to force another smile as she turned toward Shannon and Taylor. "Listen, maybe we can get together next weekend or something and—"
Her words died, morphing into a small grunt when Shannon abruptly pushed her to the side. No, not to the side—behind her. Like the goalie was suddenly playing bodyguard. The bag dropped from Sammie's shoulder and hit the floor with a heavy thud, the sound oddly loud in the charged silence.
"What the hell?" Taylor muttered the confused phrase, echoing Sammie's own thoughts. "Shannon—"
"Okay, buddy. I'm tired of this bullshit. Who the fuck are you?"
Sammie glanced at Taylor then pushed around Shannon, trying to see who she was talking to. Shannon grabbed her arm and tugged, trying to pull her behind her again. It didn't work. Sammie's feet were glued to the floor, dread and fear and surprise and a hundred other different things holding her immobile.
But she shouldn't be surprised, not really. She knew he was here—she'd seen him herself earlier, knew he was at the game. But why was he still here? There was no reason for him to be here.
The anger and fury that had been building all night finally exploded, unleashing something primitive inside her. Maybe it was just a need for revenge. Or maybe it was just simply a need to hurt him as much as he had hurt her. Sammie didn't know, and at that precise moment, she didn't care.
She simply curled her fists and lunged toward Jon.
Chapter Nine
This is bullshit. Who the fuck are you?
Jon blinked, trying to process the words—he hadn't been expecting that kind of language, especially not from the blonde who looked like she should be on the cover of some beauty magazine. It was the incongruity of the words coming from that full, pouty mouth that left him stunned and unable to react.
At least, that's what he told himself. It was better than acknowledging he'd been totally caught off-guard by the petite brunette with a mop of wild curls who was suddenly wailing on him with both fists.
Maybe wailing was an exaggeration.
Sammie got in two wild hits against his chest, the contact barely registering because they were so ineffective. He stepped back—more to get out of her way than to protect himself, just in case she actually got lucky. She kept swinging, though, her small fists slicing through the air in a wild frenzy as she muttered under her breath.
He stood still, not sure what to do. Move closer and let her hit him? Would that settle her down? Make her feel better?
Some inner instinct told him it wouldn't. Whatever rage was propelling Sammie wouldn't be satisfied by hitting him. This was something bigger. Something deeper. Something that had been building for a long time.
For two years and three months. Maybe longer.
Maybe he should let her hit him. Just let her pound on him until she got it out of her system, until she felt better. If he thought it would work, he'd do exactly that. But he knew Sammie, knew this wasn't like her. Sammie didn't have a violent bone in her body.
He stepped forward, reaching out to catch her fists with his hands before she accidentally hurt herself. She took another wild swing, this one clipping him under the chin hard enough to make his teeth snap together.
"Fuck!"
Jon blinked as the single word split the silence of the chilled air. He'd been thinking that exact same word, had been ready to utter it himself, but it hadn't come from him.
It had come from Sammie. From sweet, mild, innocent Sammie, who never, ever swore.
Maybe he didn't know her as well as he thought he had. Maybe the passing of time had changed her as much as it had changed him.
Sammie's mouth snapped shut, her eyes widening in surprise as she clutched her hand in front of her. Her teammates hurried to her side, flanking her. The blonde draped an arm around her shoulders and laughed.
"Whoa. Reigs. Damn. My ears are burning." The words sounded right, carrying just enough humor. Jon didn't miss the hint of ice underlying them, though. And he certainly didn't miss the clear threat that flashed in the blonde's brown eyes when their gazes met.
Sammie muttered something under her breath, the words too low for him to make out. She released the hold on her hand then shook it in front of her, glaring at him through narrowed eyes.
Jonathan stepped forward then abruptly stopped and jammed his hands into the back pockets of his cargo pants. "You okay?"
"Don't talk to me! Just—just go away!"
The two women exchanged a silent glance then stepped closer to Sammie, angling their bodies so they were in front of her. Jonathan recognized the move for what it was: they were protecting Sammie, silently telling him he'd have to go through them to get to her.
He ignored the silent warning and moved forward another step. "Sammie, are you okay?"
A frown creased the blonde's face as she darted a glance first at him then at Sammie. "Wait. You two know each other?"
"Yes."
"No." Sammie's loud answer almost drowned out his own, earning a frown from her two friends. He took another step forward.
"Sammie—"
"Go away, Jon." He saw the way her throat worked, how she seemed to struggle to get the words out as she blinked, not quite looking at him. Pain lodged in his chest, a heavy ache that grew with each breath he struggled to pull in. He pushed it back, ruthlessly ignoring it.
Just as he ignored the pain flashing in Sammie's eyes.
At least, he tried to. He failed at both.
What the fuck was he doing here? Why was he so determined to see Sammie, to talk to her, after what he'd done? He had no right to do either, not after everything he'd put
her through. He'd given up that right when he walked away without a word.
But he couldn't make himself walk away now, no matter how futile he knew this was. He needed to at least try. But try what? He didn't know, not yet.
Talk to her? Try to explain? Try to make her understand?
Apologize?
Yes, definitely. Not that he expected her to ever forgive him. Hell, he couldn't forgive himself. Why should he expect anything different from her? He didn't. So maybe this was nothing more than a pathetic, last-ditch effort to find absolution, to make himself feel better.
Which was nothing but utter fucking bullshit. He didn't want absolution. Fuck, he didn't deserve it, not after everything he'd done.
What he wanted was his wife back.
Yeah, he could just imagine her reaction if he told her that, especially with the way she was standing there, glaring at him as she tried so hard to hide the pain he had caused.
What the fuck was he doing? He should just leave her alone. Walk away and let her get on with her life. She didn't want him there, that much was obvious from just looking at her. And she sure as hell didn't need him—she had moved on, creating a new life without him.
So why the fuck was he still standing there?
Because he couldn't walk away. Not again. Not without at least trying.
Jonathan released a sharp sigh, his gaze moving over the three women watching him. The blonde narrowed her own eyes and he half-expected her to lunge at him and take over where Sammie had left off. Something told him that her punches would be a hell of a lot more substantial than Sammie's.
"So who the hell are you?"
The question was directed at him, not at Sammie, but she didn't hesitate to answer.
"Nobody. He's nobody."
Had he expected anything different? No, not really. Jonathan caught her gaze, held it for a few heart-breaking seconds, then looked at her teammates.
Loving Hard: A Chesapeake Blades Hockey Romance (The Chesapeake Blades Book 2) Page 6
