Rain Dance (Tulsa Thunderbirds Book 5)

by Catherine Gayle

  He glanced over to see where the ref was before jabbing backwards with his elbow to get me off him.

  They finally cleared the puck out of the corner, but the Wings controlled it, so we were still stuck.

  The Wings’ defensemen passed it from point to point, setting up for a slapshot.

  It flew toward the mass of bodies that was Larkin, Hunter, and me.

  Larkin just got the toe of his blade on the puck before I got my stick in the way, angling the puck away. Hunter got his glove on it just enough that the puck clanged off his pipe and squirted back out into the pile of bodies now converging on his crease.

  I managed to trip and make it look accidental, taking Larkin down beneath me. Sometimes it paid to be big. No call on the play, thank fuck, and Frisky—otherwise known as Viktor Frisk, our Swedish top-line center—managed to get past all the Wings on the ice and corral the puck to prevent an icing call on the play.

  I skated off the ice and chugged some water while the coaches shouted contradictory orders at us. Prince rolled his eyes at me when they headed down the line to yell at someone else. He didn’t need to say anything; his eyes said it all.

  “Exactly,” I muttered.

  The clock and the heat were the only things working in our favor right now. The Wings players weren’t accustomed to playing in the kind of temperatures we’d been dealing with, and it was starting to take its toll on them. They were looking sluggish, and they weren’t getting as much oomph on their shots as they had earlier in the night.

  On our next couple of shifts together, Prince and I did a better job of keeping the play to the outside, so Hunter had a good view of the puck at all times. He made a couple of spectacular diving saves, and then I managed to skate the puck down to the other end of the ice.

  I passed it off to Prince, who had a clear lane to the Wings’ net and one of our forwards streaking into position to tip in his shot. He wound up for a slapper and somehow got it through all the bodies coming together without needing any assistance. It was his goal—no doubt about it. Our goal light went off and the horn sounded, and then the arena erupted into a tribal war chant.

  “Fucking right,” I said, slapping him on the back of the shoulder while the rest of our teammates converged to dogpile on top of him.

  We were still losing the game, and Larkin might still come away with a fucking hat trick if we weren’t careful—but we weren’t going to be shut out tonight.

  One thing at a time.

  BEFORE IT WAS all said and done, Prince had scored again, tying the game to make it interesting.

  Neither he nor Larkin had come away with a hat trick, but the Wings had managed to win it all in overtime on a sneaky Nyquist backhander that had slipped past Hunter on a breakaway. But Prince had come insanely close to scoring a third goal with only seconds to spare in the third period, which would have made him the first player in the history of the Thunderbirds franchise to accomplish such a feat.

  Because of that, all the reporters in the arena wanted a piece of him—which was essentially his worst nightmare.

  I’d already finished showering and dressing after the game, but he still had a swarm of cameras surrounding his stall—many of them from the regular Detroit sports press. Since my stall was near his, I listened in so I could lend him a hand if necessary.

  “What’d you think of the way your teammates kept getting you the puck there at the end of regulation?” one of them asked.

  Prince shrugged and took a moment. “Thought they wanted to help.”

  Short and sweet—that was how he usually kept his responses.

  “When Mrazek went down with only about twenty seconds left in the game, what were you thinking?” another asked.

  “Th-thought shoot hard.”

  “That’s it?” the same guy asked with a smirk in his tone. “Shoot hard?”

  A few of the others surrounding Prince laughed. Fuckers.

  “Yeah. Shoot hard.”

  I dragged a towel over my wet hair, listening intently. Most people didn’t know that the reason Prince didn’t tend to talk much was because he had a bit of a stutter. And frankly, I didn’t know it; I had always just assumed it, which, admittedly, was probably not the best way to get my information. But he seemed to be growing more and more agitated, and that wasn’t likely to help if my assumptions were correct.

  Then some jackass I’d never seen before spoke up. “Travis, there’s been a lot of talk around the league about the Thunderbirds name. What do you think about your team being named after one of the native tribes in Oklahoma? Isn’t it degrading and demeaning? Should there be a call for the name to be changed?”

  That did it. I wasn’t going to stand there and listen to these sons of bitches for one second longer. I shoved my way in and stood next to my teammate, who was blinking in shock over the question, and I crossed my arms in an intimidating stance.

  “First off, who wants to know what we think about the team name?” I bit off.

  A couple of the reporters snickered and pointed at one guy near the front of the pack.

  “You?” I asked, nodding toward the one they’d indicated.

  I recognized him from growing up in Michigan. He’d been covering the Red Wings for a long time for one of the local papers. I’d always thought he was an ass, but this confirmed it.

  He gave me a sheepish look, but he nodded. “I just thought you boys might have something to say about denigrating a people by making a mockery of them.”

  “Yeah, so here’s a clue for you. Thunderbirds aren’t a people. They’re not a tribe. They’re not a nation or whatever. They’re a symbol, or maybe a god or some other sort of deity, depending on who you ask. But they’re not a people, all right? So do your research before you go on the attack next time. And furthermore, you might try looking into what the Supreme Court has to say about team names like the Seminoles, the Indians, the Red Skins, and whatnot. There’s been a ruling. A recent one, even. They say it’s fine. But whether the Supreme Court agrees with it or not, an athlete plays for the team that signs him—end of story. Fucking idiot,” I finished under my breath, but it was loud enough that Prince shot a look over at me and had to fight to keep from laughing.

  Which meant it was loud enough for all the microphones around me to pick up.

  Which meant I might be facing a fine with the league.

  And probably with the team, too. Mrs. Jernigan wouldn’t be too happy about that one, at the very least. I doubted ponying up a fine for the team’s swear jar would be enough to mollify her this time.

  It didn’t matter that almost everyone in the room was laughing. I’d stepped over the line. That much was evident by the reporter’s red face of fury staring back at me through the sea of faces.

  “Funny,” the guy said. “Really funny, especially coming from a guy who likes to throw around baseless accusations of assault. Did you know your father’s getting involved in the case involving your teammate?”

  “Former teammate,” I bit off.

  “Mr. Lennon’s been wrongly suspended. I’m sure the suspension will be lifted once the team and the league are aware of the truth and all of this has been cleared up, which your father is helping to do. But he might just choose to sue you after that—defamation of character or something.”

  I bit my tongue because otherwise I might have bitten the guy’s head off then and there. But that wouldn’t help anything. Especially not with every other reporter suddenly leaning in, hoping to catch every little word they could.

  “Did any of the rest of you guys have any questions for the Prince, here?” I asked, trying to deflect the attention off myself and put it back on my teammate, who’d been the only one on our side to score. He deserved to see a bit of the limelight after the night he’d had. And this was supposed to be about hockey, not about me and my father and Hayes Fucking Lennon.

  One of them was quick to rescue me. “How’d it feel to have your first two-goal game in the National Hockey League?” a reporte
r near the back of the pack asked, and I dipped my head and left them to it. Prince could handle himself well enough from here.

  When I got back to my stall, Spurs was waiting for me.

  “The fuck were you thinking?” he bit off.

  I shrugged. “Guess I wasn’t.”

  “That much is clear. Gary’s already on a call with the league.”

  Gary Asher was the team’s general manager.

  “Will I be suspended?”

  “Definitely fined. I don’t think the league can do more than that, according to the current Collective Bargaining Agreement—depends on what they decide to call it, possibly—but you’re getting a fine no matter what. You can’t spout off like that in front of reporters.”

  I nodded. I could accept that.

  “The team’ll fine you, too,” he added.

  “Mrs. J will insist on it, even if you weren’t going to already.”

  Spurs chuckled. “That she will.” But then he dropped his voice and leaned in conspiratorially. “Off the record, I would have had a hard time not decking the guy, so you did well just to curse at him. But don’t do it again.”

  “Noted,” I said, and I went back to changing my clothes.

  He left, heading over to listen in on the rest of the Q&A session.

  A few minutes later, Prince was finally relieved from talking to the press. He shuffled over to his stall, tucking his long hair behind his ear since it kept falling forward into his face. “Thanks,” he said quietly.

  I shrugged. “Nothing to thank me for. He’s an ass and an idiot. I pointed it out. End of story.”

  “But y-you didn’t h-have to—” Prince cut himself off, and he took a moment to collect his thoughts. “Just thanks,” he finally finished, speaking slowly and staring down at the gear he was taking off.

  I nodded and slapped him on the shoulder. Something told me the guy could use a hug, but he wouldn’t take it well if I drew him in for a bro hug in the middle of the locker room—especially not with all the cameras and reporters still lurking. A shoulder slap would have to do for the time being.

  But now, I wanted to get out of there so I could collect Natalie and head back to the house. We hadn’t spoken since she’d talked about rubbing me in a certain way and wondering if I’d love her forever. I hadn’t given her an answer then.

  Honestly, I wasn’t sure she was ready for my answer. Lord knew I wasn’t. But the truth was, I might already be in love with her, and it had nothing to do with her touching me physically.

  She’d touched me deeper than that, somewhere in the darkest, ugliest depths of my soul, where all the hurt and anger couldn’t touch me, but somehow her goodness and light made its way through the darkness. And there’s no going back once something like that happens. Not that I wanted to go back.

  I was a goner when it came to Natalie.

  A lost cause.

  Toast.

  And I was perfectly okay with that.

  ETHAN WAS IN an odd mood on the way back to his house after the game. Another big storm was blowing in, one that seemingly matched his demeanor—ominous clouds with flashes of electricity, a dark promise of more to come.

  But Ethan didn’t seem angry, or at least not angry with me. It was more that he’d closed off a part of himself, and he didn’t want to grant me access to it. Or rather, to him.

  I had no right to want access to any part of him, and he’d already given me more than I could have hoped for. I knew I shouldn’t think too much of it…but his disposition ate away at me, nonetheless, like a cat slowly but doggedly gnawing at its prey.

  “Got a Thundershirt for Snoopy,” he said, finally breaking the stilted silence once we were a couple of blocks away from his house.

  “A Thundershirt?”

  “It’s supposed to help keep animals calm during storms or for other things that upset them. Vet visits. Fireworks. Strangers coming over. Any sort of loud noises that bother them. Wraps around them and helps them feel secure or something. Guess tonight’ll be a good night to test it out.”

  Even as he spoke, another streak of lightning ripped through the dark sky, followed close behind by a massive boom of thunder. Now that we’d finally gotten some rain, it seemed there would be no end to it. The skies seemed to have been saving it all up and now wanted to send us a deluge. Which was probably for the best—unless it came too fast and the ground couldn’t soak up all the water in time, causing floods.

  But there was a part of me that wished we could just get some rain without a storm, even if I liked the storms. A good, solid soak could work wonders on the earth and the soul, both.

  Ethan turned in at his driveway. He’d barely put the car in park in the garage when the skies opened up with a fresh downpour.

  Snoopy met us at the door, shaking and cowering at Ethan’s feet while somehow simultaneously attempting to jump into his arms. I could understand the sentiment; I wanted to jump into Ethan’s arms, too, but for an entirely different reason.

  He bent down on the floor and secured a complicated gray piece of fabric around Snoopy, using a series of Velcro straps to tighten it in place. When he stood up again, the dog looked kind of silly, as though wearing a doggie version of a straightjacket, but the wild terror was gone from his eyes. He whimpered with the next roll of thunder, but he didn’t panic. It was just an I-don’t-like-this sort of whine, not an I’m-about-to-die one.

  If only there were something like a Thundershirt for me when it came to facing whatever wrenches Hayes tried to throw into my path. But maybe Ethan could be my Thundershirt against the storm my life had become. I didn’t think he’d mind wrapping himself around me to calm my fears.

  Once Snoopy was suited up, Ethan headed for the living room, with the dog following close behind him. I joined them and sat on the sofa, taking off my brace to let my skin breathe and putting the ankle of my broken leg on the coffee table with a pillow beneath it for cushioning. My leg was almost fully healed—I shouldn’t need the brace much longer at all, and I certainly didn’t need it at home. It was simply a precaution at this point. Ethan sat next to me. Snoopy jumped up on his other side, and their combined weight caused me to lean toward them.

  Or so I told myself.

  I probably could have fought the urge to roll into Ethan’s arms, but I wasn’t inclined to do anything of the sort. It was far more gratifying to feel the strength of Ethan’s body alongside my own, the heavy weight of his frame grounding me to reality.

  More tentative than I’d ever known him to be, Ethan settled an arm around me, tugging me against his side. His heat was just as seductive as his clean scent and the energy coursing through the air outside.

  Forgetting all about trying to keep myself upright, I leaned in and reveled in the sense of security I found in his presence, the comfort I found in his strength.

  There was just as much electricity crackling inside as there was outside. Ethan had to feel it, as powerful as it was. The very air we were breathing seemed alive, almost sizzling. We could fry an egg on it if we wanted to.

  “We haven’t really spent much time alone,” I observed, cautiously easing my way into talking about all the things that remained unsaid between us.

  He didn’t respond for a moment. And then, “No, we haven’t.” Short and sweet, and incredibly quiet. Tentative, almost, even though there was typically nothing tentative about Ethan.

  “There are usually doctors or nurses or some of the guys from the team around.”

  “Or Carter.”

  “Or Carter,” I agreed.

  “I feel safer when there’s someone else with us.”

  That reaction made me blink with incomprehension. “Safer?”

  He made a soft sound. “Because I won’t be tempted to do things I shouldn’t. Not if someone else is with us. But when we’re alone…”

  An uncomfortable and exciting tingle filled my chest. My pulse quickened, and my breaths fell heavy from my lips. “What sorts of things?”

  He didn�
�t respond, so I looked up and met his eyes. They were full of heat. “You know what sorts of things,” he finally said.

  Suddenly, my mouth was dry. I licked my lips to wet them, but it didn’t do much other than draw his eye.

  “I do,” I said with as much confidence as I could put into those two tiny words. “And I also know I want those things. I want them as much as you do. Maybe even more. Because I need to know…”

  But I couldn’t finish the thought. I felt too raw to go there, even though Ethan was surely the safest man in the world for me to talk about these things with—the still-raw pieces of my soul. He was the only one I wanted to see those parts of me. The only one I felt safe enough with to expose the most broken shards, the shattered veneer of protection that had once existed around my heart.

  “Need to know what?” Ethan asked a moment later, which provided me with just enough impetus to power through.

  “I need to know what it’s like when I want it.”

  “You’re killing me.” He clearly didn’t need me to explain further.

  “You’re killing me,” I repeated. “We both want it.”

  “I’m not going to rush you, Natalie. I won’t push you.”

  “Maybe I want to push you and not the other way around. Maybe I want you to let me. Maybe I want to touch you. To taste you. To feel your hands on me. To put my hands on you.”

  “Maybe I want to give in,” he rasped, but he looked like he wanted to take the words back.

  There would be no taking those words back. Not on my watch.

  “So give in,” I replied. “Let me touch you.”

  He closed his eyes and let out the softest, most painfully erotic groan I’d ever heard.

  Seizing the opportunity, I shifted my weight around and propped myself up on my knees, straddling his thighs.

  “Natalie,” he said on a strangled sigh, but I cut him off by kissing him.

  It was a tentative kiss, at first—a gentle brush of my lips over his, a soft swipe of tongue. I wanted to test him out, and he let me, even if every taut muscle in his body said he wanted to do nothing of the sort.