Check My Heart

by Christi Barth

  “The way you look tonight, babe, you could pry out my deepest, darkest secret with one finger.” Kurt grabbed her pinky. Sucked it into his mouth slowly. When it popped back out, he said, “This one, right here, is all it’d take.”

  “I’ve always thought that deep, dark secrets should be saved for way past midnight. When you’re both naked.”

  Great. Another super-suggestive comment, coupled with her lids dropping over those molten-chocolate eyes, that had his dick straining against his fly. Not that Kurt was complaining. Much. He’d never turn down this particular kind of torture. Not from her.

  “Well, I want to look my fill of you in this dress for a while. What can I tell you fully clothed?”

  “What will you do if you quit hockey?”

  He dropped her hand. Straightened up. “Why does it matter?” Telling her he was even thinking about leaving the team had been a risk. A crazy, stupid thing to do, born of desperation. Kurt had needed someone to tell him it wasn’t an idiotic move. Just as much as he needed to not tell people and start a panic until he actually made up his damn mind. So putting it out there was enough. Talking about it? That pushed his luck too far.

  “Look, it’s a crowded bar with music playing. Nobody will hear you.” As if she’d read his mind, anticipated his worry that an undecided germ of an idea could turn into a widespread rumor that would get back to his team. “This won’t go any further than right here,” she said, drawing a semicircle on the bar in front of them. “But I know you’re too smart to even contemplate a change like this without there being more to the plan.”

  “There’s no plan,” Kurt admitted. Just letting himself roll around the idea of leaving...that was big enough that it’d stopped him cold. “That’s part of what’s holding me back. All I’ve got are a couple of ideas that might turn into a plan. With some time and effort.”

  Lisette leaned in, her chin propped on her fist. “Such as? Coaching, I assume?”

  “I could do that. I think I’d be good at it. It’d be a way to keep one foot in the game, you know?”

  “But...”

  The woman read him like a comic book. “I don’t even know how I’d make it work...”

  “You’re stalling. Just tell me.”

  Maybe saying it out loud would make it real. Or, for once and for all, convince him how stupid and impossible the idea would be. Either outcome counted as a win, right? “It was hard for Jasper to sleep those last few months. But he was too sick to do anything. So I read to him.”

  “I remember,” she murmured.

  “Big books about history. As thick as my wrist. The most boring-looking things I’d ever seen. Except that they weren’t. It wasn’t just a bunch of dates on a page, with a lot of names of battles. It was people giving up their lives for what they believed. Kings choosing between listening to their toadies, or their well-placed enemies—or their guts. Setting a course for an entire nation with a couple of strokes of a pen. Action movies? They’ve got kick-ass special effects. But they’ve got nothing on the guts and passion of real history. Real wars, assassinations, coups and treaties. Stuff that changed the world without the benefit of the internet or TV or even electricity. History’s amazing.”

  The bartender plunked two cut crystal rocks glasses in front of them, each garnished with an orange twist. “Sazeracs. New Orleans’ official cocktail. Rye, bitters and simple syrup. Some claim it’s also America’s oldest cocktail.”

  Kurt had a feeling that was like the George Washington Slept Here claim that ran the length of the East Coast. The first president would’ve had to change inns at least twice a night every night to accomplish all that bed-hopping. “Some—including you?”

  He shrugged and wiped the already spotless bar. “I made yours fresh. So it’s a whole two minutes old. That’s all I know.”

  Lisette burst out laughing. Kurt didn’t even care that it was at his expense. Anything was worth it to watch the laughter transform her expression into one of sheer pleasure. It was almost as good as the look she’d had when he’d thumbed her nipple into a pencil-hard point. She sipped her drink, then shot the bartender a grateful smile. “Go on, try it. It’s delicious, you know. Otherwise, it wouldn’t still be famous.”

  Hell, it had rye in it. That was all Kurt needed to get on board the Sazerac train. As he threw back a swallow, Lisette asked, “So you want to be a history teacher?”

  Damn. She’d almost made him do a spit take. It sounded so official, just stated matter-of-factly like that. “I don’t know.”

  “Come on. What else would you do with a history degree but teach? Or do you want to write the three thousandth so-called ‘fresh take’”—she made air quotes—“on Columbus not actually discovering America?”

  “Okay.” Kurt splayed his fingers wide on his thighs, bracing for the big reveal of the truth he’d barely admitted to himself. “In a dream world, where somehow I magically have a college degree, I teach junior high history. And coach the hockey team, too. Since it’s a perfect world, I’d get to do both: make history exciting and help kids discover the excitement of team sports. Maybe even tie them together. Soldiers are just a big team. Everyone works together for a greater good. Just like a hockey team.”

  It sounded stupid. His idea of using sports to maybe bring history to life. The first smart-ass seventh-grader who stood up to him would probably point out that Washington’s army at Valley Forge with no rations or supplies for winter had had it a hell of a lot worse than their middle-school hockey team skating laps to build endurance. But Kurt couldn’t let it go. The idea woke him up at night. Or rather, gave him something to think about all those dark and empty hours when he couldn’t sleep. Kurt slugged back probably too much of his drink.

  Lisette’s soft fingers curved around his, guiding the glass back to the bar before he could toss back any more. “I love that idea. If you have passion for both things, so will your students.”

  That helped. Her quiet approval helped a hell of a lot. Helped settle the jumbled nerves in his stomach that he hadn’t even gotten before the last playoff game of the season. “I don’t have a degree. And who’d hire an ex-jock, anyway?”

  “You’ve got that huge thing called name recognition going for you. And you can get a degree. People do it every day. Don’t look at the obstacles. Focus on what you want and go for it. Just like you did with the Cup.”

  She made him believe. Hell, with Lisette as his own personal cheerleader, Kurt figured there wasn’t anything he couldn’t do.

  A shot glass appeared in front of him. Before he could even ask the now-frowning bartender why, a meaty paw landed on Kurt’s shoulder. “I promised the guys if I ever met you, Hawk, I’d buy you a shot of Grey Goose for bringing the Cup home to the Big Easy.”

  Damn it. He bit his tongue to keep from letting the curse words fly. Kurt never brushed off fans. But he hadn’t expected one to interrupt his first real date with Lisette. “Thanks, but it’s not necessary.” With the side of his hand, Kurt moved it along the bar to the middle-aged man in the blue blazer. “Why don’t you drink it? Toast yourself for being a great fan of the Cajun Rage.”

  “Ha! If you insist.” That elbow bent smoother than a blade hitting freshly Zambonied ice. “One’s not enough, though.” Leaning closer, he used that super-serious tone people got once they’d passed their limit. “We’ve gotta repeat to be taken seriously in the league. I know your contract’s up for renewal. No trading yourself around to the highest bidder. The Hawk belongs to New Orleans.”

  “You bet I do.” That appeared to appease the man, who moved away after a triple-tapped back slap.

  Maybe Kurt should’ve taken that shot. “So much for pipe dreams.”

  “What do you mean?” Lisette asked.

  “You heard the man. I belong to New Orleans.”

  Lisette held up her hand as if trying to stop him from even thinking it. “That’s not true. Sure, you have a contract, but it’s just that. Simply business. Women get all flustered about c
hanging hairdressers, thinking it’s disloyal. It truly isn’t. It’s just business. An exchange of money for services. And you can make a similar exchange by teaching.”

  “It isn’t that simple. The whole city has expectations.” Kurt knew. Their expectations were a fucking ten-ton rock digging right into the center of his head. “They expect me to stay. They expect me to lead the Rage to another winning season. They expect me to do it for them, just like I did it for Jasper.”

  She laced her fingers through his from underneath. Squeezed hard enough to get his attention. “Oh, Kurt. You’ve got such a big heart. But you can’t compare making some exuberant fans happy to fulfilling the dying wish of your baby brother.”

  Guess he had to connect the dots for her. “It’s because of Jasper that I owe it to them to stay. Their support helped me through the worst year of my life. I owe it to them to put my own dreams on hold.”

  “Maybe you don’t have to...” Her voice trailed off.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Give me a couple of days. Then ask me again.” Lisette trailed her finger around the rim of her glass. “I understand having to put your dreams on hold. I think I have to go back to death duty.” At his undoubtedly blank look, she added, “Hospice care.”

  No. She’d given up everything—her job, her security, the literal clothes off her back—to get away from that. Kurt was stunned. “Why?”

  “I only planned to make my savings last through the recertification in a different specialty. Now that I can’t find a new job anywhere, I don’t have a choice. I need a paycheck. And the hospice program promised they’d hire me back in a heartbeat if I ever wanted to return.”

  Just when he’d thought it wasn’t possible to feel any worse about the way he’d kiboshed her job prospect with the Rage—she dropped this fucking sledgehammer on him. With her talent and personality and dedication? Lisette should have places lining up to hire her.

  Fuck. He couldn’t let this happen. Kurt shoved back from the bar. “Will you give me just a minute?” He patted his pocket as though his phone was vibrating. “One call, and then I’ll turn it off for the rest of the night.”

  “Of course. Your public needs you,” she teased. “You’re too big to be stuck with just little ol’ me.”

  Not even close to true. There was nothing he’d like better.

  Hurrying into the hotel’s hallway, Kurt hit speed dial for his new coach. Didn’t matter the time of night. When it was important, he was always there for his players. And this was important.

  “Courage here,” the coach barked into the phone.

  “Coach, it’s Kurt Lundquist.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Remember that favor you did me?”

  “You mean convincing Coach Thibodeault to hire your sorry ass away from those pussies out in San Francisco?”

  “Turns out my moving was a favor to you. Seeing as how I ended up packing the Cup in my luggage,” he said as a quick and dirty reminder of his worth to the Rage.

  “Right. Like nine other guys didn’t skate a single second with you on that championship ice. What the hell favor?”

  “Not hiring someone. To be the physical therapy nurse on staff for the team.”

  “Lundquist, that decision is so far down my priority list its neck and neck with cleaning out my belly button lint. How the hell is that the reason you’re calling me at beer o’clock?”

  Yeah, their new coach had a hair-trigger temper that he never minded aiming at anyone within earshot. “I need you to hire her after all.”

  “Who?”

  “Lisette Broussard. Interfering with her job was a selfish, dick move on my part. I need you to give it to her.”

  “Can’t.”

  Kurt banged his fist against the brocade wallpaper. “Coach, come on. She’s more than qualified. She’s terrific.”

  “Look, the New Orleans Cajun Rage isn’t all victory parades and drills. It’s a business. I did you a favor. Once. That’s it. It’s bad business to flip-flop just because you want to score off the ice.”

  “It isn’t like that,” he protested.

  “Really? Guess what? I don’t give a shit what it is to you. Because it’s not my problem.”

  The connection clicked off before Kurt could launch into begging. Negotiating. Whatever worked.

  He couldn’t leave Lisette alone any longer.

  He couldn’t let her go back to hospice care.

  He couldn’t let her know he was behind her immediate money problem.

  And last but sure as hell not least, he couldn’t march back out there and screw her until she screamed his name at the top of her lungs.

  Problems? Kurt had ’em coming and going.

  Chapter Six

  “Can I lick the bowl?” Kurt wheedled adorably.

  The mixing bowl with its swirled remnants of cream cheese frosting was not at all what Lisette wanted him to lick. If she had a choice.

  Which Lisette kind of thought she did. Ever since reconnecting outside the Rajuns’ locker room, there’d been an odd push-pull going on between them. Definite heat and attraction on both sides. But it felt like either she or Kurt would pull back just when things started to heat up.

  Not anymore. Not since their date Saturday night. Because there was no question it hadn’t been anything less than a one hundred percent, genuine date. After the dose of classic New Orleans with their drinks at the Carousel Bar, they’d gone on to dinner at SoBou. It was the opposite end of the spectrum from classic, and Lisette loved it. She’d been worried that the innovative food, like the yellowfin tuna cones topped with avocado basil ice cream, would be a disappointment to Kurt. Those broad shoulders and undeniable masculinity gave her the impression he was a meat-and-potatoes guy.

  Which had been a great reminder, actually, to not assume anything about him. In fact, when Lisette brought up the possibility, he laughed and made her forfeit a sweet potato beignet as punishment. Right after reminding her that his first team, before the Snakes and the Rage, was the San Francisco Quakes. Living there had opened him up to a world of fusion flavors. Nothing scared him if it came on a plate. Which also hit home that there was a lot more to Kurt Lundquist than just strong thighs and wicked control of a puck. His career didn’t define him. Or at least, it didn’t have to, which was exactly the point of today’s visit.

  Right after she stopped thinking about Kurt doing all the licking.

  With a gentle elbow to his ribs, Lisette stated, “The bowl is off-limits. I made this pineapple carrot cake for Noelle. Because she had a craving. And nobody in their right mind gets between a pregnant woman and her craving. So she can have as much of the cake as she wants, including the beaters and the bowls to lick.”

  Hands behind his back, Kurt hinged forward from his waist to hover his face right above the rim. “That frosting will harden soon.”

  “Not before she gets home.” Oh, but he’d almost tempted her to give in. Because Kurt Lundquist excelled at tempting Lisette into throwing common sense out the window. “Which will be in less than half an hour. So our window of time to talk is limited.”

  That straightened him faster than a jack-in-the-box. “You really called me over here to talk?”

  With a peek out the dotted Swiss curtains over the sink at the rapidly heating sunshine, Lisette asked, “At ten o’clock on a Tuesday morning? What other reason would there be?”

  Kurt widened his stance. Then he pulled her back against him and crossed his arms around her waist. Nibbling along the curve of her ear, he said, “Do I need to spell it out for you?”

  Maybe. He’d certainly been good at spelling things out in a series of hot and very descriptive texts last night. And the night before. The man had a certain...way with bedtime stories. For a second—okay, five seconds—Lisette relaxed against the wall of muscles holding her up. But the cake on the counter reminded her they were facing a ticking clock. “No licking and no spelling. Clearly, kitchens rile you up more than I ever expected
. Let’s head out to the living room.”

  “Living rooms are for serious talk. I don’t like where this is headed. What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” she swiftly reassured him with a pat to his muscular forearm. “Hopefully, everything is right. Or at least, it’s going to be.”

  “Hang on. If you’re not mad at me, or worried about something”—Kurt waited until Lisette shook her head no—“can I go first?”

  For someone who hadn’t expected they were going to actually talk, he caught her off guard with the request. “Um, sure.”

  “Sit down.”

  Now Lisette didn’t like where this was headed. The past three days had been pretty darn perfect. First the amazing date on Saturday, a lunch that stretched into a French Quarter bar crawl and dinner on Sunday, and lots of kissing and touching and closeness that thrilled her to her toes in between party planning and errands yesterday.

  They’d clicked. Hit a groove. Teased and talked and listened and laughed. Laughed like she’d never imagined that Kurt would. Especially with her. If dating was a class, they’d both be getting an A right now. So what on earth could he need to tell her?

  “I’ve got some good news.”

  Instead of easing onto the couch, Lisette plopped onto it, her jaw agape. “Not cool. You’re stealing my thunder. Literally stealing the words right from my mouth.”

  “Not a problem. Or a problem like...having too much carrot cake for one person to possibly eat.”

  Oh, the adorable factor was off the charts with him today. “Nice try.”

  Kurt paced the carpeted length of the room. Then he abruptly dropped into the wing chair opposite her and braced his forearms on his thighs. “Look, I...uh...I got you something.”

  “A present? For me?” Relief flooded through Lisette that he wasn’t dropping some sort of horrible secret on her. Or politely dumping her for, you know, reminding him of the most painful months of his life. Guilt, though, quickly followed. Because he was already paying her a fairly exorbitant wage. Which was weird enough now that they were, well, dating. “Kurt, you already splurged on that whole, beautiful outfit. You didn’t need to do anything else.”