A Year of Love

by Anthology

  “Morning, Poodle,” Nick greets me, flashing his trademark grin. “You want some breakfast?” He winks at me when Danny’s not looking.

  I feel myself blushing. “Thanks.” I look around. “Where’s Michelle?”

  Danny doesn’t answer. His head is bent toward the stove as he scrambles eggs with a spatula.

  Nick’s smile broadens. “May I do the honors?” he asks my brother.

  “Fucking asshole.” But there’s a hint of a smile on Danny’s face.

  “Guess who broke up last night,” Nick tells me.

  I gasp. “No!”

  “Yup. Didn’t I tell you it was a good riddance bang?”

  “Hey,” Danny objects.

  “Am I wrong?” his best friend demands.

  “No.”

  “Gross, Danny,” I say with a scowl. “Seriously?”

  “It didn’t start off as that,” he answers, his tone defensive. “It was makeup sex at first, but after it was over, I realized it was actually goodbye sex. I just…I don’t know. I can’t deal with her anymore. This weekend really showed me her true colors.”

  “This weekend?” I echo, one eyebrow raised. “That’s what revealed those colors? Not the past three years?”

  “Poodle,” Nick warns.

  Fine. He’s right. As long as Danny saw the light eventually, I suppose I can’t complain. “How did she handle it?” I ask curiously.

  “Well, she’s not here, now is she?” Danny rolls his eyes. “She left at like six a.m. Told me she hopes I get Spanish herpes and die.”

  “That was nice of her.”

  Nick chuckles.

  “It’s for the best,” Danny says as he shuts off the stove burner. “It would’ve ended anyways. I’m going to Spain for six months. No relationship can survive that.”

  I smother a snicker. I want to argue that lots of people can be apart for six months without their relationship collapsing. But I’m not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. He and Michelle are finally broken up. That’s all that matters.

  “Are you okay?” I ask my brother. Because no matter how much we hated her, he was still with her for three years.

  “Honestly? I’m all good. Looking forward to getting away.” He claps Nick on the shoulder. “Sorry I’m leaving you in the lurch. But I think the team will survive without me. I was following some of the receivers Southern recruited out of high school and there’s some solid talent for you. Plus you’ll have Katie to keep you company while I’m gone.”

  Nick meets my eyes over Danny’s shoulder. There’s a dirty gleam in them. “Yeah. I’ll make sure to show her around.”

  “Gonna change into my trunks. You guys want to take the boat out to the cliffs before Katie needs to leave for the airport?”

  “Sounds good,” I say.

  Nick nods. “I’ll just feed her highness first.”

  “Her highness? You’re way more high maintenance than I am,” I inform him.

  “Truth,” my brother agrees.

  Nick gives us the finger.

  After Danny leaves, I study Nick from across the kitchen island. “So. Um. About last night…”

  “About last night,” he echoes, amused.

  I eye him expectantly.

  “What?”

  “Isn’t this the part where you say it was a mistake?”

  His lips quirk. “Why would I lie?”

  I can’t contain the rush of warmth that fills my chest. “You don’t think it was a mistake?”

  “No, do you?”

  “It didn’t feel like one,” I admit. “But I also don’t know what it means. Was this, like, a weekend fling?”

  “Not to me,” he says roughly. “I know you think I’m a huge player, and, yeah, I’ve had flings in the past, but you’re not a fling, Kate. You could never be.”

  I hesitate for a long beat. “I have no idea what’s going to happen now.”

  “Nobody knows what’s going to happen.” He shrugs. “That’s the best part about life, Poodle. The unexpected.”

  “If you and I start dating…” I chew on my bottom lip. “What about Danny?”

  “What about him?”

  “He might not like it.”

  Nick snorts. “Yeah, well, I didn’t like Michelle. Neither of us did. But we still let him do his thing for three years.”

  “Fair.” I pause. “What if it ends terribly?”

  “It won’t.” Confidence shines in his expression.

  “You can’t know that.”

  “I have a good feeling.” Another shrug. “No matter what happens with us romantically, we have history, Kate. We’ll always be friends.”

  He might be right about that. Our friendship, his friendship with Danny, gives us the kind of foundation that can’t be ignored. Even if it doesn’t work out with us, if the relationship fizzles out or dies horribly, I can’t ever see my life without Nick Carmichael in it. And that’s something I never thought I’d say. This weekend has been a whole slew of firsts.

  “With that said…when do you get to Southern?” he asks, and the eagerness in his tone is unmistakable.

  I smile faintly. “Three weeks.”

  “Okay. Your first night there, can I take you to dinner?”

  My cheeks heat up again. “Yeah, I think that could be okay.”

  “Just okay?”

  “It would be great,” I tell him, and when our gazes lock, my mind starts running over the idea of me and Nick dating. All the possibilities. All the ways a relationship between us could end spectacularly. But I force myself to not overthink, to shut down my brain, because right now, it’s a beautiful sunny day in July and we’re at the lake. Soon we’ll be going out on the boat, me and my brother and our oldest friend.

  “All right, gonna throw on some swim trunks while you eat.” Nick walks around the counter.

  I think he’s going to pass me, but he stops, gripping my chin with both his hands. Slowly, deliberately, he leans down and presses his lips to mine. It’s a sweet kiss. Sweeter than I’d expect from Nick.

  But, as this weekend has shown me, sometimes you just need to expect the unexpected.

  The End

  Other Titles by Elle Kennedy

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  The Deal (Garrett’s book)

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  For all the m/m fans out there, check out HIM and US, Elle’s New Adult hockey romances co-written with the fabulous Sarina Bowen.

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  About the Author

  A New York Times, USA Today and Wall Street Journal bestselling author, Elle Kennedy grew up in the suburbs of Toronto, Ontario, and holds a BA in English from York University. From an early age, she knew she wanted to be a writer and actively began pursuing that dream when she was a teenager. She loves strong heroines and sexy alpha heroes, and just enough heat and danger to keep things interesting!

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  Copyright © 2021 Sarina Bowen

  All rights reserved

  Published by Sarina Bowen

  Training Camp is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are all products of the author’s twisted imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Except as permitted under the US Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.

  1

  My hands are sweating as I approach Brooklyn’s star winger—Jason Castro—on his beach chair. “Hi, I’m s-sorry,” I sputter.

  “That’s an unusual name,” the muscular player says, looking up from his book. He’s wearing mirror shades and a hat, so I can’t even tell if he’s rolling his eyes or not.

  Holy cow. It’s already going poorly. Why did I just apologize for doing my job?

  Oh right. Because my job is annoying and pointless.

  “Uh, my name is Stacey. I was just, um, apologizing for the interruption.” I’d probably come off as a starstruck stalker right now, except I’m wearing a team polo shirt to identify me as a member of the organization.

  It’s a lie, though. I’m just a summer intern. I’ve spent the last few weeks in the business office, happily working on expense reports. I liked that job so much better than mingling with hockey players at training camp.

  And, yes, I know that’s weird. But so am I. This wasn’t even my first choice internship. I was gunning for Goldman Sachs, where introverted nerds are the norm.

  “Well, go on,” Castro says, closing the book. “How can I help you?”

  It all comes out at a stammer. “Georgia, the, um, p-publicist, asked me to make a video. Just, um, a speedy reaction thing. I ask questions. You answer them. It goes on Tic Tac.”

  His eyebrows pop up above his sunglasses. “TikTok?”

  My face is on fire now, and I begin to speak very fast. “Right. That’s what I said. It will only take two minutes of your time.”

  “Okay.” He tosses the book aside and folds his hands across his tanned abs. “Let’s do this.”

  I scramble to unlock my phone and carefully clean the camera lenses off with a microfiber cloth that Georgia had given me when she assigned me this stupid task. “You're Gen Z. Just ask the boys some questions. Have fun with it,” she’d said. “The Rangers have thirty percent more followers than we do, and that’s a travesty. So let’s see what you can do with it in the next seven days.”

  Not much is the likely outcome. Sure, my birthday makes me Generation Z. But not all twenty-one-year-olds understand the appeal of viral video apps. I didn’t even have TikTok on my phone until five minutes ago.

  And now a certain hockey star is waiting for me to ask him fun, lighthearted questions and edit them together into something snappy.

  Okay, deep breaths. I touch the video button and aim it at him. “First question. Who’s your favorite poet?”

  He opens his mouth and then closes it again. “Um, pass? Unless dirty limericks count.”

  “Um… What’s your favorite color?” I try.

  “Silver. Like the Stanley Cup.” He grins.

  “Awesome. What’s your favorite number?”

  “Sixteen,” he says with an easy shrug of his bare shoulders. “My jersey number.”

  “Right. Sure. What’s your favorite thing about hockey?”

  “Winning.”

  “Great! Thanks.” I quickly hit the stop button. I’m sweating, and it’s not because we’re on a sunny beach in the Hamptons. It’s because this much verbal interaction with a stranger is about as much as I can take. “Thanks,” I say again, uselessly.

  And then I wander off to embarrass myself in front of another hockey player.

  * * *

  “And what’s your favorite thing about hockey?” I ask yet another player. He’s a young guy, but enormous. It’s like interviewing a mountain. I have to raise my arms up high just to frame the shot.

  “Winning,” he says.

  “Cool. Thanks for your time, Mr. Wilson.” I hit the stop button. Then I look away quickly. Wilson is such a hunk. And his smile is more friendly than the others. It’s like staring at the sun. It melts me.

  “Be careful of the sun,” he says suddenly.

  I let out a squeak of surprise. Did I speak that though aloud?

  “That camera angle,” he clarifies. “I musta been backlit just now. Do you take a lot of videos?”

  “Well, no,” I admit as another bead of sweat rolls down my back. “I never take videos. I’ve never used TikTok. If I convince even one person to follow the channel, it will be a miracle. NYU is more likely to win the Frozen Four than I am to gain followers.”

  Wilson bends that enormous body in half, grabs his giant knees and cracks up. “Let me guess. Every player said he liked silver, he liked winning, and nobody gave you a favorite poet?”

  “Some of them like purple,” I say a little defensively.

  “The team color.” He straightens up, still laughing at me. “Of course they did. You’re not going to get a lot of fun answers with those questions.”

  “I noticed.” My shoulders sag. This video is going to suck.

  “Lemme give you a clue,” Wilson says. He has a midwestern accent that some of his teammates like to mock. But to me, it makes him sound open and friendly. “You’ll get more interesting answers if you ask for unpopular opinions. Like—what’s your least favorite color? Or what’s the most overrated food?”

  “Oh.” I turn that over in my mind, and I can kind of see his point. “Why is that?”

  “People love haters.” He winks. “Just try it.”

  I scan the crowd of professional hockey players. It’s eye candy as far as the eye can see. There’s a ferocious beach volleyball competition happening. These men are more competitive than hungry pitbulls at a steak eating contest. “Okay, I think I understand.”

  “Good luck, Stacey.” He clamps a big hand over my shoulder and gives it a friendly squeeze. “You got this.”

  And just maybe I do. I walk back to Jason Castro, who’s sipping a beer and turning pages in his book. “Could I ask you one more question?”

  He removes his shades and frowns at me. “Sure, but do it quick because all this sunshine and relaxation is putting me into a coma.”

  “I’ll be quick.” I point the camera at him. “What’s your least favorite airport to fly out of?”

  “Oh easy,” he says, his brown eyes lighting up. “San Francisco. It’s fogged in, like, half the time. Every flight is forty minutes late. The traffic is atrocious.” Castro is so worked up about this now that he rises off the chair and crosses his arms in front of his incredible chest. “Now the real issue—they lose my luggage every time. This very minute my favorite suitcase is still circling the globe. They lost it in June. My bag has literally been to Fiji without me. Thanks, SFO! Thanks a ton.”

  Maybe Wilson was onto something.

  * * *

  That evening I stay up late splicing the videos together. I thought it might be tricky, but apps are easier to negotiate than people.

  Plus, I get to admire Wilson’s footage while I do it. He’s so cute. And he saved my video with his big idea.

  Eventually I’ve created a cute TikTok video. But honestly, I don’t understand why this app is sweeping the globe. It’s loud. It’s random. Half the videos aren’t interesting or funny. I just don’t get it.

  But hey—that’s the same way I feel about most pop culture. I don’t follow any celebrities. I don’t like most movies, because the plot holes make me crazy.

  I love sports, though. That’s why I picked this job. Hockey doesn’t mess around. You win or you lose. It’s not a popularity contest. So imagine my horror at this assignment—improving Brooklyn’s TikTok channel, which is absolutely a popularity c
ontest.

  Still, I want to do a good job. So the next morning I go into my meeting with Georgia Trevi—the team’s publicist—with my video in hand. And I’m actually pretty proud of myself.

  For at least two whole minutes. That’s how long it takes Georgia to watch the video, make an apologetic face, and then explain why they can’t run my video on the channel.

  Afterward, I walk slowly out of her impromptu office in one of the beach cabanas, and consider resigning on the spot.

  “Just try again,” Georgia had said. “You’ll figure it out.”

  I won’t, though. It’s hopeless.

  “Hey there,” Wilson says in a perfectly calm voice, even though he’s in the middle of a set of push-ups right there in the beach sand. “Why the long face? Need some coffee?”

  “Not even coffee can save me,” I say. Then I flop down in the sand beside him.

  “Video is no good?” he asks, raising and lowering that huge body in a perfect rhythm.

  “It’s good,” I say with a sigh. “Georgia laughed when she watched it. But then she said that it manages to offend eleven different cities in less than a minute. And worse—it makes the players sound like rich divas. Apparently, if you fly around in a private jet, you’re not supposed to complain about it.”

  “Ah,” Wilson says. “Hang on.” He bangs out ten more push-ups, then hops into a seated position with more grace than a giant should really possess. “Can I see?”

  “Sure.” I pass him my phone and watch as he takes in the video I made.

  He starts laughing right away, of course. “This is funny. But I kind of see Georgia’s point. Except for that bit about Bayer gettin’ food poisoning in Tampa. That’s pure internet gold.”

  “Yeah,” I grumble. “Do you think I should do a whole video about food poisoning?”