Kit: A Chicago Blaze Hockey Romance

by Brenda Rothert

  My pen is frozen in my hand and there’s a lump in my throat. Kit looks up at me, tears shining in his dark brown eyes, and I want nothing more than to climb over the top of the table and hug him.

  Raw, real answers like that are great in stories, but something stopped me from writing in my notebook as he was talking just now. He looked and sounded like it was hard for him to even remember that Christmas, let alone tell me about it, and I’m not sure I want to share that part of him with the world.

  “Thank you for telling me that,” I say softly.

  He sniffs, composing himself. “Have you ever had a Christmas like that? One that you inevitably think about every year, even if you don’t want to?”

  The memories hit me hard, but I shove them down, keeping the emotion from my face as I shrug a shoulder.

  “Most of the Christmases I had as a kid were like that. My dad passed away when I was two and my mom was an alcoholic.”

  “God, Molly, I’m sorry.”

  Kit’s brows are pulled down, his expression one of sincere sorrow.

  “It was a long time ago.” I clear my throat and pick up my pen. “Based on interviews I’ve done with your high school hockey coach and that teammate you had then, it sounds like you could have gotten college scholarships to play either baseball or hockey. What made you choose hockey?”

  I tear open a couple more sugar packets and quickly stir them into my iced tea as he considers my question.

  “There’s always been something about hockey for me. I love how fast-paced it is. You’re competing at your hardest level every second you’re on the ice.”

  “So was it a tough decision for you?”

  “Not at all. I could’ve gotten a full ride to college on baseball, and played minor league ball, but I don’t think I’d have made it to the majors.”

  “You felt like your prospects were better with hockey?”

  “Yeah, and my coaches thought so, too.”

  I take a sip of the tea, which is now almost sweet enough.

  “You want some tea with your sugar?” Kit quips.

  “Gotta make up for my lack of sweetness somehow,” I say wryly. “If you weren’t a pro hockey player, what do you think you’d be doing for a living?”

  “Oh, man. I’m not sure I’ve ever thought about that.” He looks aside for a moment and then back at me, making my heartrate kick up a notch. “I think I’d make a pretty good firefighter.”

  “So—”

  Kit interrupts, asking, “What about you? If you weren’t a reporter, what would you be doing?”

  For a second, I think about it. And I come up with…nothing. I can’t imagine myself being anything but a journalist. It’s a huge part of who I am.

  “If you keep trying to interview me, I’ll have to ask my boss Lou to put you on the Gazette’s payroll, and he’s not hiring at the moment,” I say lightly.

  It’s my way of dancing around the truth—I’m not like Kit, who walks into a room and shines. I’m much better at asking questions than answering them. That way, I don’t have to worry about what anyone thinks of me.

  “We have a home game tomorrow. You should come,” he says, a smile tugging on his lips.

  Gentleman Viking lips, set right in the middle of his short, full beard.

  I square my shoulders, clearing my mind. I don’t want him to think I’m charmed by his invitation, but I do want to go to some of his games as research for my story.

  “I might,” I say, trying to sound noncommittal.

  “A bunch of us are going out to eat and shoot the shit after the game if want to come with me. Observe me in my natural habitat.”

  My mind is stuck on the words going out. Even though Kit didn’t mean it like going out with me, it’s been so long since a man has said those words to me that I can’t focus on anything else.

  I hold my pen above my notebook and give him a this-is-my-most-professional-serious-face look. “Some of your teammates will be there?”

  “Yeah, a bunch of them. A few wives and girlfriends, too.”

  “Okay, as long as I can get credentialed for the game, I’ll be there.”

  Kit’s eyes sparkle with amusement. “You know I can get you in, Molly, and you’d be in the friends and family box.”

  “I can’t accept that.”

  He grins, and something about it makes my cheeks warm.

  “Old school,” he says. “I like it.”

  He didn’t say he likes me, but that’s what my heart seems to think. And even if he did like me—which he doesn’t, I’m a reporter and he’s my source and this has to stay professional. I won’t get a promotion out of this story if I get all heart-eyed over Kit. And it will crush me to see someone else get the city hall beat after all the work I’ve put in toward it.

  Serena brings our food out, and as she delivers Kit’s plate, she asks if she can take a selfie with him to send to her sorority sister. I’m rolling my eyes inside as she cozies up to Kit and tries to find the perfect lighting.

  I take notes on their interaction, ignoring the growl of protest from my stomach with my food just inches away. If I were to be interested in a man—which I am not—it would be a serious sort. A professor or scientist. Maybe a fellow journalist, who I could talk shop with. It definitely wouldn’t be a flirtacious pro athlete who attracts women like bees to honey.

  For the remainder of the interview, I ask all the questions, and I keep my gaze down on my notebook. Kit Carter isn’t going to charm me into writing a puff piece about him. Every interaction we have will be strictly professional.

  Fortunately, being stiff and impersonal comes naturally to me.

  Chapter Six

  Kit

  * * *

  “Hey, can you maybe give my wife some hair tips?” Tony Russo asks me as we wait for the referee to drop the puck for the faceoff. “Like how to get that gleaming Fabio shine?”

  “Already did, bro. Last night. Wasn’t she walking funny when she got home this morning?”

  “Shit, Carter.” My opponent laughs. “I get laid a hundred times more than you do, and I’m fucking married.”

  “The whole world hears it every time, too,” I say, grinning.

  The entire league calls Russo “Moany Tony” because his teammates say when he’s having sex, he moans so loud the entire floor of whatever hotel they’re at can hear it. He’s just chirping at me, but it grinds my gears that even guys on opposing teams know my sex life is nonexistent.

  As soon as the puck drops, everything but the game slips away. Easy and I have been playing together for so long that we know what the other will do before he does it. Porter is a newer addition to our line, but he’s a solid player and the three of us gel.

  I glance at the press box but can’t find Molly in the group of reporters there. Immediately I wonder if she decided not to come. I hope not. I’ve been thinking about seeing her all day.

  Returning my focus to the game, I don’t think about whether Molly came again until after we’ve pulled off a 3–2 win.

  “Josh,” I call out to our training intern on the way to the locker room after the game.

  “Yeah?”

  “Can you do me a favor and ask someone in PR if Molly Lynch is on the list of reporters here tonight?”

  He gives me a blank look, but then nods. I feel kind of bad for asking him to do me a favor that’s not training-related.

  “And after that, could you maybe work on my shoulder a little bit?” I ask him.

  “Yeah, definitely,” he says, brightening.

  My shoulder’s fine, but some ice and stretching won’t hurt. It’ll give me an excuse not to do any post-game interviews, too. I got a penalty for hooking tonight, which was bullshit, and reporters love to ask us about penalties. I’d probably just get myself in more trouble by answering those questions.

  Josh is waiting by my locker when I get out of the shower.

  “Molly Lynch was in the press box tonight,” he says.

  “Good. Thank
s.”

  “Want me to work on your shoulder now?”

  “Yeah, let me get dressed and I’ll meet you in the training room.”

  I put on some boxers and then sit down on the bench to text Molly.

  Me: Hope you enjoyed the game. We’re going to Lucky’s, want to ride with me?

  Molly: No thanks, I’ll meet you there.

  I smile at my phone. Molly brushes me off like no one else, and I like that about her. I just hope she doesn’t walk to Lucky’s—it’s a good three miles from the arena, and it’s freezing outside.

  My hair’s still damp when Josh finishes working on my shoulder and I change into a suit to leave the arena. There’s a group of fans crowded around the exit from the player’s parking lot, many faces painted red and their breath coming out in puffs of cold air. I honk and wave, but don’t stop to sign autographs like usual because I don’t want to leave Molly waiting.

  It’s me who ends up waiting, though. My suit jacket is on the back of my chair and my shirt sleeves are rolled up, my first glass of beer nearly empty when she comes walking into Lucky’s in her parka, her face red from the cold.

  “You walked here, didn’t you?” I say, walking over to greet her.

  She pulls her hood down and runs a hand through her dark hair. “I told you, I walk everywhere.”

  I sigh to myself and ask, “Can I take your coat?”

  “I’ve got it, thanks. Just take me to the teammates who know all your darkest, dirtiest secrets.”

  I’m about to put a hand on her lower back to steer her over to our table, but something stops me. It’s a good thing, because something tells me Molly would’ve had something to say about it. And my teammates would’ve noticed, too.

  I introduce Molly to the guys and the wives who are there so far. Easy and his wife Allie immediately call her over to sit with them, and I shoot Easy a warning look.

  There’s only one story I’d be embarrassed for him to share with Molly. A little over a year ago, I had too much to drink after a road game and I slept with a woman I’d just met. I regretted it before it was even over. She asked me to tie her hands to a bed and have my way with her, and I was too drunk to resist the temptation.

  Of course, I faced a nasty scene the next morning when I told her it was a mistake and not the start of a new relationship. I talked to Easy about it, and he knows how remorseful I am. I think I can trust him not to tell Molly about it.

  Still, I strain to hear their conversation over the noise in the crowded bar.

  “Great game tonight,” Mia Petrov says over my shoulder.

  “Thanks.”

  Molly’s laughing and taking notes at the same time. Fuck. I hate knowing they’re talking about me but not knowing what they’re saying.

  I get roped into conversations with teammates as I try to eat and keep my eyes on Molly. She makes the rounds, introducing herself to the new people who arrive at our table and scrawling notes on every interaction in her notebook.

  When I finish talking to a couple fans, I look over and see Molly standing by herself. She looks a little uncomfortable, and I get up to go over to her, but Knox stops me.

  “Was that penalty bullshit? I didn’t see it.”

  I shrug. “Yeah. We both hooked, but I’m the only one who got caught.”

  “Ah. Well, that ref’s a fucker.”

  “Where’s Reese?”

  “At home with the baby. I’m heading that way now, actually. Need to sleep when we can.”

  “See you tomorrow, man.”

  “Later.”

  He turns to go, and I look at Molly again. She’s got her coat on and is about to leave, too. I’ve hardly even seen her tonight. I walk over to her, not letting myself get stopped this time.

  “Hey, you’re not leaving, are you?”

  “I got what I need.”

  I’m several beers in, and I don’t think she’s had anything to eat or drink yet. I try to look persuasive as I say, “Put the notebook in your bag and hang out for a while.”

  “No, I—”

  “Come on, Molly. Don’t say no.”

  Hugging the notebook to her chest, she gives me a look that’s almost imploring. “I don’t belong here.”

  “Of course you do. You’re here with me.”

  She looks over at the table, where Mia is laughing at something Anton said and a puck bunny is sliding onto Porter’s lap.

  “I’m not good at this stuff.”

  “What stuff?”

  Her glare tells me the answer should be obvious. “Social stuff. It’s not fun for me.”

  “What is fun for you?” My tone low, I edge a little closer, enjoying the pink flush of her cheeks.

  “Nothing.” She takes a step back, the blush on her cheeks getting darker. “I mean, nothing that you would think is fun.”

  “I think talking to you is fun.”

  There’s a hint of a smile on her lips as she says, “So you like talking about yourself. Shocking.”

  I laugh, my gaze drawn to the tiny bit of collarbone exposed by the one open button at the top of her shirt. She’s wearing a navy sweater over a white dress shirt, with dark jeans and her trademark ready-for-an-avalanche snow boots. No strappy shirts and heels for this practical woman. The world can take her or leave her as she is, and I like that about her.

  “I just like talking to you, Molly. Even if we just talk about the weather.”

  “It’s cold,” she says, giving me a pointed look. “That should cover it.”

  We laugh, releasing every ounce of tension between us, but when I step closer to her and reach for her coat, Molly tenses once again.

  “Stay,” I say.

  “I really shouldn’t, Kit.”

  It’s the first time she’s ever called me by my name, and I like it.

  “You could just sit by me and not say anything.”

  She shakes her head. “If someone from work saw me…it wouldn’t be good. I have to keep things strictly professional until the story is done.”

  My blood heats. Until the story is done. I didn’t realize how much I’d like to see what could happen between me and Molly until she said those words.

  “Strict, huh?” I lean closer, the mix of alcohol and desire making me bold.

  I want to slide my arms around her waist and feel her body against mine. Show her she doesn’t have to be on her guard around me.

  “I said strictly professional,” she repeats, licking her lips.

  “Until the story is done.”

  Her eyes widen, making my cock harden.

  She shakes her head and lowers her brows. “Kit, this bar is full of women you can take home right now.”

  “But there’s only one I want to take home.”

  Molly’s lips part and it’s all I can do not to kiss her. Her expression of disbelief is…sexy. So goddamn sexy. Just one kiss won’t hurt.

  “I don’t…I don’t do this, Kit. I have to go.”

  She puts her head down and pushes past me, heading for the door. I follow, the bitter-cold wind slapping me in the face as I exit the bar without my coat on.

  “Molly,” I call after her. “Molly, hey.”

  She’s shoving her notebook into her bag, and when she finishes and looks up at me, the hurt expression on her face is a punch in the gut.

  “I don’t let men pick me up in bars for one-night stands,” she says, her tone fierce. “Not that any try, because I don’t go to bars. I’m a reporter working on a story, Kit. Don’t treat me like some groupie you can charm into doing whatever you want.”

  Her words strike me speechless for a second.

  “That’s not what I—”

  I close my eyes and think about how what just happened must have felt for her. I’m not drunk, but the alcohol did loosen me up. Knowing what I do about Molly, hitting on her in bar full of people was not a good idea.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I got carried away, and I’m sorry, Molly.”

  The anger fades from her expre
ssion as she pulls the fur-lined hood of her coat up and fastens the button.

  “It’s fine. I shouldn’t have come here tonight.”

  “That’s not the problem,” I argue.

  “I’m going home. Go back inside and try your moves on another woman. It’ll work.”

  She grins, and I suppress a flare of aggravation.

  “Look, I shouldn’t have hit on you back there,” I say. “You said you wanted to keep things professional until the story comes out and I should’ve listened. But don’t act like I’m just putting the moves on every woman in sight until someone bites. I’m not that guy and you know it. What happened back there was about you and me. I’ll be going to bed alone tonight, and I think you know that, too.”

  Nodding, she says, “I have to go.”

  “Let me drive you.” I rethink that idea immediately. “Or…we’ll get an Uber. Let me take you home in an Uber.”

  “I’ll walk.”

  I shake my head. “It’s after midnight, Molly. No one should be out walking alone at this hour.”

  “I’m just walking to the El station. I do it all the time. I’ll be fine.”

  “I’ll walk you there. Let me go get my coat.” I give her a wary look. “Will you wait for me to get my coat?”

  “If you really want to go,” she says, relenting. “But hurry, because it’s cold out here when you’re not moving.”

  I go back into the bar, asking Easy to cover my tab and grabbing my coat. I’m half-surprised when Molly is still standing there when I come outside.