Kit: A Chicago Blaze Hockey Romance

by Brenda Rothert

  “There it is.” I smile half-heartedly. “And no, my scrunchie supply is solid.”

  “What, then? Your family’s good, right? Your brother’s okay?”

  “Yeah.” I rub a hand down my face as the plane comes to a stop. “I was just thinking about Molly.”

  “Molly?” He looks confused for a couple seconds, and then it clicks. “The reporter?”

  I nod.

  “We only talked to her for a little bit, but she seems cool.”

  “Yeah, she’s…so uncool it’s cool, you know?”

  “Nah.” Easy gives me a blank stare. “Don’t be all cryptic like a woman, just tell me what’s going on.”

  “I like her.”

  Awareness dawns in Easy’s expression. “Ah. And is she single?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “She doesn’t want to go out with me while she’s working on the story about me, and it’s driving me crazy. I hit on her the other night, and I shouldn’t have done it, but I did, and she shut me down.”

  Easy shrugs. “Maybe she’s not into you.”

  “I think she is, though.”

  “So ask her to go out with you when she’s done with the story.”

  I exhale hard. “I don’t know if I can wait that long.”

  “Sounds like you don’t have any other options.”

  “You’re not helpful at all,” I growl, taking my phone back out of my pocket.

  I text Molly.

  Me: How much longer is the story going to take?

  I see those three little dots bouncing on my screen, and I stare at them, anticipating her reply.

  Molly: Hello to you, too.

  Me: Hi, Molly. Do you know how much longer the story is going to take?

  Molly: Not much longer.

  Me: A week?

  Molly: Depending on how our schedules line up for another interview or two, then with writing time, probably about two weeks. Why?

  Me: Because I want to ask you out.

  The three dots appear again, and I hold my breath as I wait, but then they disappear. No message.

  “Answer,” I say to the empty screen.

  “Kit.” Easy nudges me and I look up. Apparently it’s our turn to exit the airplane.

  “Go ahead,” I say to the teammates behind us.

  “Motherfucker,” Easy says under his breath.

  I look back at my phone screen, willing Molly to respond. The three dots come back, and this time, there’s a message.

  Molly: I’m not sure what to say. You want to ask me out, or you are asking me out?

  Me: Both. Say yes.

  Molly: I think we should discuss this after the story is done.

  Easy exhales hard behind me as I type out a reply with my thumbs.

  Me: It’s been a long time since I asked a woman for a date. A long fucking time. Years. If you don’t want to, say no. At least then I’ll know.

  The three little dots reappear and I wait for what feels like forever.

  Molly: I do want to.

  A sigh of relief pours from my chest.

  “Can we go now?” Easy asks, reading over my shoulder.

  Shaking my head, I write another message to Molly.

  Me: That’s all I needed to hear. We can work out the rest later. And I won’t bring it up again until the story is done.

  Molly: Okay.

  Jonah waits for me and Easy to step out of our row, and I grab my bag from the overhead bin, thinking about Molly. She wants to go out with me. And I really want to go out with her.

  I don’t know if I can be enough for her. What she deserves. But I don’t have to think about it to know I can’t just walk away without even trying. It’s not about wanting to fuck her. There’s so much more I want from her.

  She’s on my mind constantly. There’s definitely something there between us. I don’t have all the answers, but I want to figure this thing out.

  “Kit’s got a date?” Victor calls out from behind us as we wait to exit the plane. “With who?”

  “Your mom,” Knox says, his response automatic.

  “Shit, my mom’s got better taste than that,” Vic scoffs. “Seriously, who’s he going out with? Is her hair longer than his?”

  “He’s going out with Molly, the reporter doing a story about him, and…I think his hair’s longer than hers,” Easy says, laughing.

  I glare at him. “Shut up. It’s not happening yet. And my hair isn’t longer than hers, you douchebags.”

  “Our baby’s growing up,” Vic says, with a fake sniffle. “I think it might be time for us to have the talk with him.”

  “You say one more word about it and I’ll punch you in the face,” I say, turning to look at him. “I swear, man, just one more word.”

  He presses his lips together, feigning innocence.

  “Hey, I didn’t know it was a secret,” Easy says. “Sorry.”

  “I’m gonna read your texts with Allie and tell everyone what they say.”

  “It gets pretty X-rated up in our chats, bro. Just saying.”

  “Really?”

  He laughs. “No, we’re married, dude. I mean, there’s the occasional sexy talk, but it’s mostly just who’s picking up which kid and what we need from the store. We save the sexy stuff for when we’re in bed.”

  I walk down the airplane steps, slinging my bag over my shoulder. Part of me can’t believe I just asked Molly out, but I did. I fucking did. And she said yes.

  Knowing her, I sense it won’t necessarily be smooth sailing from here. She’ll probably try to talk me out of our date at least a dozen times.

  It’s happening, though. No notebook, no right or wrong answers and no boundaries. I want to know Molly, really know her. What scares the hell out of me is how much I want her to really know me, too.

  Chapter Nine

  Molly

  * * *

  He looks really good in those jeans.

  My first thought when Kit walks into the Mexican place we’re meeting at isn’t exactly professional, but when he gets to my table, it gets worse. I gaze up at him, tongue-tied, wishing I could slide out of the booth and into his arms.

  “Hey,” he says, smiling.

  “Hi,” I manage.

  “No matter how early I am, you always beat me.”

  “I like being early.”

  “You look nice.” He slides into the other side of the booth.

  “Thanks.”

  I don’t always work on Sundays, but today was good for both me and Kit to do an interview. I’m wearing jeans and a dark gray blouse, my hair still looking freshly done after a trim and blowout yesterday.

  “How have you been?” Kit asks as our server delivers chips and salsa to the table.

  “Good. What about you?”

  “Good. Looking forward to you finishing this story.”

  His tone is warm, interested. I reach for my water and take a long drink, my mouth suddenly dry.

  “You hardly know anything about me,” I say, meeting his eyes across the table.

  “What I know, I like. And I want to know more.” He gives me a boyish grin that would weaken my knees if I was standing. “I’ve been trying to read up on you, but your Internet footprint is pretty small.”

  “I like it that way. If you google me, it’s all Gazette stories that come up.”

  “I’ve read a lot of them. And I also saw the notice of your divorce.”

  I look away, just the word making me feel sad and somehow…ugly.

  “It doesn’t bother me, Molly,” Kit says. “That you’re divorced. You don’t need to feel bad about it.”

  “I don’t feel bad about you knowing about it, but you don’t—”

  Our server approaches to take our orders. It’s lunchtime and I’m hungry, so I open the menu and pick an enchilada lunch combo. Kit orders five steak tacos.

  “What don’t I know?” Kit asks after the server walks away.

  I smile sadly. “A lot
. My divorce changed me. It was really hard, and I’m not sure I’ll ever be as hopeful as I was before. Or as happy.”

  “Will you tell me about it?”

  My gaze falls on my notebook, sitting on the table with a pen beside it. We’re supposed to be talking about Kit, but I’ve got plenty of time today, so I guess it won’t hurt to talk about me, too. If he doesn’t want to go out with me after the story is done, I’d rather know as soon as possible.

  “I met Zach when I was doing a story about the Chicago Marathon. The Gazette put a call out on social media asking for people who were willing to talk about why they were running, and he was one of the people I interviewed.”

  “Bet he got a shit time,” Kit says, putting a handful of tortilla chips on a plate.

  I shrug. “He definitely wasn’t a super runner.”

  “I looked him up on Facebook.”

  Kit looked Zach up on Facebook? That catches me by surprise. “You looked him up?”

  “Yep. That woman he’s with now isn’t half as pretty as you are.”

  I scoop some tortilla chips out of the basket and put them on my plate, saying, “Okay, if we’re going to talk about Kelsey, I’m going to need some of these.”

  “Kelsey? That’s her name?”

  “Yeah. She’s a secretary at the ad agency he works at. And on the day our divorce was finalized, I walked out of the courtroom, crying, and there was Kelsey on a bench outside the courtroom in a wedding dress. They got married then and there, at the courthouse.”

  Kit recoils. “Are you fucking serious?”

  I nod. “I had to walk past his family and some of our friends who were there for the wedding. It was awful. Once of the worst moments of my life.”

  “I’m sorry, Molly.”

  “I shouldn’t have been surprised. Kelsey was all Zach talked about from the moment he started banging her in the copy room after hours.”

  “While you were still married?”

  “I didn’t know then that they were sleeping together, just that he talked non-stop about her.” I shove a chip in my mouth.

  “Jesus, no wonder you’re so cynical,” he says, his brow furrowed.

  “I got home from work one day and he told me she was the woman of his dreams and he wanted to divorce me as quickly as possible.”

  Kit sits back in his seat. “He just hit you with that out of nowhere?”

  “Yeah. I knew he wasn’t happy in the marriage, but I thought we were working on it.”

  “What wasn’t he happy about?”

  I can’t even look at Kit as I tell him. I know Zach was a sorry excuse for a husband, but I still feel self-conscious about it.

  “Me. I didn’t like going out as much as he did. His friends didn’t like me. He said I was no fun and he felt like he was settling with me.”

  “Hey,” he says softly.

  I look up, meeting his gaze.

  “I don’t like how upset you looked when you said that,” he says. “He’s an asshole. It’s not any more complicated than that.”

  “Yeah, he is, but…remember how I was uncomfortable at the bar the other night, when my interviews were done?”

  “I remember.”

  “That’s who I am. I’m not like Mia Petrov, who can approach anyone and strike up a conversation for half an hour.”

  Kit looks skeptical. “You’re so smart, though. I think you could hold your own with anyone, talking about anything.”

  “It’s not about intelligence. I have social anxiety.”

  There. I said it. Tears well in my eyes as I grab a chip and dunk it in the salsa bowl, wondering how Kit will process that bit of information about me.

  “Okay,” he says. “So it’s not that you can’t hold your own, just that you’re not comfortable doing it.”

  “I guess so. Zach wanted me to work through it by being more outgoing. He thought going out and meeting new people, and doing things with his friends’ wives would make me more extroverted.”

  “And you hated it,” Kit rightly guesses.

  “I hated it. It bothered me that he thought I needed to be “fixed” so I was like him. I don’t dislike myself.”

  There’s a moment of silence, and then Kit says, “I get it. You have no idea how much I get it.”

  “You?”

  “Not because of social anxiety, but…anyway, you’re comfortable with me, right? Do I give you any of those anxious feelings?”

  Quite the opposite, but I don’t tell Kit that.

  “No. It’s being in a big group with people I don’t know that stresses me out.”

  “Good. I think you and I would be best in a one-on-one setting anyway.”

  His tone is warm—loaded with meaning. I like it, but I can’t help remembering that Zach once felt that way, too.

  “All the women I saw at the bar with the team the other night seemed really outgoing. It seems like kind of a requirement if you’re going to date someone famous.”

  Kit shakes his head. “Not at all. Knox’s wife Reese hates going out. Even before they had kids, it just wasn’t her scene. She’s an early riser and she likes to keep busy.”

  “I guess we can talk more about this later. We’ll see where things stand when the story comes out.”

  “We can talk about it on our date.”

  His tone is confident and boyish at the same time. Kit’s not a player. He’s genuine. And while I like him—a lot—I don’t know if I want to risk having my heart crushed for a second time.

  “Maybe you won’t want to after you read my hard-hitting expose about you,” I say lightly.

  He feigns being stabbed in the chest. “You found out I don’t sort my recycling, didn’t you?”

  “Not only did I find out, I have photos of your bins,” I say, playing along. “The trash collectors are all standing there pointing at the glass, plastic and paper all mixed in together. One of them has a big tear rolling down his cheek.”

  Kit grins. “As long as you don’t tell the world I drink right out of the milk jug.”

  “Sir, have you no regard for humanity?”

  “I could pretend like I only do it since I live alone, but I’ve been doing it my whole life. I’m just a bad boy, I guess. A total rebel.”

  “The world will soon know the truth.”

  Kit’s gaze is locked on mine, his voice warm. “If you want to come to my place and get photos of me drinking from the jug, you’ve got my number.”

  I picture him shirtless in the morning, sweatpants sitting low on his hips and his hair messy as he swigs his milk. I’m not doing well at this whole keeping-it-professional thing.

  Picking up my pen, I say, “I’m starting the real interview now.”

  “I’m ready. Ask me anything.”

  I want to ask him to kiss me. It’s ridiculous, because I don’t really want him to kiss me here and now, over chips and salsa at La Fiesta. But it’s the only question my mind can come up with in this moment.

  “Um…” I clear my throat. “Just give me a second.”

  “Yes. I love going downtown. Is that what you want to ask me?” There’s a hint of a smirk on Kit’s face.

  Holy shit. My face burns with embarrassment and my girly bits clench with desire all at the same time.

  “Molly? Why are you blushing? You do know I’m talking about the city, right?” He pauses for dramatic effect. “Wait a minute. Did you think I meant—”

  I cut him off. “No. We aren’t having this conversation right now.”

  Kit takes out his phone. “Can you let me know when we are? Because I’d like to go ahead and get it on my calendar.”

  I can’t help smiling. “Don’t tease me. The sooner we get this done, the sooner we can…talk about things.”

  His eyes gleam with intensity. “I’m really looking forward to talking about things with you.”

  I force myself back from the magnetic pull I feel toward him. I’ve got deadlines to meet, and I really do need to finish this story. Preferably without mel
ting into a puddle over my interview subject.

  “What do you think are some of the important issues facing hockey as a professional sport?” I ask.

  Kit’s expression turns serious. “Oh, man. I’ve got some pretty strong opinions on one thing, and that’s diversity. I feel like we, as a sport, and also as individual players, need to work a lot harder on making hockey more accessible to kids. Not having access to an ice rink, or a coach or even hockey equipment is a barrier many kids in both urban and rural areas can’t overcome without help. And if we want to be a sport that appeals to everyone in terms of fans, then we need to make the sport more accessible for all to play, too.”

  His answer is unexpected, and it touches me. I don’t let it show, though. I’m taking notes quickly to keep up as Kit talks.

  “I also think we need to be more transparent in how we handle complaints against players for things like domestic abuse and sexual assault,” Kit says as our food is delivered to the table.

  “Thanks,” I say to the server, my pen poised above the paper as I wait for Kit to continue talking.

  “Thanks, this looks great,” Kit says to the server.

  As soon as the server is gone, he continues. “We can’t be a bunch of good ole boys who come into allegations of misconduct with a bias. If you think of a guy as ‘one of your own’ and you don’t want to find anything he did wrong, you won’t. And that’s not fair. It’s not fair to anyone.”

  His thoughtful answers on issues that actually affect others and not himself have me feeling more attracted to Kit than ever. I figured he’d talk about growing television ratings or lowering ticket prices. But he surprised me in a good way.

  “Are there specific cases of allegations against players that you think could have been handled better?” I ask, my reporter instincts covering for me.

  A small smile plays on Kit’s lips. “I’m not commenting on that.”

  “Do you personally contribute to efforts to open doors to hockey for kids who otherwise couldn’t play?”

  “I do. There’s a player fund for it. Every player on our team contributes and the Blaze Foundation has a fundraiser for it every year. I feel like we need to do more, though. Outreach to companies, fundraisers—with awareness comes money.”

  My phone buzzes in my bag, and I reach for it. Normally I wouldn’t look at my phone on a Sunday, but it could be my gram.