Kit: A Chicago Blaze Hockey Romance

by Brenda Rothert

  “It’s no big deal. I won’t try to reach her,” Molly says in a reassuring tone. “I’ve got enough for the story already.”

  “Thanks.”

  I stare ahead at the road, the magic of our day gone now. I trust Molly, but this isn’t about trust. No one knows why my relationship with my mom is so strained, and that can’t change.

  Not even for the woman who can bring me to my knees with just a smile. Some things are too broken to ever be put back together again.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Molly

  * * *

  I stare at the blinking cursor on my computer screen, trying to decide how to start the story about Kit. It shouldn’t be this hard, but I’ve been trying to come up with my first sentence for a solid ten minutes now.

  How do I capture a man like him in words, and not make it completely obvious I’ve got a major thing for him?

  Somehow I have to write this story and not let my feelings come into play. And since our day at Luca and Abby’s house a few days ago, feelings about Kit have consumed my thoughts.

  Socializing with so many people was hard, but I got through it. Kit stayed with me the whole time. By the time we left, I’d actually enjoyed myself. That was unexpected.

  Kit’s teammates and their families are laid back. They didn’t fire questions at me. Everyone just did their thing, and there were times it was just me and Kit sitting at our table, eating and talking. No one made me feel like I didn’t belong there.

  Me, feeling like I fit in at a pro hockey player’s pool party for a few dozen of his closest friends at his multi-million dollar mansion. It sounds crazy, but it’s true.

  My phone rings and I look at the screen absently. It’s an inter-office call, and I always pick those up.

  “Lynch,” I say into the receiver.

  “Molly, It’s Clara Romano. Did you get my email about the Springfield thing?”

  “Yeah, but I can’t do it.”

  She sighs with impatience. “You don’t even know when it is.”

  “It doesn’t really matter. I need to be here for my Lamont story, and the rest of the city hall beat. I can’t just take two days completely away. I can’t even take one day away.”

  “Well, who else is going to do it?”

  “I don’t know, but I need to go. I’m in the middle of a story.”

  I hang up. It was a slight fib; I’m at the beginning of the story. But in my head, I’m already buried in all things Kit Carter.

  His body is ridiculous. I’ve never been with any man but Zach, and Zach definitely didn’t have defined muscles or tattoos. I’m dying to be closer to Kit, and find out all the little things about him. Whether I’ve formally crossed a professional boundary or not is irrelevant; my feelings for Kit aren’t appropriate for a reporter to have about her story subject.

  I’m there, though. I can’t help it. Part of me wants to be honest with Lou, but another part is unwilling to risk losing the city hall beat I’ve worked so hard to get.

  I found Kit attractive from the moment I saw him, but I’m human. I’ve found people I met on the job attractive before. What I feel for Kit though is beyond his looks. He helped me search for Mr. Darcy in an ice storm and didn’t complain once. He doesn’t judge me for my quirks and anxiety; he seems to actually embrace them.

  It was his reaction to me asking for his mom’s number that really did me in, though. I saw in that moment that cool, collected Kit has hurts and insecurities, too. My drive to dig deep and find a unique angle for his story fizzled and died in that moment. I just wanted to tell him that whatever it was that was bothering him, it was okay. That I wouldn’t ask about it again.

  It’s not about the story anymore. I’ve got more than enough to churn out a three thousand word profile on Kit. But then what?

  It’s hard for me, not knowing. I took a leap of faith with Zach and it turned out I was plunging off a cliff, and the landing hurt more than I ever thought possible.

  I’m over it, Zach once said to me. You’re neurotic and uptight. Life’s too short to spend it with someone like you.

  Those words cut deep. I vowed to never give a man that kind of power over me again. But have I already broken that promise to myself?

  When Kit looked at me in the pool, and told me I’m beautiful, my heart took flight. His words were a sensual caress, making my heart pound and my skin tingle.

  And if he has the power to dazzle me like that, to make me feel so incredibly sexy and powerful and good, he can probably already do the reverse, too. A rejection from Kit would hurt badly, even now. Even when we’ve never really started anything.

  The promise is already there. The possibility. The hope.

  When Zach married his mistress before the ink on our divorce papers was even dry, hope felt a million miles away. I hardened my heart and promised I’d never trust a man completely again.

  I’m still pondering a lede for the story when my cell phone buzzes on my desk with an incoming text.

  Kit: Hey, how are you?

  Me: Pretty good. Just working on a story about a hockey player.

  Kit: Yeah? He sounds like a pretty kickass dude.

  Me: He’s okay.

  Kit: Okay guys don’t make your nipples hard.

  Me: What?? You have no idea what state my nipples are in.

  Kit: In the pool the other day ;)

  Me: I was just cold. Get over yourself.

  Kit: Liar. It was like a sauna in there.

  I smile at my phone screen, looking from side to side to see if anyone’s watching me. Which is ridiculous because it’s not like they’d know who I’m texting.

  Me: If you keep distracting me I won’t get this story done…

  Kit: Are you finishing it today?

  Me: I don’t think so.

  Kit: If I leave you alone will you finish it today?

  Me: No, it’s a really long story. It’ll take me a while to write.

  Kit: Long, huh? Like way bigger than average? Like a magnum story?

  Me: You think it’s all about the size? Even long stories can be underwhelming. Too fast, and lacking in technique.

  Kit: You wound me.

  Kit: So will you finish it tomorrow?

  Me: Maybe? I have to sit in on a really long edit board meeting tomorrow and I have a staff meeting too. I’ll hardly have any time to write.

  Kit: Tell that fucker Lou he’s not paying you to sit in meetings all day. You need to be writing.

  Me: I’ll see how that goes over.

  Kit: I miss you.

  Me: I can’t miss you until I finish this story.

  Kit: Get writing then…

  Me: When will you be home again?

  Kit: Tomorrow, but then I have to fly out again early Friday.

  Me: Back home Saturday?

  Kit: Yep. And off on Sunday.

  Me: I see.

  Kit: Can we go out Saturday night?

  Me: If I finish this story.

  Kit: I think if your nipples have anything to say about it, you will.

  Me: You seem fixated on my nipples…

  Kit: You have no idea…

  Me: Saturday night, then. Some of us have to work for a living, so I’m signing off to write.

  Kit: Say lots of nice things about your favorite hockey player. Tell the world what your nipples think of me.

  Me: Goodbye. I’m not responding to any texts from you for the next hour.

  Kit: I’ll make a dinner reservation for Saturday at a hibachi place, where we share a table with like a dozen other people.

  Me: Are you serious? That sounds horrible.

  Kit: Ha. Knew you wouldn’t be able to resist.

  Me: I’m turning my phone off now.

  Kit: Tell your nipples to text me later, after my game.

  Grinning like an idiot at my phone screen, I resist the urge to write back. Instead, I power my phone down and turn to face my computer screen.

  It’s time to write this story. I have about thirt
y column inches to summarize Kit Carter, who doesn’t just make me want to bend my rules about never trusting a man again, but bust them into pieces and never look back.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Kit

  * * *

  “You’re on a streak,” our team owner Olivier Durand says to me, looking pleased.

  I smile back. “Yeah, it’s been a good run.”

  “Keep it up.” He nods and walks back to the table of men he’s sitting with for today’s lunch, most of them wearing cowboy hats.

  We’re playing in Austin, Texas tonight, and a friend of Durand’s is hosting a big lunch for us at his ranch. The food is incredible—beef brisket so tender I can cut it with a fork, pulled pork with a sweet locally made barbeque sauce and contest-winning ribs.

  There are also more side dishes than I could even try—macaroni and cheese, slaw, cornbread pudding, baked potatoes and baked beans.

  “Not a fucking vegetable in sight,” Anton mutters as he sits down with his second plate full of food. “We’re gonna be slow as shit tonight.”

  Our coaches agree. For Durand’s sake, they’re all eating and chatting it up with the rancher and his friends. But on the plane we took here this morning, they told us not to overdo it on the food today, because our game tonight will suffer if we do.

  “I’m gonna need bigger pants for the game,” Victor says as he sits down with a huge plate of peach cobbler.

  “You shouldn’t be eating that,” Anton tells him shaking his head.

  “I’m not insulting the cook that way,” Vic says as he scoops a forkful of dessert into his mouth.

  Jonah checks his phone for the tenth time in the past fifteen minutes, frowning when he doesn’t find any messages.

  “What’s up?” I ask him.

  “Rey’s doing a thing today and I’m worried about her.”

  “A work thing?”

  He nods. “Yeah.”

  His girlfriend Rey is an FBI agent who works with the Chicago Police Department somehow. I don’t know what she does exactly, and Jonah isn’t allowed to talk about it much. The two of them got together when Rey posed as his girlfriend for an undercover assignment and their feelings became real. The local press loves taking pictures of the two of them, even if they’re just walking down the sidewalk together.

  “She’ll text back when she can,” I say. “She’s probably just busy.”

  “I know.” He pushes his empty plate back a few inches and turns his phone over on the table. “So how’s Molly?”

  “She’s good. But that sleazy alderman she wrote about is talking shit about her and I really want to go introduce myself to him.”

  “Probably not the best idea,” Jonah says wryly. “Is she upset about it?”

  “No, and that’s another thing.” I toss my napkin onto my plate, feeling a rise of irritation. “She didn’t even say anything to me about it. At the airport, I was reading the story she wrote about the douchebag that came out today and that’s how I found out he’s trying to get her fired.”

  “She must not be too worried about it.”

  “Or she’s just dismissing something she needs to take seriously. In Chicago, you never know what a corrupt politician will do for revenge.”

  Jonah considers the situation before giving his two cents. “Do her bosses know about it?”

  “Yeah, because there was a story in the fucking paper about it. This guy says Molly is out to further ruin his reputation and he’s trying to get businesses to pull their advertising from the newspaper.”

  “Is that gonna work, though? Didn’t Molly have proof he used a city credit card at that strip club?”

  “Yeah, he’s not disputing the story. He just wants to bring her down with him.”

  He shrugs. “She’s probably dealt with stuff like this before, man. It’s part of the job.”

  “Says the guy who’s worried about his girlfriend doing her job at this exact moment.”

  “It’s a completely different situation,” Jonah says, scoffing. “Molly’s life isn’t in danger.”

  Vic leans over and butts in, looking right at me. “And she’s not your girlfriend, is she?”

  I scowl at him. “Not yet, but I’m working on it.”

  “I’m gonna get some more ribs,” he says as he finishes off the cobbler.

  “The fuck you are,” Anton says. “We’re leaving here in five minutes for the arena.”

  “Maybe I can get a to-go box of ribs,” Vic suggests.

  “You’re not getting a to-go box, asshole. You already ate way too much.”

  Vic gestures at the buffet on the other side of the large outdoor patio we’re seated at. “There’s a lot more food over there.”

  “That doesn’t mean you need to eat it.” Anton’s glare is murderous.

  “You know, there are starving kids in Africa who would love to have those ribs,” Vic says.

  “I’ll punch you in the stomach if you eat anymore,” Anton says, shrugging. “So do what you want. Kit’s gonna be moving onto the first line soon, anyway.”

  Vic looks at me, his eyes wide. “What the fuck?”

  Anton’s dicking with Vic and we all know it. But Vic deserves it. He dicks with everyone on the team and pranks us every chance he gets. Anton’s playing on Vic’s insecurity—he’s always worried he’s going to lose his place on the first line.

  “Kit’s scored in the past four games, what do you expect?” Anton says to Vic. “And you…” He wrinkles up his face and plasters on an expression of deep thought . “When’s the last time you scored?”

  “I think it was last year,” Knox offers.

  “You guys are dicks,” Vic mutters. “I scored in St. Louis.”

  “We can’t wait for you to join our line, Kit,” Anton says to me. “Me and Luca, that is. Vic’s gonna be our new equipment manager, I think.”

  “Laugh it up, fuckers,” Vic says, glowering.

  We’re still jabbing at him a few minutes later on the walk to the bus that brought us to the ranch. I’m having a hot streak, but there’s no way I’m moving up from the second line, and I’m good with that. It’s fun to razz Vic about it, though.

  I texted Molly earlier, and I turn my attention to my phone when her response comes in.

  Molly: Lamont’s just pissed about the story. He won’t do anything.

  Me: How do you know?

  Molly: This is just part of my job, it’s happened before. He came in and talked to the editors and publishers here and they said the Gazette stands by the story. Now he’s pissed at all of us.

  Me: Just be careful, okay? And don’t walk home alone at night.

  Molly: Don’t worry about me. How’s Texas?

  Me: Warm.

  Molly: The wind chill is below zero here.

  Me: We just ate a huge lunch and we’re going to the arena.

  Molly: Good luck tonight.

  Me: Thanks.

  Molly: Have to go. I’m walking into a meeting.

  Me: Just don’t forget about our date tomorrow.

  Molly: What date?

  Molly: Kidding. Looking forward to it.

  Me: Me too. Text later?

  Molly: Yes.

  Me: Okay.

  I put my phone back in my pocket and find a seat on the bus, trying to focus and get into game mode. It’s hard to think about anything but her, though. The quirky reporter who intrigued me the first time I met her has really gotten under my skin over the past month. I’ve never been so charged up to take a woman on a date.

  Tonight, I won’t need to psyche myself up on the ice. I’m a fucking pent up ball of untapped energy. Molly will soon find out that I’m a nice, laid back guy almost all the time. Once I get my hands on her, though, she’ll see my other side. It’s inevitable—I already know she’ll bring out the beast in me.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Molly

  * * *

  Mr. Darcy cocks his head at me from his spot my bed, and I laugh.

  “I know. I l
ook ridiculous, don’t I?”

  He lays his head down and I sigh heavily. I’m trying to get ready for my date with Kit, and it’s painful. When I’m going to work, I put on conservative dress pants and shirts, never worrying about whether it’s in style. It’s all about being professional. And on weekends, I wear sweats or old jeans and T-shirts.

  It’s been a long time since I had to dress up for anything social. Tonight, Kit will know I deliberately chose my outfit in an effort to look good for him. And the black linen pants and red sweater I’m wearing right now don’t look fit for anything but an office Christmas party.

  “I just need some green Christmas ball earrings to complete the look,” I mutter to no one in particular.

  Gran knocks on my bedroom door.

  “Come on in,” I say miserably.

  She pushes the door open, her brow furrowed. “I was just going to ask if you paid the water bill, but you sound like you have bigger things on your mind.”

  “Look at me.” I gesture at my outfit.

  Gran looks my outfit over. “Well…you said you have a date tonight, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Maybe you should try something a little…sexier?”

  I laugh, because my grandmother is telling me to show some skin. That’s how uptight I am. And once I start laughing, I can’t stop. Within a minute, I’m sitting on the edge of my bed and the laughter has turned to tears. I put my hands over my face and cry, Gram sitting down beside me.

  In that way I love, she lets me cry. Gram has never told me I shouldn’t cry. She always waits for me to release the disappointment, worry or exhaustion fueling my tears.

  “Better?” she asks when I finish crying and take a deep breath.

  “Not really, because now my eyes will be all swollen and puffy,” I say, leaning against her.

  “Oh, Moll. You’ll be beautiful, even if you wear that.”

  We look at each other and laugh.

  “It’s pretty dull, huh?” I say.

  “Well, for a hot date with a hockey player, I think we can do better.”