When he hung up the phone, an argument had ensued.
“You had better not be putting your life on hold because of me,” I had accused.
From where he was lying on the couch with Samson at his feet, he leveled a mock glare. “I am doing no such thing.”
I’d been sitting on his loveseat, so I picked up a throw pillow and tossed it at his head. He, of course, deftly caught it.
“I am not something fragile you have to look after 24 seven,” I pointed out.
“Never said you were,” he replied.
“So go out with your friends tonight,” I urged with a hard look. “I’ll be fine hanging here with Samson.”
He pondered that before he suggested, “Would you like to go out with us?”
I brightened at the idea. I love hanging out with Kane, and I would like to meet his teammates. Over the years, I have come to understand and appreciate the men are more than just coworkers. Professional hockey players are, in fact, brothers.
“I would love to go.”
Yet Kane is still fretting over me, as evidenced by the glances he continues to throw my way. I love him for it. As my best friend, I would expect no different. And it’s not even annoying to me that he’s doing it. It’s endearing.
But I want him to stop because I don’t like him being worried.
Reaching out, I lay my hand on his forearm that’s resting on the console. I ignore the surprised jerk at my touch. “Kane… You are my brother from another mother. I want to spend as much time with you as I can, and I would love to meet your cronies. Besides, I have all kinds of embarrassing stories about you that I can tell them.”
Kane pulls his arm out from under my hand, putting it on the steering wheel and leaning his left arm on the windowsill. A subtle move, but it seems he didn’t like my touch. I try not to let it hurt my feelings, and I have to wonder why my touch would bother him. We’ve always had a lightly affectionate friendship. If we were ever out strolling along together, we would often hook elbows. Never hold hands, because that would speak to a level of intimacy that wasn’t there. Although deep down, admittedly, there are times with Kane that I have wondered what we would be like to be together on that level.
It just never seemed to be in the cards for us, and we had to be happy and content with what we had.
Settling back in the passenger seat, I say, “Tell me who’s going to be out with us tonight?”
Kane launches into a short history. He’s a center on the second line for the Arizona Vengeance. Although new to the team, having just been traded at the end of last season, I was impressed with how well he fit into not only his team, but also with the men on his second line. They were the ones meeting us tonight.
Kane told me about Jim Steele, his left-winger, and one of the older players on the team. He filled me in on his recent separation, and how he’s sharing custody of their daughter, Lucy. He even told me that Jim had seen his wife, Ella, today when they were out at lunch, and it rattled him. In contrast, the right-winger, Jett Olsson, a brash young Swede, had come with the warning he would most likely hit on me. I don’t have a problem with that. I’m all for fun and harmless flirting.
Finally, one of his defensemen on the second line, Bain Hillridge, was joining us as well. An affable sort who seems to just get along with everyone, Kane explains the man shuns the fame that sort of goes with the job.
“What about your other defenseman?” I ask. There would be another on the line.
Kane shrugs. “We haven’t met him yet. His name is Riggs Nadeau. He was traded to our team just this summer. I’ll meet him at training camp next week, but he’s got a bit of a reputation.”
“Like how?”
“Just that he’s a bit prickly and hard to get to know. We’ll try to find some common ground to make sure he fits in with us. Maybe next week I’ll invite him over to dinner to try to get to know him a little better.”
“I can make my famous tofu fajitas,” I suggest with a waggle of my eyebrows.
Kane’s head whips my way. “Will you be here next week?”
I throw it right back at him. “Do you want me here next week?”
He reaches across the console, switching hands on the steering wheel, and takes my hand in his. I’m the one who jerks from the contact this time, and he squeezes me. “Mollie… You can stay however long you want. I would love it if you stayed.”
His words touch me deeply. Next to my parents, he is the only person in this world I can count on for anything I might ever need or want.
“Now,” he drawls with a stern look. “There is no way in hell you are making tofu fajitas. I want the guy to like me, not hate me.”
We both laugh, and I promise I will make something acceptably edible for the hulking hockey players.
The Sneaky Saguaro is a pretty cool restaurant/bar Kane told me has become the official hangout of the Arizona Vengeance. It’s known for having practically every beer on tap imaginable and great Tex-Mex food. Amazingly, it has a live, towering saguaro cactus planted smack dab in the middle of the restaurant that extends upwards toward the second floor.
I’m no stranger to the fame that comes with a professional hockey player. I have been out with Kane on numerous occasions when he played with his other teams, and I’m well prepared for the people who flock to him wanting autographs and pictures. Given that the Vengeance just won the Cup championship, the crowds are even more dense the minute we walk in. I patiently wait as he attends to his fans, then he takes my hand in his to lead me up to the second floor where his friends Jim, Jett, and Bain are waiting for him at a table.
I’m not sure what it is about hockey players, but they are seemingly all ruggedly good-looking. He introduces me first to Jim, who is clearly the eldest of the group. He has dark brown hair and equally dark brown eyes but a classically handsome face. When he shakes my hand, he gives me a warm smile.
Bain greets me with a hug. It’s short with a quick release, and I can bet a million bucks he has no problem getting women. As a defenseman, he’s enormous, probably topping out close to six foot seven. He has shaggy blond hair that comes almost to his shoulders and light brown eyes. His best feature, though, by far, are the dimples on each side of his mouth when he smiles.
Lastly, I’m introduced to Jett Olsson. I immediately dub him the Casanova of the group. There is no handshake or friendly hug. Instead, he takes my hand and brings it up to graze his lips across my knuckles. He’s the typical Swede with light blond hair, which he wears cropped short, and the most amazing light blue eyes I have ever seen.
“Kane didn’t tell us how gorgeous you were, Mollie,” he murmurs, voice made ten times sexier by his faint accent.
Before I can even respond, Kane says, “Just shut it, Jett. She’s far too smart to fall for your crap.”
Tilting my head up to Kane, I give him a coy smile. “Oh, I don’t know. I don’t know a woman in the world who doesn’t mind being called beautiful.”
Jett gallantly tucks my hand into the crook of his elbow, then motions toward the table. “Then come sit near me. I’ll keep your ears filled with sweet nothings all night.”
I snicker, glancing back at Kane. He opens his mouth, poking his finger in repetitively to mimic vomiting. Jim and Bain laugh, and we all move to take seats around the table. Jett, of course, pulls a chair out next to his. I gladly sit down. I’m up for some fun tonight and at the very least, I’m sure he’s going to be entertaining.
A waitress materializes instantly—one of the perks of being with a bunch of famous hockey players—and Kane and I order beers, then open the menus to take a peek.
After our choices are made to give to the waitress when she returns, the men start peppering me with questions about the friendship I have with Kane. Whether he’s playing it up or not, Jett is especially attentive to me.
After they seem satisfied—as well as a bit mystified that Kane and I are indeed only the best of friends—they start drilling me about my occupation.
Like most folk
s who learn what I do for a living, they’re fascinated to learn about a woman who travels around the world in a van with her dog and nothing but her wits, confidence, and a little bit of luck to survive.
I answer most of their questions.
“How do you afford to do this?”
Sponsors. Lots of generous sponsors who pay me money to mention their brands, as well as travel magazines I write for. I’ve become an influencer, and there’s good money in it. I have a nicely swollen retirement fund.
“How do you get your van overseas?”
I bore them with the details of international vehicle shipping carriers.
“How do you take Samson internationally?”
More boring details on health certificates, quarantine periods, and only choosing countries my buddy can go to with me. If Samson isn’t allowed, I don’t go.
It goes on and on before Kane takes over, whipping out his iPhone. After he pulls up my Instagram account, he starts showing them the photos of places I’ve traveled to over the years, pointing out some of his favorites.
I remain quiet as he does this, because, frankly, I get a little lost in the pride with which he talks about me. Such affection, admiration… I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve it, but it’s one of the reasons I’m so confident in everything I do.
I have Kane, who believes in me wholeheartedly.
There’s no lack of conversation as the evening wears on. We feast on some fantastic food while drinking enough beers to ensure an Uber ride home. And I learn a lot about the men of the Vengeance second line. Each is easygoing, fun, and respectful. Kane relaxes, realizing I’m not obsessively haunted by my scary experience in North Carolina. Several times, I catch him staring with a fond smile when I laugh or say something silly.
The only time it slips is when the dancing starts. Country music blares while people dance a two-step around the perimeter of the second floor. Kane and I have certainly danced on occasion—usually after some heavy partying at a night club—but he’s never the one who asks.
But Jett does. Because I’m buzzed, feeling alive and free, I accept.
As Jett leads me from the table, I see Kane’s expression. His smile is gone.
It’s just him being overprotective, I’m sure, but he has to know I can take care of myself. I can’t let him get too focused on me with what happened with Matthew. He can’t become my self-appointed guardian. Besides, who could I possibly be safer with than a trusted teammate? I make a note to talk to him tomorrow about it, maybe over a big breakfast, to reassure him that I’m fine and he has no need to worry about me like that.
The dance with Jett is fun. What I learned over the past hour and a half is he’s more than just a pretty face. Yes, there was flirtation, but it went both ways. We shared a lot of laughs, as did the whole table. But he’s also a man of substance. Jett was the one asking the most questions about what I did for a living. He was positively fascinated by it, and it seemed to stem from his inherent love of travel. He told me that during the hockey off-season, he travels to at least two or three countries he’s never been to before.
Jett circles me one time around the second-floor perimeter. Because the song is still cranking, we move past our table to take another loop.
His grip on me is light—one at my waist, the other on my shoulder. I’ve two-stepped a lot in my life. I can’t even count the number of honky-tonk bars I’ve visited in my travels. I’m surprised Jett is so adept, but I’m thinking he must spend a lot of time here dancing with girls.
“Mollie,” he says as he spins me until I’m the one dancing backward, “any chance you’d let me take you out to dinner?”
While I haven’t talked about my plans with Kane yet, his open-ended offer to let me stay with him appeals to me. I’m not ready to go home to my parents with my tail between my legs. My mom will just be overbearing in her worry, and I’m sure as shit not ready to get back on the road again. I want to stay here for a while—sort of have a vacation where I have no obligations or worries.
As such, I don’t have any doubts with answering, “I’d love that. Sounds fun.”
“Will your watchdog let you out?” he asks with a mischievous grin, jerking his chin in the direction of our table to point out Kane.
“Kane is my friend, not my watchdog. Plus, he has no say in what I do.”
“But he’s still protective of you,” he points out.
And sure… of course he is. Kane was like that all through college. He’s like that when we go out, even as adults set in our careers. He watches over me.
“Doesn’t he trust you?” I query.
“I should hope so,” he replies.
“Then, let’s not worry about it.” I smile, charmed at scoring a date with this very cute Swede. I resolve to have fun while in Phoenix.
And if Kane has a problem with it, then we’ll just have to talk it through like we usually do.
“Tomorrow night?” Jett proposes, apparently not wanting to waste the opportunity.
“Sure,” I reply easily. It’s not like I have any formal plans from this point forward.
CHAPTER 6
Kane
Until this moment, I never knew how small my downtown apartment is. It’s touted as being spacious, but when I’m pacing back and forth with long legs, the fact that it takes me five strides to reach end to end tells me it’s not enough room. Perhaps I should consider buying a house.
I glance down at my watch. 11:53 PM. There’s no way in hell Mollie shouldn’t be back from her date with Jett by now.
After all, she said they were just going out to dinner.
Jett had picked her up at six-thirty for reservations at seven. By my mental calculations, even a two-hour dinner means they should have been back long before now.
I could call her to find out what’s taking so long. That would be bananas, at least as far as Mollie would think. I’m not her keeper, and I know very well that I have no say-so in what Mollie does in her personal life.
I could send a casual text. Something along the lines of, “Hey… I was thinking of making a late-night banana sundae. If you were going to be home soon, I could make you one as well.”
That was casual. The fact I’m talking about ice cream makes it an effective way to offhandedly ask when she’ll be coming home. We have melting to consider.
While I hold no ill feelings toward Mollie, I’m pissed as hell Jett even asked her out. I’d wanted to call him on it as soon as I found out about their plans. We were actually on the way home from The Sneaky Saguaro when she just happened to mention, “Oh, by the way, Jett’s taking me out for dinner tomorrow night.”
Mollie didn’t even ask if it was all right. She also didn’t stop to think if I might object.
Okay, well… She shouldn’t have to do either of those things. Frankly, my opinion doesn’t matter.
Except to me, apparently.
And I have no fucking clue why I am so bent out of shape. Sure, Jett is an absolute playboy who has banged a lot of chicks. But when it comes right down to it, I trust him. As my teammate and friend, I believe he will be respectful of Mollie. He would never do anything to cross a boundary she wouldn’t be amenable to. So that can’t be my objection.
Unless Mollie is amenable to him crossing that boundary.
They could be at Jett’s place right now having sex for all I know.
And that’s the thought that makes me want to punch my fist right through the drywall. My anger at Jett gets renewed because he’s easier to blame than Mollie. He should know better than to ask my best friend out. It’s like going after a best friend’s little sister, except, well… Mollie isn’t my sister. She’s a friend.
I mean, she’s as close as a sister.
But fuck… I sure as hell don’t feel like her brother half the time. Vivid memories swamp my brain, reminding me that we had sex for God’s sake. Scorching, fabulously explosive sex that was not at all brotherly or sisterly.
Christ… I am so fucked over
these feelings.
The sound of a key scraping in my front door lock catches my attention and I spin midstride toward my kitchen to face the door. Mollie has a spare key so she could come and go as she pleased.
For a moment, I consider bolting for my bedroom so she doesn’t know I’ve been waiting up for her. I glance over at where Samson lays on my couch—something I gave up trying to break him of the first day they arrived—and note his head is cocked to the side with his eyes lasered on the door to see who’s coming in. By the slow thump of his tail on the cushion, I know he suspects it’s his mom.
Decision made, I scramble over the couch and plop down beside Samson, then loop my arm over him.
The door lock clicks, and Mollie steps through. There is no backward glance to the hallway, which tells me Jett isn’t there.
Or he’s already left after giving her a thoroughly hot kiss goodnight.
I shake my head, dispelling that thought.
Mollie closes the door, then turns to face me. Samson abandons his post at my side, running over to greet her. She bends over and ruffles her fingers through his fur, cooing about what a good boy he is. She looks up with a smile. “What are you doing up?”
I certainly can’t tell her, “Oh, just pacing with worry and an overload of emotionally fraught feelings about you.”
Instead, I shrug and say, “I was just surfing my phone. Samson and I have been hanging out.”
“When was the last time Samson went out?” Mollie asks.
“I took him about an hour ago,” I reply as I push off the couch. “He should be good.”
Mollie throws me an appreciative smile before heading toward my kitchen. I follow her in, watching as she pulls a bottle of water out of my fridge. It means she drank alcohol tonight. While she doesn’t appear drunk, or even buzzed, Mollie is habitual about drinking water before she goes to bed after even a glass of wine.
After a few moments, it’s clear she’s not going to tell me about her date, so I take it upon myself to appear casually curious—not nosy. “So, how was it?”
Mollie lowers the bottle, leaning against the counter. “He’s a great guy. I like him.”
Kane Page 4
