by G. K. Brady
Also by G.K. Brady
The Playmakers Series
Book One - Taming Beckett
Book Two - Third Man In
Book Three - Gauging the Player
Book Four - The Winning Score
Book Six - No Touch Zone
Book Seven - Twisted Wrister
Historical Fiction
The Heart of a Hussar (Book 1 of 2)
A Hussar's Promise (Book 2 of 2)
Defending the Reaper
Book Five in The Playmakers Series
G.K. Brady
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Copyright © 2020 by G.K. Brady.
All rights reserved
Trefoil Publishing
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
ISBN 978-1-7354558-8-4
Cover design by Jenny Quinlan, Historical Editorial
Edited by Jenny Quinlan, Historical Editorial
Proofread by HippoCampus Publishing
Printed in the United States of America
Contents
Contents
Dedication
Chapter 1…One Way to Meet Hot Chicks
Chapter 2…Let's Get It Started!
Chapter 3…No Girls Allowed in My Man Cave
Chapter 4…Howdy Ho, Neighbor
Chapter 5…Wookiees Have Feelings Too
Chapter 6…Manscaping Design
Chapter 7…Hockey Is a Contact Sport
Chapter 8…Have I Got a Beauty for You!
Chapter 9…Why Won’t Yoda Stop Talking?
Chapter 10…Of Nefarious Soccer Mom Vans
Chapter 11…Queen of Glam
Chapter 12…Aliens Hijacked My Brain
Chapter 13…A Quiet Dinner for Seven
Chapter 14…Wookiees on Ice
Chapter 15…Brain Scramble
Chapter 16…Of Turkeys and Spangles
Chapter17…Attack of the Warm Fuzzies
Chapter 18…Hidden Agendas
Chapter 19…Elvis Says It Best
Chapter 20…Carrie Underwood, Eat Your Heart Out
Chapter 21…Courtesy Turn
Chapter 22…Do Not Watch His Hips
Chapter 23…I Think You’re on My Side
Chapter 24…Is That a T-Bone or Are You Just Happy to See Me?
Chapter 25…Yoda Has Left the Building
Chapter 26…The Casual Player and Other Delusions
Chapter 27…Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy
Chapter 28…Distractions
Chapter 29…Playing House
Chapter 30…Overthinking Can Lead to Dumbassery
Chapter 31…Your Signals Are Unreadable in the Fog
Chapter 32…The Skating Santa
Chapter 33…Guilt and Gifts
Chapter 34…On the Road Again
Chapter 35…Tug of War
Chapter 36…The Wicked Witch Carries Prada
Chapter 37…When Chickens Come Home to Roost
Chapter 38…No Pining Allowed
Chapter 39…Can’t See the Ice for the Hockey Sticks
Chapter 40…Grim Redemption
Chapter 41…Only the Beginning
Acknowledgments
Also by this Author
About the Author
Dedication
To my readers, who not only read what I write but who inspire me to keep at it. I thank you from the bottom of my heart.
Chapter 1
One Way to Meet Hot Chicks
Dave Grimson propelled himself through the arena’s corridors as though fire licked at his feet, eyes focused forward, veiled behind a curtain of vivid red, his jaw muscles bunched by fury. Christ, he was sick of the damn coaches barking out his mistakes in front of everyone! The season had just started, and he was back under the microscope, facing their recriminations, suspicions, and aspersions. Their endless drug tests. And most of his teammates were no better. He’d been their captain for ten years. Ten years! The C he wore on his sweater was a joke because he was captain of squat. One slip-up and he was persona non grata. Where the hell was the loyalty? How many of those fuckers had he gone to battle for? He’d lay odds that a good chunk of them had committed the same sin he had. They just hadn’t gotten caught.
When the hell would this stop? How much more could he take before he said, Fuck it! and walked away?
Quit while you’re still on top of your game, old man. Keep your dignity intact. Don’t be that guy. Except he wasn’t on top of his game, no matter that he’d kept up a grueling training schedule throughout the off-season. Never mind that he’d been forced onto the IR though he hadn’t been injured—killing his perfect iron man streak—or that when they’d let him return from his bogus IR stint, he had been injured when he’d broken his hand in last season’s finals. And by some cosmic fluke, he’d re-broken the hand during practice when he crashed into the boards at an awkward angle. How jacked-up was that?
Daylight brightened the end of the tunnel, and he emerged in the clear, crisp air of a late Colorado fall morning. The chill did little to cool the heat percolating in his veins.
He stalked to his gleaming midnight-blue Aston Martin DBX, barely registering slamming his gear bag in the cargo space or banging the door shut once he’d slid behind the wheel. In autopilot mode, he switched on the ignition and raced from the parking lot, his mind grinding away at everything that was wrong in his life.
The voice of reason was straining to be heard, but his pissed-off self was in control and shouted it down, ready to holler its indignations from the rooftops.
Rubbing more salt into the wound had been the team owner’s douche of a son, Travis, who’d taunted him from the stands. “I hear hand-to-eye is the first thing to go, Grims.” Fucker! At thirty-two, Dave might have a few years on Travis, but Travis had nothing on Dave’s hockey smarts or skills. But he couldn’t say a damn thing to the entitled son of a bitch, so he’d swallowed his mad—even when Travis had warbled, “And he’s buying his steroids at seven,” to the tune of “Stairway to Heaven.” Yeah, that had pushed his self-control to the screaming limit.
An intersection came up quicker than he anticipated, and he took the corner a little too hot so he could beat a red light. A guy who’d taken a step into the crosswalk jumped back on the curb and flipped him off.
“Watch where you’re going!” Dave yelled, even though no one could hear him. What the hell is wrong with people?
Today was supposed to be have been a good day—a rarity lately—but only an hour in, Nicole had derailed it. One of her best talents. Dave pounded his good palm against the steering wheel as he recalled her phone call first thing this morning. She’d laid an excessive guilt trip on him about taking Benny for a few days and about everything wrong in her world, as if he was supposed to run and fix it. She’d lost that privilege when she’d dumped him a year ago to look for “something better”—translation: someon
e better—so why the hell did she keep jerking his leash? And why the hell did he let her? Guilt. A powerful emotion with the ability to obscure the solidest logic. He needed a do-over in the worst way. A clean slate.
A moment of clarity struck. Maybe he should walk away. Not from the game he loved, but from the city that had soured on him, along with everyone in it. He could make a clean break, start fresh with a new team.
He punched in his agent’s number. After two rings, the guy picked up.
“Mr. Grimson. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Hi, Herb. I need you to shop me to another team.”
The silence on the other end lasted several beats. Then there was a huge intake of air. “Any particular team?”
“No. I don’t care. As long as I’m out of Denver.”
“How about Ottawa? They’re always looking for talent, but they’re also an eternal cellar-dweller.”
Shit. It’s really cold in Ottawa. And the team does suck. “Maybe not my top choice—if I have a choice—but I don’t care. Just get me the hell out of Denver.”
Herb spent a few minutes trying to schmooze Dave off the ledge, pointing out truths, like how beloved Dave was for his tireless community work, which just pissed Dave off even more. “I’m asking—no, demanding—a trade. It’s time for a change. I am done with this city.”
“Are you clean?”
“Yes,” Dave hissed, “and I’ve got a fuck ton of test results to prove it.” Damn it! Why do I keep having to defend myself?
“All right,” Herb sighed dramatically. “I’ll put the feelers out. How’s the hand?”
“Good as new.”
Another pause, which told Dave Herb wasn’t swallowing the lie. “Son, will you take a piece of advice?”
Dave let out a sarcastic chuckle. “Do I have a choice?”
“You always have a choice. But consider this: you’ve been a huge part of that community for a long time, and no matter what you think, people there love you. You’ll be starting from scratch wherever you land. I just think it wouldn’t hurt to take a few deep breaths and mull over whether a trade is really going to solve your problems.”
Your problems. As if Dave had brought all of this on himself. “I’ll do that, but in the meantime, I expect you to be looking at every single team that needs a defenseman.”
Dave hung up and muttered to himself. “Your problems. Christ, even my agent doesn’t believe in me. What the hell is wrong with everybody?”
A deafening squeal cut off his thought, the sound reminiscent of a Jurassic Park monster scraping its claws down a blackboard. Time slowed. He had the sense of a horn honking, a skidding car, smoke pouring from tires. Then came the sickening screech of twisting metal. His vehicle was moving, out of his control, pushing another car across an intersection.
Shit, shit, shit!
Stop, stop, please stop!
The front of his Aston Martin pile-drove the other vehicle into a light post. The impact juddered through the steering wheel, traveling up his wrists, his arms, jarring his shoulders. Everything went still. A breathless instant passed.
Stunned, he stared through his cracked windshield at the car he’d hit, now a mess of groaning gray metal. His heart threw itself against his rib cage, over and over, like a trapped animal trying to escape. His breathing came in ragged gasps, as if he’d quadrupled his shift on the ice.
Then he was moving, unbuckling, throwing his door open, racing for the other driver’s door. It creaked open just as he reached it, and a woman fighting an air bag staggered out. He reached out to steady her and was met by eyes that shot flares at him.
“You just blew through a red light without even slowing down!” she screamed. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
Then she was on the attack, storming at him, shoving at his chest until his back bumped against his SUV. At least a head shorter than his six-foot-three frame, she was no physical threat, but he held his hands up in surrender.
“Are you all right?” he panted.
“Do I look all right?” Her volume skyrocketed. “You T-boned me! My van is totaled!”
Suddenly, they were swarmed by people buzzing in various tones of urgency. “I’m an EMT,” one announced.
The acrid smell of burned rubber stung Dave’s nose. Fluids leaked onto the pavement. The EMT was insisting the woman from the mangled car take a step back so he could check her out, then he shot Dave a cursory look over his shoulder.
He answered the EMT’s unasked question. “I’m okay.” The dude slid him a look, then nodded and turned back to the woman.
Hovering by the Aston’s wrinkled hood, Dave took in the other car. Crushed side panel with familiar, though unreadable, lettering clung drunkenly to a metal structure that reminded him of an accordion in places. Cockeyed tires. Broken windows. Behind the vehicle’s open tailgate, white flower petals decorated mounds of dark, rich soil amid a jumble of shattered pots. And boxes and boxes of … Christmas lights. The odd mixture had spilled from the back of the van onto the ground.
Yeah, he doubted anything was salvageable.
Steel bands constricted his chest, and his stomach rolled over. He raked his fingers through his thick, collar-length beard. Why hadn’t he paid attention? He’d been too busy wallowing in his pathetic pit of misery, that’s why.
I could have killed her!
Not much of a praying man anymore, he nonetheless broadcast a series of silent pleas that the other driver wasn’t hurt. Money could solve the broken van. It couldn’t, however, solve a broken body—a fact of which he was painfully too aware. While she didn’t appear to be broken, injury might be waiting to manifest itself. Trauma could be latent.
To the EMT, he said, “Should she be standing? What if she’s hurt?” But the guy ignored him—just like the other driver was ignoring the EMT’s efforts to assess her. Her overriding concern seemed to swing between her destroyed vehicle and Dave. Epic distress when her gaze landed on her wreck, and epic venom when it returned to him. He wanted to wither up and blow away. Pull Harry Potter’s invisibility cloak around himself and slink off.
Instead, he whipped out his phone and dialed 911. “I’ll take care of this,” he assured the woman, though exactly what he was assuring her of wasn’t yet crystal clear. She glowered at him, and he kept a wary eye on her while he reported the emergency. Suddenly, she turned to her vehicle, and all emotion and color drained from her face, leaving it a blank canvas. Then her body shuddered, and she wrapped her arms around herself. Panic welled inside him.
“I think she’s going into shock. Do something!” he snapped at no one and everyone.
An hour later, she was alert, having finally let the paramedics dispatched to the scene take a look. One of them seemed to be flirting with her, which Dave took as a good sign. The guy wouldn’t be chatting her up if she was injured, right? No. She’d have been driven off in the ambulance a while ago.
Dave studied her covertly—something about her was familiar. She sported khaki cargo pants, work boots, and a green sweatshirt with a logo that also looked familiar. Her ball cap was off, revealing long reddish-blond hair pulled into a tight ponytail on the crown of her head. The style, combined with the shape of her face and her light eyes, reminded him of Nicole, and he fought to separate the two in his mind’s eye. Shaking Nicky’s image was hard enough without living, breathing reminders in front of him, though maybe it explained why he thought he recognized the other driver.
The police officer who’d arrived on scene and interviewed him stood back and gave him an uninterested head-to-toe sweep.
“You Blizzard players get around.” Her voice was a flat monotone.
In the background, the scene had emptied. An accident investigator, who’d been measuring and photographing, packed up his gear. A tow truck driver tugged one of the straps securing the Aston Martin to the flatbed before hopping into the cab of the truck and pulling away. The pile of scrap metal that had once been the other driver’s van had been hauled a
way a while ago.
Dave gnawed his bottom lip. What had the officer meant? “Excuse me?”
She shook her head. “Never mind.”
“You a hockey fan?”
Her partner jabbed his thumb at her. “Die-hard. She wasn’t born in Canada, but she bleeds Canadian. Even knows the anthem by heart. And sings it. On duty.” He gave a dramatic eye-roll.
“There’s a special suite set aside at every game for military and law enforcement,” Dave blurted. “If you’re interested in coming to a game, you let me know, and I’ll make sure you and your family get in.”
“Are you trying to bribe me, Mr. Grimson?”
Bolts of electricity shot through him. Shit, he didn’t need to take another walk on the wrong side of legal. Horrified, he put up his hands in surrender for the second time that day. “No, no! I didn’t mean it like that.”
One corner of her mouth twitched, the only hint of emotion on her inscrutable face. “You have that kind of pull, huh?”
He shrugged, trying to calm his jumping nerves. “Sometimes.” All the time. It was his suite after all. Eight years ago, he’d bought it on his own dime. Few people knew, and he kept it that way. No reason to grandstand, especially since he got such a kick out of it—the act bordered on selfish.
Without answering, the policewoman dipped her head and made for her patrol car with her partner. Dave took the opportunity to steal another glance at the other driver. The paramedics were gone, and she stared at her phone as though it were a foreign object that had somehow landed in her hand.
Slowed by crushing guilt, he took tentative steps toward her. “So you’re okay?”
She raised her head. Slate-blue eyes narrowed and pierced his. “No thanks to you.”
He heaved out a breath. “I am so, so sorry. If I—”
Her hand flipped up in a stop-right-there-buster motion. “Mr. Grimson, I know you’re sorry. It doesn’t help right now.”
“You know who I am?” A modicum of pride ballooned in his chest. He didn’t normally play on his celebrity, preferring to fly under the radar, so the fact she recognized him—
