by G. K. Brady
Mandy’s reaction did do one thing for him, though. It told him Ellie Hendricks might not run screaming for the hills when she saw him, and maybe she would tolerate being with him for the time it would take to get her car. So there was that.
Sonoma was staring at him pointedly in the mirror, her lips twitching as though fighting a sneer.
He darted his gaze to Mandy. “Uh, thanks, but I’ve got plans.” Eating a shit ton of popcorn, parking my ass on the couch, and watching hours of hockey and cooking shows. Alone. Her face crumpled, and guilt had him foolishly adding, “Maybe some other time?”
That lifted her expression. Probably too much. Damn. He was too rusty to play this game skillfully.
“I need to lock up, Mandy, so now would be a good time for you to finish whatever you’re doing,” Sonoma practically growled.
Mandy finally left—after sliding Dave a few more dirty smiles—and he stuck around to be sure Sonoma got out safely. Truth was he wasn’t in a hurry to return to his empty house.
“Why’d you hire Mandy if you don’t like her?” he asked.
Sonoma sighed as she dumped a final dustpan of hair into the trash. “I needed to rent the station, and she didn’t show her true man-crazy colors until after I’d brought her on.”
“She comes on to your male clients?”
She laughed. “Some. With you, though, she’s way over the top. Don’t let it go to your head.”
“No need to worry your pretty red curls over it. She’s not my type.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. Too eager? I prefer to do my own chasing.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “What is your type anyway?”
He blanked for a few beats. That question used to have a stock answer—any girl that looked like Nicole—but lately, things had grown surprisingly fuzzy. “I have no idea. Low maintenance?” That would be a change.
With a hip bump and a smile, she said, “Guess you should figure that out, huh?”
“Nah. Not planning on doing any chasing anytime soon.”
After he saw Sonoma to her car, he strolled back to his GTO—in Silver Cloud Gray—glancing at Landscaping with Altitude. The interior was dark, and an unexpected breath of relief left him. Had Ellie still been inside, he would have felt compelled to hang out until she was safely away.
Why did it matter? Because he’d been raised that way, that’s why. And there was nothing else to it.
Ellie was five blocks from home when she picked up Finn’s incoming call. “What happened to your hot date? Your seven-thirty sesh and your whatever other time it was?” she teased.
“Jealous I had a date when you haven’t in, what, the last twelve months?”
“Eight,” she growled. Yeah, he’d hit a nerve. “So was this with someone I know?”
“Keira.”
“Thought you guys broke up?”
“We did.”
“Ah. A booty call, then.” God, what Ellie wouldn’t give for a booty call … from practically anyone. At this point, she wasn’t picky, as long as he was clean and normal and smelled good and would leave her bed when they were done so she didn’t have to deal with the awkward morning-after eggshell dance. She was such a bad dancer.
“Maybe. We’ll see,” Finn evaded. “So tell me about Dave Grimson!”
“Yeah, what’s up with that? You went all fangirl on me. Is he someone you know?”
“If he’s who I think he is, he’s the captain of the Colorado Blizzard hockey team.”
“And this is gush-worthy why?”
“Dude’s a beast! That’s why they call him the Grim Reaper.”
Ellie quelled her fresh surge of horror. “As in the dementor who carries a scythe?” What the hell have I gotten myself into? Though he’d had a mouth full of teeth this evening, the image of Dave Grimson’s gap-toothed face—which reminded her of a jack-o-lantern sporting a mountain man beard—was stuck in her head. Yeah, that. So not appealing. Maybe she wouldn’t take a booty call from just anyone, not that she’d considered one from him in the first place. Although, Casper had recognized something likable in the guy. Then again, Casper was easy.
Ellie checked her snoozing dog in the rearview mirror. “I’m not so sure this is the same guy, Finn. He looks like he’s straight out of a wilderness reality show. He probably pounds his chest and howls, spears fish with sharp sticks, and skins bears—with his teeth. If he had teeth, that is.”
“Sounds like the Grim Reaper.”
“Well, you can find out for yourself on Monday. He wants to take me car-shopping and told me to bring you along for protection.” And because he might just have a crush on you. She stifled a snicker.
“The guy you’re describing sounds like the same Dave Grimson, but I still don’t know why he was there or why you felt threatened. Was it a case of stranger danger?”
“No, because he wasn’t a stranger. He’s the guy who totaled my van, thank you very much, and he’s been cruising by the office the last few days.”
“Say what? El, what’ve you been smoking?”
“I’m serious as a swarm of locusts, Finn! He says he feels bad about the wreck and wants to personally replace my car and that he was getting up the nerve to approach me.”
Finn laughed. “Whether he’s the hockey player or not—and I doubt he is, or he wouldn’t be shy—this sounds too good to pass up. Yeah, I’m totally in. Just tell me when and where. I’ll be there with bells on.”
Something about this ridiculous situation had Ellie’s lips quirking. She found herself looking forward to Monday.
A mostly full beer bottle and a jumbo bowl of popcorn propped beside him, TV tuned to hockey, Dave lounged on his leather couch, scrolling through his iPad, marking vehicles and dealerships to check out on Monday. A good couple of days were headed his way. His team would be back for a two-game homestand, the trainer declared him day-by-day for play, and he was car-shopping. What was not to like?
His phone pinged as if on cue. Nicky, confirming a time to drop off Benny. Okay, so there was one thing he wasn’t looking forward to, but it would be over with quickly. And if he had a few more beers—maybe another shot of whiskey—he could dull the thought entirely tonight.
Morning came, and he was returning home from his run when a familiar Lexus SUV pulled up in front of his garage. Familiar because he’d bought it. Long, lean legs in tight jeans and spiked boots swung from the driver’s side. The heels clicked when they hit the pavement. Next came a tumble of white-blond hair and a face that would have been beautiful if not for the scorn etched in its feminine features.
“I can’t believe you made me bring him at the ass crack of dawn,” Nicky grumbled.
Absently, his hand moved to tug a beard that wasn’t there. How long before he was cured of that habit?
“Good morning to you too,” he snorted.
She peeled off her sunglasses—it wasn’t even light yet—and settled narrowed eyes on him. Those eyes widened. “What happened to you?”
“Uh, I’ve been running?”
“No, I mean your beard. Your hair.” She swept her sunglasses up and down.
“I finally gave in to Sonoma’s nagging.”
One side of Nicky’s mouth curled up—not in a smirk, but in a rare smile of appreciation. “Well, it’s an improvement.”
Really? Thought you liked the other look. “Thanks?”
Her eyes flashed. “You must be seeing someone.”
“Because I got my hair and beard cut?
Benny saved him from further uncomfortable conversation by bounding from the SUV and crashing into his leg. Dave ruffled the dog’s neck and let him rub himself against him. “Good to see you too, boy. Miss me?”
Dave loved this damn dog. He had found it—or had it found him?—as a stray when he and Nicky first got together. While it had ripped his heart out to let him go, he figured Benny would be good for Isaac. Now he wasn’t so sure that had been the wisest decision.
“How’s Isaa
c?” Dave peered through the windshield, but the boy wasn’t in the vehicle.
“At home, asleep.”
Isn’t he a little young to be left alone? None of his business anymore. Before Dave could follow up on his original question, Benny nearly took out his knees. Dave corralled his collar. “Sit.” The dog did. Dave patted his head. “Good boy.”
“How do you get him to do that?” Nicky let out a little puff of disgust. “He won’t listen to me.”
Nope, Dave wasn’t going down this road. They’d argued way too many times about consistency in discipline—canine and human—with Nicky usually flipping him off, metaphorically speaking, and going about it whichever way suited her.
“Anytime you want to give him up …” He put it out there. Again.
She shook her head. No, of course she wouldn’t give him up. He was too handy to hang over Dave’s head.
“So where are you guys going?” Why was he asking? He was only setting himself up for a letdown. Nicky hadn’t wasted a moment getting back out in the dating pool looking for the Mr. Right that wasn’t Dave, and these weekend jaunts were usually with some guy. He never knew if it was the same guy or a random each time. And there was squat he could do about it. Not that he cared who the fuck she spent time with, but did she have to drag Isaac along too? The poor kid probably had whiplash, being shuttled between his dad and Nicky’s man-toys. A few times she’d left Benny and Isaac with Dave, but she hadn’t “appreciated Isaac’s attitude” when she’d brought him home. Too much testosterone throwing its weight around, or some bullshit like that. Christ! Did that mean when Isaac stayed with his father, there wasn’t testosterone? No way. Dave knew better after having been around the douche one too many times.
“Aspen—in a private jet.”
“Nice.” Why had she dangled the bit about the jet? So he’d know the dude had bucks, no doubt. Nicky and her head games. “Welp, have a good time. C’mon, Ben.”
He began punching in his garage code and stopped cold when she said, “Don’t I even get a hug?”
He turned slowly. Now she wanted a hug? What the hell was going on with her? “I didn’t know we hugged anymore.” She hadn’t moved from the driver’s side door. If she wants a hug that damn bad, the least she can do is get her ass over here.
She fluttered her hand at him. “Never mind.” And just like that, she was behind the wheel, surging the car forward, looking madder than a cat getting a bath, and leaving him to wonder—again—what the hell he’d done wrong.
Chapter 7
Hockey Is a Contact Sport
"Sorry, Grims. You’re not ready yet.”
“What? You gotta fucking be kidding me! My hand’s fine!” Dave’s temper zoomed upward even as his hopes bottomed out.
The trainer shook his head. “No, it’s not. You’ve got to rest it and let it heal.”
Dave opened his mouth to argue, but Coach LeBrun walked into the room and gave the trainer a chin lift. “So?”
“Sorry, Coach. Like I was just telling Grims, the hand’s not ready yet.” The trainer darted rabbit eyes between Coach and Dave. “Maybe next game.”
Next game, my ass! How the hell is Herb supposed to shop my ass if it’s parked?
Dave rocketed to his feet, anger flowing like heat through his veins.
Coach arched his eyebrows, his eyes on Dave while he spoke to the trainer. “And practice?”
“I don’t recommend it. He can skate—in fact, he should skate—maybe tap a few pucks, but absolutely no contact.”
Coach nodded and turned to leave but stopped and glanced over his shoulder. “Go ahead and suit up for morning skate, maybe help out on a few drills. Tonight you’re watching from the suite.”
Dave gritted his teeth and gave Coach a curt head bob before heading for the locker room. Damn pussy trainers! Two years ago, his trainer, Bobby, would have cleared him for play—after giving him the juice and painkillers he needed—and he wouldn’t have missed a beat. And the hand would’ve healed up in no time, unlike now, when it was taking for-fucking-ever. But Bobby had been canned, and now they were overly cautious. Like he was some fucking piece of glass that would break with a sneeze. Christ, he really missed Bobby.
By the time Dave hit the ice, he was so fired up that he flew around its slick surface as if someone had added wings to his skates.
“Watch out! Grim Reaper thinks he’s got wheels. He’s a collision waiting to happen,” yelled Quinn Hadley, their first-line left winger. Quinn was one of a handful of guys who treated Dave as if he weren’t a leper, or worse, the team outcast. In other words, he treated him normally.
“It’s because he finally molted and isn’t carrying around a fuck ton of fur,” chortled Wyatt Tompkins, the team’s number-one goalie and reigning manwhore. Quinn had turned in his manwhore crown when he’d fallen for Sarah, Gage Nelson’s “off-limits” sister. The team’s only other overachieving womanizer, Hunter McMurphy, had been traded during the off-season. And thank God because, while he’d been a good player, his presence in the locker room had been pure poison. Sometimes guys fit in and gelled, and sometimes they didn’t. Hunter had been in the latter category from day one. It occurred to Dave that maybe that role had shifted to him, but he stuffed the disturbing thought away.
“Or maybe he finally got lucky and doesn’t have to haul around balls that weigh twenty pounds apiece. Even the Grim Reaper has to score once in a while.” Quinn barked a laugh at his own stupid joke. A puck whacked his shin pad, and he told his soon-to-be brother-in-law, Gage Nelson, what he could do with himself, followed by, “Stop fucking firing pucks at me, asshole!”
“Stop sleeping with my sister,” Gage shot back, a shit-eating grin plastered on his face, his words punctuated by another zinging puck. This had been an ongoing joke—mostly—since Quinn had snagged Sarah. A ballsy move, and if Nelson, who was also one of the alternate captains, would give Dave more than a passing grunt, Dave might have a better handle on what Nelson really thought and whether a potential clash was looming between the two that would fuck up team chemistry.
Dave slowed his skating, picking up bits and pieces of conversations as guys stretched, skated, or lobbed pucks at the net. The easy banter between the boys buoyed and saddened him at the same time. Buoyed because a club in sync was not only crucial to winning it all, but it was a beautiful thing, and this club meshed. Mostly. And that’s what saddened him. He was an outsider looking in, the one puzzle piece that no longer snapped into place, and he needed to find that fit again. Until he got his trade, he’d have to figure out how to make it work with this bunch. Putting on a captain’s swagger wasn’t his style, and it sure as shit wouldn’t get him anywhere anyway. Quinn and Wyatt poking fun at him felt good, felt like he was one of them. Damn, but he missed that.
He glided up to the other alternate captain, T.J. Shanstrom, and tapped his boot with his stick. T.J. turned and gave him a chin-jerk greeting. Shanny was a bruising right-winger, and while Dave matched him pound for pound and inch for inch, he lacked T.J.’s nasty streak—which was why T.J. was the team’s enforcer. Since being traded to the team, though, T.J. was racking up points instead of penalty minutes.
Unlike Nelson, T.J. hadn’t been part of the “inner circle” that had witnessed Dave’s humiliating downfall firsthand, so things had remained cordial between them. Not exactly buddy-buddy, but T.J. usually didn’t shut him out. Dave would take whatever scraps he could get.
“Nice road wins by you and the boys,” Dave threw out. “Can’t beat that.”
“Yeah, it was a sweet trip,” T.J. agreed. “So you suiting up tonight?”
Dave shook his head and groused. “No. Trainer thinks my hand ‘needs to rest,’ like it’s some decrepit grandma. I think he needs glasses.”
“Too bad. We could use you out there, but the medical staff knows its shit.” With that, T.J. skated away.
Had there been an undercurrent of something in T.J.’s tone? Dave shoved away the prickly thought and pushed off for m
ore laps.
When he came off the ice, he was surprised to see a text from his old trainer, Bobby. Hear the hand’s been giving you trouble. Let me know if I can help with that.
Dave stared at the screen. Was the guy fucking serious? They’d been friends, so Bobby understood how much an injury like the hand was gnawing at Dave. He also understood how far his “help” could go in turning that injury around. They’d shared a hell of a lot of drinks blasting the NHL’s policy on the banned substances.
“If this shit can help an athlete, why do they ban them? It’s not like the stuff makes you crazy,” Dave had argued, and Bobby had agreed.
Except Dave’s withdrawals had made him “edgy,” as Nicky liked to describe it, but Bobby had told him it was all psychological. Yeah, they’d stayed in touch, though Dave had cut off the communication these last six months. Now as he looked at his phone, he was sorely tempted to ramp up that friendship again. The drug tests had been cut back after the first year, and Bobby’s shit would mean the difference between playing and not playing. With a sigh, he replied, No thanks, I’m good. But he cracked the door open with, How’ve you been doing?
Hours later, he watched from the team’s suite in a different kind of suit, his stomach in one massive knot, his parched throat aching for a shot of whiskey and a beer chaser to slide down and soothe it. What he wouldn’t give to trade the coat and tie for his jersey and skates! Didn’t matter that he was surrounded by luxury and people waiting on him hand and foot. He wanted to be on the ice, helping out his team.
After fielding Herb’s call this afternoon, though, he was screwed six ways to Sunday.
“So they’re sitting you tonight? Are you a healthy scratch, or is this about the hand?” Herb had asked.
