by Elise Faber
Crashed
Gold Hockey#12
Elise Faber
CRASHED
BY ELISE FABER
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This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.
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CRASHED
Copyright © 2021 Elise Faber
Print ISBN-13: 978-1-63749-023-5
Ebook ISBN-13: 978-1-63749-022-8
Cover Art by Jena Brignola
Contents
Gold Cast of Characters
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Epilogue
Epilogue
Cycled
Newsletter
Gold Hockey Series
Gold Hockey
Gold Cast of Characters
Heroes and Heroines:
Brit Plantain (Blocked) — first female goalie in the NHL, loves boy bands
Stefan Barie (Blocked) — captain of the Gold
Sara Jetty (Backhand) — artist and figure skater
Mike Stewart (Backhand) —defenseman for the Gold, romance guru
Blane Hart (Boarding) — center for the Gold, number 22
Mandy Shallows (Boarding) — trainer and physical therapist
Max Montgomery (Benched) — defensemen for the Gold, giant nerd
Angelica Shallows (Benched) — engineer at RoboTech, also a giant nerd
Blue Anderson (Breakaway) — top forward in the league and for the Gold
Anna Hayes (Breakaway) — Max’s former nanny, no relation to Kevin Hayes
Rebecca Stravokraus (Breakout) — Gold publicist, makes killer brownies, known at PR-Rebecca
Kevin Hayes (Breakout) — forward for the Gold, no relation to Anna Hayes
Rebecca Hallbright (Checked) — nutritionist for the Gold, plethora of delicious vegan recipes, known as Nutrionist-Rebecca
Gabe Carter (Checked) — doctor, head trainer for the Gold
Calle Stevens (Coasting) — assistant coach for the Gold, former national team member
Coop Armstrong (Coasting) — talented forward on the Gold, addicted to historical romance audiobooks
Mia Caldwell (Centered) — 5th degree black belt, brings the snark
Liam Williamson (Centered) — Gold forward finding his love for the game, charming and pushy in equal measures
Charlotte Harris (Charging) — new Gold GM, hates losing and the game Chubby Bunny
Logan Walker (Charging) — defensemen for the Gold, skills include: cockiness and being able to buy presents that make Charlotte squirm
Dani Eastbrook (Caged) — video coach for the Gold, tech nerd, could fix your computer in a flash, shy
Ethan Korhonen (Caged) — forward for the Gold, killer power play skills, known as Big Juicy Brain
Fanny Douglas (Crashed) — silver medalist, skating coach for the Gold
Brandon Cunningham (Crashed) — brown curls, penchant for hallways, Kaydon Lewis’s agent
Devon Scott (Block & Tackle) — former player, current owner Prestige Media group
Becca Scott (Block & Tackle) — Devon’s assistant
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Additional Characters:
Bernard — head coach
Richie — equipment manager
Dan Plantain — Brit’s brother
Diane Barie — Stefan’s mom
Pierre Barie — Stefan’s dad, owner of the Gold
Spence — former goalie, married to Monique, daughter Mirabel
Monique — married to Spence, former model
Mirabel — daughter of Spence and Monique
Mitch — Sara’s boss
Allison and Sean — Blane’s parents
Pascal — Devon Scott’s security lead
Roger Shallows — Mandy’s dad
Grant and Megan — Devon’s parents
Chapter One
Fanny
Wine. Solitude.
The perfect duo.
Stephanie “Fanny” Douglas was well-used to both.
She’d been single for roughly . . . well, for roughly an eternity. (Eternity, in this case meaning, a decade). Which meant that she’d moved beyond lonely, beyond being concerned with how much wine she consumed in the evenings during the week—a bottle every other night—and on to enjoying the simple pleasures where she could.
Alone.
Just as she preferred.
Her cell buzzed, and she glanced down at the text from her friend, Dani, gasping when she saw the picture of the gleaming diamond ring on her finger. Then smiling. Because she’d helped Dani’s boyfriend—fiancé now, she supposed—pick out the exquisite piece of jewelry.
Sparkling. Huge. Perfect.
Exactly as Dani warranted.
Because Dani was one of the good ones, and she deserved the good that Ethan brought into her life. Luckily, Ethan recognized the gift he’d been given when her shy, lovely friend had opened herself up to his love, and he treated her with care.
So, Fanny didn’t have to kill him.
Off the ice, that was.
Off it, killing the built, six-foot-several inches, two-hundred-and-something-pound forward would be difficult for her five-foot-three, one-hundred-and-thirty-pound self. She was softer than her figure skating competition days—though she was still tough with a competitive streak that had never faded—but even more muscle wouldn’t give her the ability to take down the professional hockey player.
But that was okay. Because if he hurt her friend, she could always kill him on the ice.
Fanny was the skating coach for the Gold—having made the jump from the Gold’s AHL affiliate (minor league team) a few seasons before—and being part of a team that wasn’t new, and had won the Cup twice now in their short tenure, meant they had the resources to hire people like her. She’d been running her own skating company before the Gold had brought her on to the payroll with the Rush, and while she still ran her business (clinics, private lessons for NHLers and other professional hockey players during the off-season, and other classes throughout the year for everyone from beginners to those hoping to make the big leagues), her main priority was picking apart the guys’ skating skills and improving on everything from edge work to weight distribution.
She loved it.
The guys were awesome.
And being able to threaten them with extra skating drills meant that she was feared and revered in equal parts.
Exactly as she liked. Muhaha.
Her phone buzzed again—a collection of emojis that had Fanny grinning, and she typed out an enthusiastic response (with emojis a plenty), sent it, then set her cell on the counter, her smile fading, the joy she had for her friend dissipating like fog receding from over the Golden Gate. “Don’t go there, Fanny,” she murmured as she blinked rapidly, the memories pulling at the edges of her mind, threatening to claw her apart, to bring her back down into a place she’d barely survived the first time.
But it was hard not to go back there.
Years ago, she’d had what Dani now had. The fairy tale, the once upon a time. True love that had been tested and rebuilt stronger. A man who adored her. The diamond ring, the loving fiancé, the wonderful, effervescent hope for a future and a happily ever after.
But it had all been taken away. Seized for good, even though she’d fought so, so hard to keep hold of it.
Ripped from her as she’d tried on wedding dresses.
“Fate can be a real asshole sometimes,” she muttered, moving to the counter and setting down her wineglass—her big wineglass. She was most definitely happy for her friend because she wasn’t the kind of woman who wanted everyone else to be miserable just because her happy ending hadn’t worked out.
Shit happened.
Unfortunately, a heap of that shit of life had landed on her shoulders. Twice.
She opened the fridge, pulled out the stopper on her bottle of wine, and poured a generous splash into her glass.
And then—remembering the lovely diamond ring that had once sat on her own finger—she poured another long splash.
“Come on, Fan,” she murmured, knowing she was talking to herself, having an entire conversation with herself, in fact, and that wasn’t good. But also knowing that it was a desperate bid to snap her out of her memories, so she was going with it. “You’re going to change into pajamas,” she continued, “put on a face mask, and watch the Saw franchise until you forget all about failed romances and remember that you have a very fulfilling life.”
She paused, considered that.
Then nodded once, proud of her very sound plan.
Bringing her wine with her, since it was the first step of necessary oblivion (more wine first, gory horror flicks second), she made her way upstairs and into her bedroom, slipping into pajamas even though it was barely five in the evening.
Probably she should do something productive. Review tape of the guys, plan her next clinic, return emails from an inbox she never seemed to get ahead of nowadays.
But . . . she didn’t want to.
“Plan, Douglas,” she muttered. “Stick with the plan.”
Right.
Wine. Check. Pajamas. Check. Face mask. Next on the agenda.
She washed her face, reached for the very expensive jar, smeared on the cream, and then she belted on her robe, grabbed her glass, and headed back downstairs, plugging a food order into her cell for the fattiest, greasiest carb load she could find.
In forty-five minutes, she was going to be at a great place.
Nearing a heart attack.
But all the happier for it.
“Movie,” she whispered, cueing it up as she popped some popcorn—because if she was going for greasy and fatty, she needed that, too.
Pretty soon, she was on the couch, the slasher flick rolling, popcorn in her tummy, the buttery fingers of one hand gripping her wine, the other swiping fast and furious on TikTok while she giggled like a loon . . . and feeling so much better for it. There was no thought of unhappy endings, no heartbreak and pain.
Just actors on a screen playing a part. Just funny people making her laugh spouting about things she’d never even considered.
Plus, a nice buzz floating through her brain, softening the edges of the past, until she could almost pretend that she hadn’t ever had a diamond ring, or a fiancé, or a twice-broken heart. Just random dates from men who never lasted long, whose sole purpose was to keep the matchmakers of the Gold—because hockey players were the worst gossips and busybodies—at bay.
She wouldn’t think about the past, about Brandon—
The doorbell rang, just in the nick of time, chasing his name, the memories from her mind.
Thank God for that.
She paused the movie before jumping up and hurrying down the hall toward the front door, wine in one hand, still clutching her phone in the other, while doing her best to ignore the reminders of him that were chasing her like the hounds of hell. At least her food had arrived early. Stuffing her face would take her mind further off everything that had happened.
Fumbling with her cell, she flicked the lock, turned the handle, and pulled open the door, expecting to see a delivery person with a bag in hand.
Instead, she saw . . .
She blinked.
But . . . that was impossible.
The wine had gone to her head, because he could not be on her porch. She was hallucinating. That was it. Or drunk because the alcohol content of the pinot noir was higher than she’d expected. This was food, the delivery from—her eyes darted to her cell—Melissa, and that was all. A.L.L. All.
“Hey, baby.”
His voice was—God, it brushed along her nape, drifted down her spine, caressed her abdomen, reached inside her rib cage, and dug its claws into her heart, slicing deep.
“Brandon?” she whispered, all her denials of him flitting away as the figment of her imagination stepped forward, the shadows disappearing from his face.
“It’s me, Fan.” He swiped a finger down her face and lifted it to his nose, inhaling deeply, the pale pink clay mixture staining his skin. “Still the same,” he murmured, those claws digging deeper, goose bumps prickling to life on her arms, lifting the hairs there, causing her knees to tremble. “God, I missed this.” A beat. “God, I missed you.”
Her lips parted, every cell inside her waiting for his next words, knowing they would change everything.
“I remember,” he murmured. “I remember everything.”
Her buttery fingers spasmed, and she lost her hold on her wine.
The goblet fell to the porch. Glass shattered. Red splattered all over her bare feet. The shards glittered like malformed diamonds in the evening light.
“No,” she whispered, her breath catching. “Oh, no. Not again.”
The silence between them was terrible.
Almost as terrible as the clawed memories tearing into her, ripping everything open, making her remember—the diagnosis, the treatments, him being so sick, her at his side, the surgery, him looking at her blankly, not knowing her . . . and then the cancer coming back and going through that all over again.
Nausea twisted her stomach and she gagged, thinking for a moment the popcorn she’d consumed was going to make a reappearance.
She couldn’t.
She couldn’t go through that all again. She couldn’t have this man be the most important thing in her life and then lose him.
Not when she’d been so thoroughly broken after the second time.
“Fanny,” Brandon said, stepping toward her, cupping her jaw, and she gagged again. He’d touched her face, swiped off some of the mask, but she’d still been hoping he was some drunken apparition. She couldn’t pretend, not when she felt his fingers, slightly roughened at the tips, stroking along her throat, gently encircling her wrist. “Look at me, baby,” he said quietly. “Breathe. It’s okay.”
The soft command loosened the stranglehold on her abdomen, eased the queasiness.
She breathed.
She didn’t lose the popcorn.
“There you go,” he said, smoothing back her hair. “It’s okay.”
Fanny didn’t think that would be the case, not in any way, shape, or form. But still, she found herself leaning into him and when that wasn’t close enough, she started to step forward.
“No,” he said, slightly sharp, nudging her back, and she realized she’d nearly trodden over the shards of glass.
Her throat worked, tried for words.
Failed to summon those words.
“I . . . um . . .”
Fanny blinked at the strange voice, saw the girl with the paper bag of food. Ah, there was Melissa.
“I have a delivery for Stephanie?”
“That’s me,” Fan managed, and Brandon stepped back, took the bag from the girl, and plunked it into Fanny’s hands. “Thank you,” he said, tone polite but dismissive.
“Are you okay?” Melissa asked, looking between the two of
them, the broken glass on the porch. “Do you need me to . . .”
Fanny finally unfroze, mostly because Melissa was great.
She nodded at the girl, heart squeezing at the concern the other younger woman was displaying. Solidarity, and all that. “Thank you for asking,” she said, releasing a slow breath. “But I’m really okay.”
“You sure?”
Brandon stiffened as her eyes went from him to Fanny again. “I am.”
Melissa nodded, disappearing back down the driveway. Fanny heard the soft thunk of a door closing, the faint rumble of an engine starting up. A moment later, it was quiet again.
“Can I come in?”
Her pieced-together heart pulsed—hope and old pain all twining together, but she didn’t step back, didn’t invite him in. Not yet. Not—
“You remember . . . me? Us?” she asked, staring up into his deep brown eyes, trying to discern the truth. Because the last time she’d seen him, his long-term memory had been affected by the surgery that had saved his life. He had looked at her like she was a stranger.
“I remember.”
But for how long?
Because when she said she’d had her heart broken twice, she meant twice. First in their teens, when his memory had been affected—though it hadn’t been as bad, and they’d managed to help him remember after just a week. Then in their twenties, a seizure and car accident revealing the tumor was back, and while the surgery had gotten rid of the cancer, it had also taken all of the love he’d had for her.
“How?” she breathed.
His gaze flicked beyond her. “Can I come in?”
Fanny’s eyes slid closed. “Brandon,” she whispered.
“I remember,” he repeated.
