DIRTY SECRET: A Slayers Hockey Novel

by Mira Lyn Kelly

  George groans beside me.

  “What?” I look up, but all I see is Quinn O’Brian. He’s still wearing his suit from after the game, and he’s carrying a couple of coffees our way.

  “Hey, Natalie. How’s Greg?” he asks, eyes shifting between us as he holds out the steaming paper cups in offering.

  I thank him, grateful for the warmth in my hands even if the caffeine is probably a mistake. We talk for a minute about the doctors and what we’ve both heard, then he turns to George, who’s been studiously ignoring him since he walked up. “Don’t think we’ve met before. I’m Quinn.”

  Her eyes come up, hold for a beat, and then drop back to her phone. “Sure you’d remember if we had?”

  What the heck? Okay, yeah, George isn’t really into players, but she’s never rude. To anyone. But Quinn just shrugs it off with a sheepish grin. “My reputation that bad?”

  It is. And any other day, I might tease him about it, but after everything that’s happened, I don’t have it in me.

  George stares at him a moment. Doesn’t answer. Then gives my hand a squeeze. “Hey, give me a few minutes to call home before someone decides to track my phone and sees I’m at the hospital.”

  Quinn watches as she heads down the hall, his eyes lingering in a way that makes me wonder if what she said bothered him more than he let on. But then he clears his throat and gives me an uncertain look.

  “What?”

  “I’m not sure if this makes a difference, but uhh… Vassar is two doors down from your brother on the right.”

  Vaughn

  This is bullshit. I don’t need a fucking hospital.

  All I need is an ice bath and a fistful of ibuprofen.

  Easing off the hospital bed I don’t need to be in, I let out a careful breath and add some tape for my ribs to that list. Yeah, those fuckers are gonna hurt for a couple days, but it’s not like I’ve never played banged-up before.

  Baxter’s going to be out for a week, minimum. Sean’s got heart, but he wasn’t a first-line player even before the surgery. And no matter what he says to the press, he’s not one hundred percent.

  The door opens behind me, and I take another measured breath, ready to help this doctor see it’s time to send me home—except it’s not a doctor or a nurse or one of the guys the team sent over.

  “Allie.”

  Those big blue eyes rush over me, taking in the stitches above my ear and on my forearm, the bag of ice wrapped around my knee. I’m glad I’m wearing my sport shorts and a T-shirt instead of one of those gown things that make everyone look frail and fucking weak, because this girl looks like she’s had all she can take.

  “Are you okay?” she whispers, worry etched in every line of her face and filling her already red-rimmed eyes with tears I don’t think I can handle. But then the first one slips past her lashes and—fuck—I’m done.

  Crossing what’s a thankfully small room, I pull her into my side and wrap my arms around her. “I’m fine. Few stitches and a couple bruises. They’re just being careful.” Ruling out a concussion like Baxter’s and any significant damage that would keep me off the ice. “How’s your brother?”

  A little nod. “He’s okay. They’re doing some more tests, just to be safe.”

  I’m glad to hear it. The way Baxter went down tonight—that was rough.

  Natalie buries her face against my chest and I can feel her breath over my heart. I shouldn’t push it, take more than she means for me to have, but I can’t keep my hands from running over her hair and smoothing down her back. I can’t keep from touching her like she’s still mine.

  But if she were mine, I’d be pulling her up onto that shit hospital bed with me and holding her until she felt better.

  After a moment, she draws back, but just enough to get a look at me. Her fingers come up to feather over the skin near my stitches. “Does it hurt?”

  Yeah, but not the way she’s asking. The ache I can’t get past is all about her. “Not much.”

  She nods, and her touch trails lower, whispering over my jaw.

  Jesus, that feels good. Too good. I swallow roughly, my hand fisting at the small of her back so I don’t slide it into her hair. But she feels it and her eyes come back to mine.

  That look. Searching and uncertain. Vulnerable.

  Baby, don’t look at me like that.

  Her thumb skims the edge of my bottom lip, below the split. It’s soft and light and I feel it all the fucking way through me. It short-circuits my brain and jumpstarts that lifeless organ in the center of my chest.

  Catching her hand in mine, I tell myself it’s to stop that too-good touch before I do something we’ll both regret. Only once my fingers close around hers, the last thing I’m thinking about is pulling her away. Instead I rub my open mouth across the pad of her thumb, the sting from the cut blurring with the heaven of this not-quite-kiss.

  Her breath hitches and her lips part. Her eyes dropping to the point of contact between us—to where I’m drawing her hand down to my chest—then climbing back to my mouth as I move closer. Dip lower. Find that spot where our breath meets, warm and wet in a space that’s nearly gone.

  Knock, knock, knock…

  She jerks back from my hold as the dickhead I’ve been waiting to discharge me comes ambling in, nose in my chart, completely oblivious to the cockblock he just served up. But one look at Natalie’s too bright eyes and the way she’s hugging her arms around herself like she’s afraid she might come apart, and I know I should probably thank the guy.

  She wasn’t here because she missed me. She was here because she was worried about me. And maybe she needed a little comfort.

  Not some dick looking for the first opportunity to take advantage of her.

  I know it, and yet I can’t make myself look away from her long enough to meet the doctor’s eyes, because I’m still hoping I’ll see something that tells me I’m wrong. That even though I’m a fucking hockey player and I’m leaving, she wants me anyway.

  “Everything looks good, Mr. Vassar. We ought to have you out of here in the next few minutes.” He looks over at Natalie, a furrow digging between his brows. “Is this your ride home?”

  She shakes her head, backing toward the door. “No, I was just… checking in. I should see if Greg’s back. Glad you’re okay, Vaughn.”

  Chapter 21

  Vaughn

  I’d be an asshole if I wasn’t relieved to see Baxter at the practice rink this afternoon.

  But I’d be a liar if I said being first line these past two and a half weeks and having a bullshit-free locker room wasn’t fucking nice too. No glowers while suiting up. No conversations about Natalie I tell myself I don’t need to hear but can’t stop listening for. No feeling like an outsider on someone else’s team.

  Whatever.

  It’s not like I thought it would last.

  I’m coming out of the showers when one of the assistant coaches catches me. The GM wants to talk.

  Shit. The last time I got flagged to meet with the GM out of nowhere, I was on a plane to Chicago the next week.

  My gut fills with lead as I walk into the locker room still wearing my towel. O’Brian is doubled over watching some YouTube clip on Popov’s phone. Rux Meyers, still wearing half his gear, is walking on his hands, bare feet close to the ceiling. A handful of guys give me a nod or hold out a fist for knuckles. And that cold weight inside me doubles with the realization that I’m not fucking ready to leave these guys.

  I’m not ready to leave this town, this city… Natalie.

  That sick feeling starts to spread. My hands feel numb and the noise around me muffles when I think about skating out for the first lap and knowing she’s not going to be there. Because I’m in another state. In an arena she may never visit.

  She won’t be watching me.

  She won’t be cheering when I score.

  She won’t be there.

  I jam my legs into my track pants and throw on a sport shirt. I need to get upstairs. Stuffi
ng my feet into my gym shoes, I pull out my phone and start scrolling through the sports feeds, because the sad truth is that shit like this gets out. And it’s not uncommon to have a trade reported before the player has even been notified. But there’s nothing about me beyond a few pictures from the shelter I spent some hours at last week and speculation about whether I’ll be starting the next game.

  I couldn’t give a shit who starts. I just want to know if I’m going to be here.

  What if they’ve got me on a plane tonight?

  Will I even get to see her before I leave? Will I even get to say goodbye?

  Fuck.

  Mateo is outside the general manager’s office and waves me through with a clap on my back I can’t read.

  Raking a hand through my hair, I realize it’s still half soaked. Well, it’s not like it’s going to cost me my spot on the team.

  Marty Sheely is wrapping up a call, but signals for me to take a seat in one of the cushy leather chairs across from his desk. He finishes quickly and then leans back, arms crossed over his chest. Sheely is in his mid-forties, pretty fit for a guy who rides a desk, and known to be a straight shooter, so I’m not expecting him to dick me around.

  “Vassar, you’ve been a thorn in my side since the day you arrived. This bullshit with Baxter— Well, we expected some. But we’d hoped you two would be able to put your differences aside for the sake of the organization.”

  Shit. Did Baxter say something about Natalie? Or fuck, that doctor who walked in? I’d have sworn the guy didn’t see anything, and if he had, wouldn’t have cared. But—

  “And I appreciate that you have.”

  What?

  “Hell, it’s no secret this isn’t the team you wanted to play for, but you’ve busted your ass for us. You’ve contributed to the community as much as any player here. And the way you’ve stepped up these past few months and especially these last couple weeks hasn’t gone unnoticed.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  He levels me with a no-nonsense look. “But Baxter’s back this week. And it’s his team.”

  Ah, and now I get it. I was looking a little too comfortable filling the captain’s shoes and they want to make sure there won’t be any issues with me giving them back.

  “He’s a good leader.” I don’t particularly like saying it out loud, but that doesn’t make it untrue. “Glad to see him returning to play.”

  A nod. And then he wags his head and drops an F-bomb under his breath. “I hope Oregon is able to give you what you need when the time comes.”

  I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. I’m not leaving now.

  Which means there’s still time.

  Though as I’m pushing from the club chair and reaching over the desk to shake his hand, I ask myself, time for what?

  Natalie’s bold and shy smile fills my mind.

  “Vassar,” he says, stopping me at his door, “it’s a shame you and Baxter can’t put your personal differences aside, because together you add up to one hell of a team.”

  I let out a humorless laugh, not because I don’t see it, but because I know it’s true.

  By the time I get back down to the locker room the guys have mostly cleared out. All except the one who hasn’t been on the ice in two and a half weeks. He’s sitting on the bench, looking like the kid whose mom forgot to pick him up from kindergarten.

  I could shove the rest of my gear in my bag and take off. Leave him to his locker room in peace. But instead I sit down and pull out my stick.

  “How’s the head?” I ask, stripping the tape.

  If he’s surprised by the question, he doesn’t show it. “Better. They’re saying I can get back on the ice tomorrow for a no-contact skate. If everything goes right, I’ll play Thursday.”

  “That’s good, man. Glad to hear it.”

  He gives me a disbelieving look, but then shakes his head and sighs. “Thanks. For that, and for what you did with Hoffman. Rux said he was about to throw another punch when you got to him.”

  I grunt.

  He nods.

  It’s a moment.

  One that’s blown to hell when I ask, “How’s your sister doing?”

  His eyes narrow into slits and I hold up a hand, tired of going round with this guy. “I’m not trying to start something. I swear.”

  “No? So what business is she of yours?”

  “I fucking care about her, okay? And since I’m sure the both of you would rather not have me calling her up to see how she’s doing, I figure asking you is the lesser evil.” My mistake.

  But it’s got Baxter’s attention, because now he’s watching me like maybe he’s not sure what I’ll do if he takes his eyes off me—run off with his sister, maybe.

  Or stay for her.

  The thought hits me like a club and leaves me reeling. Because it didn’t bounce through my consciousness like some internal ha-ha joke. It landed like an anvil.

  I look at the man eyeing me from across the aisle. There’s never been enough room for the both of us. Not in the same room. Not on the same sheet of ice. There’s always been too much ego.

  And I wonder what would happen if I just… let some of mine go.

  Coming in first has been hammered into my head since the first time I put on skates. Anything less was unacceptable. Anything less cost me in ways kids aren’t supposed to have to pay.

  Being number one meant making the competitive team. It meant making captain. It meant recognition. Opportunity. The right school. The right scholarship. The draft. It meant getting to play instead of going to the farm team. It meant starting. It meant money and endorsements and security.

  All the things I’ve been working toward with an unwavering commitment from as far back as I can remember. Good things.

  But that shit cost me too.

  It cost me friends, relationships. It cost me a life.

  And now… Christ, could it cost me the only woman who’s ever felt like she might be more important than all the rest? Could I have a chance with Natalie if I just let go of being first?

  “What the fuck are you looking at me like that for?”

  I shake my head. “You ever think about how much shit you had to give up to get here?”

  He blinks. “You trying to… bond with me right now, Vassar?”

  What if instead of seeing Greg Baxter as the guy who is always standing in my way—what if we could see the common ground?

  “What if I am?” I let out a rusty laugh at the horrified look on his face and scrub a hand over my jaw. “Don’t get your jock in a twist, I’m not talking about moving in on Rux’s turf. All I’m saying is, I’m not fifteen years old anymore. We’re on the same team and maybe if we stopped to look, I’m betting—”

  “Jesus Christ, this is still about Natalie, isn’t it?” He shoves to his feet and, yeah, I’m watching for any sign moving that fast rocked him, but the guy looks steady. Steady and pissed. “Vassar, you don’t actually think that getting me behind you will give you a better shot, do you? You’re leaving.”

  Even as he says it, I’m running the possible plays in my head.

  He gapes, going two shades paler in a blink. “Did you fuck up with Oregon?”

  “What? No.” If anything, Oregon wants me more than ever.

  Baxter swallows, his eyes narrowing into the hard scowl we’ve been exchanging since high school. He stalks closer, pointing at my chest. “Well, don’t. And whatever shit you’ve got spinning in that head about my sister, knock it off. Nat’s doing fine. Better than, so do me a favor—screw that, do yourself a favor and forget about her.”

  I’m off the bench, hands flying out to the sides. “You think I haven’t tried? I know she thinks it won’t work with us…”

  “It won’t.” He shrugs, stepping back, but I’m not done. I don’t even care if he’s listening.

  “And that I can’t give her what she needs…”

  He drops his head back. “Dude, you can’t.”

  “But I’m
starting to think she’s wrong. I’m starting to think she’s—”

  “She’s… she’s with another guy.”

  The words knock me back a step, hitting harder than any punch this guy has ever thrown. I try to shake it off, but I feel like I’m the one laid out on the ice, unable to coordinate my limbs to get up. And this time it’s Greg fucking Baxter looking down at me with—hell, is that pity in his eyes?

  “Bullshit.” I can barely get the word past my teeth. The last time I was alone with her we almost kissed. And yeah, that was two and a half weeks ago, and she was emotional, scared. But… fuuuck.

  “It’s not.”

  “Is it serious?” I choke out, hating that I’m talking to her brother about this more than I’ve ever hated anything in my life.

  We were serious. Too serious for what she wanted.

  Not serious enough to make it work anyway.

  “It’s… a recent thing. She wanted to move on. There were a few guys. Successful, local. Not hockey players. She hit it off with one. But… uhh… yeah, it could be serious. They have a lot in common. I know she’s seeing him tonight. And hell, I like him.”

  Baxter’s met him already? That burns, but why not. This guy isn’t some dirty secret she’s trying to keep from everyone, hoping they run their course before people find out.

  I fall back onto the bench behind me.

  Baxter’s hand lands on my shoulder. “Look, man, I know this isn’t what you want to hear. But—you don’t know what it was like for her growing up. My parents—I don’t think they see what they did to her. How they treated her. And I was so caught up in my own shit, I didn’t realize until it was too late. But Natalie never came first. It was like what happened in her life didn’t matter. They didn’t go to her games. They didn’t take her to the tournaments. They didn’t answer the phone when the coaches were calling to tell them she was in the hospital. All they could see was me. My game, my future. It was bullshit, and I’ll regret not doing enough to change it when it mattered for the rest of my life. But right now, I can do something for her.”