Table of Contents
Title Page
Crosscheck
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
Epilogue
About Rebecca Connolly
Copyright © 2020 by Rebecca Connolly
E-book edition
All rights reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form whatsoever without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief passages embodied in critical reviews and articles. This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialog are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
Interior design by Cora Johnson
Edited by Kelsey Down and Lorie Humpherys
Cover design by Rachael Anderson
Cover image credit: Deposit Photos #46575443
Published by Mirror Press, LLC
NORTHBROOK HOCKEY ELITE SERIES
Faceoff
Powerplay
Rebound
Crosscheck
Breakaway
Shootout
Dedication:
To the Chicago Blackhawks, who have created a lifelong fan in me and shown me just how amazing this sport is. I can honestly say that I wouldn’t have been able to do this series without you. And thank you seems much too small.
And to my uncle Pete. Your strength, humor, goodness, and generosity have never impressed me more than they do now. Love you forever.
He’s a hard hitter, she’s a straight shooter. Can they stop the sparks from flying? Do they want to?
Zane Winchester is a beast on the ice, known for racking up penalties and delivering hard blows. No one would suspect the complicated nature of his personal life, or just what it entailed. And no one, not even him, would have suspected what one unexpected encounter with a remarkable woman would do to his life.
Mara Matthews is a regular woman with a regular job and a regular life. Then she meets the father of one of her little students, and regular becomes the last word to describe her life. Zane is intense, funny, charming, and drop dead gorgeous; he shouldn’t pay any attention to someone like her. But Zane isn’t giving up, and Mara doesn’t want him to.
“High-sticking, two minutes.”
“WHAT?”
The referee gave Zane Winchester a knowing look. “Come on, Zamboni, head to the box.”
Zane debated taking a stance on the ice, towering over the ref as he was, but he opted, probably wisely, for skating backwards towards his very cozy and well-loved penalty box. “So about that call . . .”
“Zamboni, you know better than to argue a penalty.”
“I’m not arguing it,” he insisted with a good-natured smile. “I know I deserve it. Just not for high-sticking. That was a hook, Jim. Come on. I never go for the shoulders.”
The ref rolled his eyes and gestured to the box, then signaled to the staff working the clock, who put two minutes up on the jumbotron.
Zane shrugged and stepped into the box, sitting down and making a show of stretching out, earning some laughter and applause from the fans behind the plexiglass at the back of the box. He turned and waved at them, then returned his attention to the game.
Not that he needed to pay attention.
The Hounds, his team, were already up by two goals in the third period, and it would have been more had they been really focusing. They had been for the first two periods, but now . . .
Well, Zane had resorted to intentionally delivering penalties to see what would get caught.
Now he’d been caught for the wrong one.
Figured.
But he was famous for his rough hitting and his collection of penalties, which had been his trademark since the age of fourteen.
Maybe younger . . .
It was hard to remember when he had earned his nickname, Zamboni, but he did remember the Northbrook Elite teammates that had been in hysterics as they explained, “Because you just clear the ice!”
He’d loved the name from that moment. It had been one of the first times he’d felt the approval of his teammates rather than their mockery.
Zane had been a late bloomer.
’Nuff said.
Looking down the ice, Zane whistled to himself, thumping the butt of his stick against the floor of the box in time with whatever tune he was performing.
The penalty box was designed to be a time-out for the offending players, disciplinary action that was supposed to give them a chance to think about what they did wrong and how it was affecting others.
Zane always thought it was a nice breather away from the rest of the team.
He liked them well enough, but the penalty box gave him way more shoulder room.
What would happen if he pretended to meditate in here? He could sit perfectly still, eyes closed, completely at peace, unaffected by the sounds of the game and its fans around him. Then, when the time was up, he could spring out of the penalty box like a shot, invigorated and full of harnessed hatred.
It would be a glorious act.
He grinned slowly to himself. He’d save that one for another time. There were only a few seconds left in this particular penalty, and then he’d go out and hit some unsuspecting Florida Jaguar players.
Or maybe they would suspect it. He was fairly infamous, after all.
He’d hate to disappoint anyone.
Zane eyed the crowd in the stands, grunting to himself that some of the local fans were leaving already. He couldn’t blame them, given the score and the time left, but the game wasn’t over. Would it kill them to stick it out?
A flash of brilliant green amidst the sea of black and gold caught his attention, and he jerked back to look at it more closely.
The Jaguars were blue and white; there was no cause for anything green to be here.
With perfect timing, the green banner was spread out to its full length, with the help of the fans bearing it.
Sabercats.
The Northbrook mascot.
Zane grinned and got to his feet, pointing to the classiest fans in this entire arena, whooping at the top of his lungs. They began to jump up and down, the banner rippling like a wave.
He glanced up at the clock, watching as the last few seconds ticked down, then burst from the box with a jolt of speed. His eyes darted around the ice, then he made a beeline for a winger making life complicated for the Hounds’ center. Zane clocked him hard but perfectly legally, sending him flying into the boards.
The crowd erupted, as they usually did when the Zamboni did something without getting called for it.
Zane watched his teammates take the puck down the ice, flicking it between themselves, then sending it soaring into the net just between the legs of the goalie before his knees hit the ice.
The piercing sound of the buzzer rang throughout the arena, and Zane pumped his arms in the air in victory as the crowd stomped their approval. He turned to find the Northbrook group again and directed his cheering towards them once more.
He didn’t recognize a single one of them.
It didn’t matter; Northbrook was on its second wind these days, coming back from the dead almost literally with a vibrant new fan base and an increased loyalty from the alumni.
He might be a Hound now, but he was first, foremost, and forevermore a Sabercat.
He
wasn’t used to that kind of loyalty. He’d felt it while he was there, for sure, but when he’d left, his loyalty had been to himself and whatever team he currently played for. That was all.
Now . . .
Well, he couldn’t exactly say he had matured, but he was certainly wiser than he had once been.
When he felt like it.
At the signal from his coach, Zane skated to the team box and slipped over the edge of it with ease. He plopped himself down on the bench and caught a water bottle from one of the assistants one-handed, guzzling it almost in the same motion.
“Show-off.”
Zane paused his hydration process to give the guy next to him a sidelong look.
Petey wasn’t intimidated, and he raised a brow, daring Zane to give him a comeback of some kind.
Squeezing the bottle again, Zane took another three gulps before exhaling heavily and tossing it back without really looking. “Skills, Petey. Not seeking attention.”
“No,” Petey drawled, his northern Minnesota accent proudly ringing through. “Why would you do that? You hate attention.”
“I do. I’m really very shy.” Zane nodded, which sent chuckles down the line of guys.
“Terribly insecure,” Janny added from his left, barely displaying any of his Swedish roots in saying so. “Poor Zamboni.”
“Poor Zamboni,” several voices echoed with solemnity.
Zane looked up and down the line, smiling quizzically. “Did I die somewhere along the way? This is a crap memorial service, if I did.”
Two guys removed their helmets and bowed their heads, sending the rest into roars of laughter.
“Unbelievable,” Zane muttered, shaking his head.
“Hey, hey!” Coach Winkler hollered at them all. “Three minutes left in this game. Don’t start monkeying around!”
Zane turned his attention forward with the rest, all shutting up without another word. Wink was a tough coach, and despite their good record so far this season, he still acted like this was the team from five years ago that almost never won. He was right, in this instance; they should continue to pay attention to the game, support their teammates, and keep their focus on the ice.
There ought to be a level of respect for the other team as well, no matter how badly they were being beaten.
“Kelso line, go!” Wink bellowed suddenly.
Zane frowned but cheered the three guys onto the ice as they currently line skated off towards them. What was Wink expecting the Kelso line to do with two and a half minutes left when they were already up by three? There was nothing to be gained by scoring again, and Kelso was a maniac.
Coming from Zane, that was a pretty damning description.
Kelso scooped up the puck and took it around the back of their own goal, cradling it from side to side with his stick, sending it to Petey on his left to get around a player before it was back to him. He swept right, then left, deking with incredible speed, completely ignoring Ramsey on his right side, despite Ramsey’s calling for the puck.
What was that about?
The Jaguar defenders were on Kelso then, and he scuffled neatly, somehow avoiding giving up the puck despite the clashing of blades and sticks.
“Get it out!” Zane bellowed, getting to his feet with some of the teammates. “Clear it!”
Kelso kept the puck, for some insane reason, and a third Jaguar player was headed in their direction. There would be nothing to do at that point but wait for the puck to clear towards the Hound goal rather than in the direction they wanted.
“NOW!” Petey bellowed.
With inhuman accuracy, Kelso delivered a slapshot no one could touch, not towards the goal but towards Ramsey, who had continued down the ice without anyone paying much attention. Ramsey scooped the puck and shot it at the goal, right in a tight corner the goalie hadn’t a hope of covering with the distraction of Kelso’s antics.
The Hounds’ box exploded with cheers and laughter, teammates calling out words of praise and appreciation, if not outright razzing. The score didn’t matter, and none of them cared about the numbers on that board with regards to the win.
That play had been a beautiful thing. Insane, reckless, risky, and completely out of control, but a beautiful thing.
Kelso was a hotshot, a twenty-year-old kid who almost owned the ice once he touched it. Zane had never seen anything like him, which was saying something.
Unfortunately, Kelso also had the attitude to go with it.
Zane had been inches away from pounding him on more than one occasion during practice.
There was a quick faceoff after the goal, and the puck flitted harmlessly across the ice between players until the clock ran out and the buzzer sounded.
The Hounds came out of their team box onto the ice to shake hands with the Jaguars, none of whom looked particularly happy. Zane and his teammates turned their attention to the crowd and their fans, trying to pump up whoever was left in the stands in gratitude for giving them so much energy during the course of the game.
As usual, he was one of the last ones out there.
Zane might not be captain material, and likely never would be, but no one could accuse him of not caring about the fans.
He exhaled roughly as he left the ice, making his way towards the locker rooms. He tugged his helmet off and ran a hand through his drenched hair, sending droplets everywhere. He craned his neck, eliciting a series of cracks on one side, then the other. Away from the ice and the energy of the fans, Zane could admit something he almost never did aloud: he was exhausted. Physically and mentally exhausted.
They’d done a home-and-home series with the Ravens—one game in Tennessee followed by one the next night in Seattle—then had just one night off before tonight’s game, thankfully at home. Before the Ravens, they’d had three away games in a week, and he’d been up in Chicago with some of his old Northbrook guys doing an all-star game.
He’d barely sat down since the holidays, it seemed, and he wanted nothing more right now than to sleep for about five days.
But if anybody asked, he was in the best shape of his life, top of his game, full of energy, and wanting extra games and practices to stay sharp.
No one had ever told Zane that by the age of twenty-eight he would feel so old.
He sat down at his locker, stripping off his uniform and pads, taking care not to inhale too deeply.
The stench of his gear had never been something he’d wanted to have lingering about his nostrils and lungs.
He wanted to live to see twenty-nine.
Hiding a yawn behind a hand and stretching, he headed into the showers, slapping hands with a few already departing teammates.
He may have stood in the shower for a very long time, just letting the hot water rain down on him, but once he’d come to his senses and realized what time it was, he scrubbed his hair and body as fast as sanitarily possible. He changed his clothes, set his gear in the laundry cart, and headed out at a fast clip.
The drive home was uneventful, as it usually was at this time of night. His teammates had sent around the usual texts about going out for drinks and food, and some of them for less-than-savory entertainment, but Zane ignored them all. No one would be upset by that, as he usually did the same after every game and most practices.
He had other things to do.
Better things.
He was all for spending time with his teammates, team building and whatever else their coaches and sport psychologists encouraged among them.
Just not this late.
He glanced at the clock on his dashboard, hissing softly and risking going just a little further above the speed limit than he might normally do.
His neighbor was a cop; surely if the worst happened, he could be let off . . .
Zane released a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding as he pulled into his neighborhood and, just a few minutes later, into the driveway. Glancing up into the windows on the opposite side from the garage, he hissed again when he saw only the very
faintest of light there.
He was in trouble now.
“Hey, Zane!”
He turned in surprise to see Steve, his cop neighbor, hauling the trash cans down his own driveway, wearing an oversized Hounds sweatshirt from days gone by and a black beanie on his head, despite the fact that the Tennessee night was a mild forty-two degrees.
Zane smiled with a wave. “Steve.”
“Good game,” his neighbor called, a proud Tennessee twang ringing out.
“Thanks, man.” He pointed at his house. “Sorry, I gotta get. I’m late.”
Steve chuckled and waved him on. “Go ahead, buddy. She’s been on one today. You’re in for it.”
Zane grunted and continued for the house. “Don’t I know it. Thanks, Steve.”
“Leave your garage open, Zane. I’ll get your trash out.”
Zane turned back around in surprise. “You don’t have to do that.”
Steve only shrugged. “I know. Go on in there and take your punishment. I got this.”
Zane shook his head and pointed. “You’re a good man, Steve.”
“Yep, well, put a word in with the Lord for me, cuz no one else will.”
It was one of the more Southern expressions Zane had heard, and he chuckled as he made his way into the house.
He dropped his keys on the counter and his bag on the floor, not stopping his motion towards the stairs.
A tousled head rose from the couch on the other side of the stairs, eyes squinting in his direction. “Zane?”
He smiled and waved her back down, swinging himself up the stairs by the railing. “Go back to sleep, Josie. Better yet, go to bed, I’m back.”
His cousin yawned without shame, rubbing at one eye. “You’re in trouble, you know.”
“Gee, thanks,” he muttered as he took the stairs two at a time.
He walked cautiously once he reached the second floor, wincing when the floorboards creaked beneath him. Served him right for buying a classic house instead of a new construction, but his realtor had assured him it would be much better on resale.
Whatever.
Crosscheck Page 1
