Iced Read online

  Iced

  Gold Hockey Books 1-3

  Elise Faber

  ICED

  BY ELISE FABER

  * * *

  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.

  * * *

  ICED

  Copyright © 2020 Elise Faber

  Print ISBN-13: 978-1-946140-78-4

  Ebook ISBN-13: 978-1-946140-77-7

  Cover Art by Jena Brignola

  Contents

  Gold Hockey Series

  Blocked

  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

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Epilogue

  Backhand

  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

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Epilogue

  Boarding

  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

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Epilogue

  Benched

  Empty Net

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Gold Hockey Series

  Gold Hockey

  Also by Elise Faber

  About the Author

  Gold Hockey Series

  Blocked

  * * *

  Backhand

  * * *

  Boarding

  * * *

  Benched

  * * *

  Breakaway

  * * *

  Breakout

  * * *

  Checked

  * * *

  Coasting

  * * *

  Centered

  * * *

  Charging

  Blocked

  Gold Hockey #1

  One

  Brit

  The first question Brit always got when people found out she played ice hockey was “Do you have all of your teeth?”

  The second was “Do you, you know, look at the guys in the locker room?”

  The first she could deal with easily—flash a smile of her full set of chompers, no gaps in sight. The second was more problematic. Especially since it was typically accompanied by a smug smile or a coy wink.

  Of course she looked. Everybody looked once. Everyone snuck a glance, made a judgment that was quickly filed away and shoved deep down into the recesses of their mind.

  And she meant way down.

  Because, dammit, she was there to play hockey, not assess her teammates’ six packs. If she wanted to get her man candy fix, she could just go on social media. There were shirtless guys for days filling her feed.

  But that wasn’t the answer the media wanted.

  Who cared about locker room dynamics? Who gave a damn whether or not she, as a typical heterosexual woman, found her fellow players attractive?

  Yet for some inane reason, it did matter to people.

  Brit wasn’t stupid. The press wanted a story. A scandal. They were desperate for her to fall for one of her teammates—or better yet the captain from their rival team—and have an affair that was worthy of a romantic comedy.

  She’d just gotten very good at keeping her love life—as nonexistent as it was—to herself, gotten very good at not reacting in any perceptible way to the insinuations.

  So when the reporter asked her the same set of questions for the thousandth time in her twenty-six years, she grinned—showing off those teeth—and commented with a sweetly innocent “Could’ve sworn you were going to ask me about the coed showers.” She waited for the room-at-large to laugh then said, “Next question, please.”

  Two

  This was it, the call up of her life.

  And Brit was sitting in the parking lot of the arena, unable to force her fingers off the steering wheel.

  “Get it together,” she muttered. “Or you will suck on the ice.”

  Harsh, probably. But the truth.

  Still, the words were enough. Enough to get her body in motion, to pop her door, and walk around to the trunk of her ten-year-old Corolla.

  Her gear was shoved inside
the small space like a sausage threatening to burst from its casing. Brit grabbed the strap and hauled out her bag before slinging it across her shoulder.

  “You know they have guys for that.”

  The voice made her jump, and her gaze shot up, then up some more until she stared directly into the eyes of the captain of the San Francisco Gold, Stefan Barie.

  The slight tinge of a Minnesotan accent made her shiver.

  Uh-oh.

  And seriously, only a hockey fan would find a Minnesotan accent sexy.

  He smiled. “It’s the coldest-winter-is-summer-in-San-Francisco thing.” When she frowned, he cocked his head. “The wind chill.”

  What?

  “You know? Mark Twain?”

  Her brows pulled together. “I know who Mark Twain is, and I’m familiar with the quote. Though it’s a common misnomer, and Twain didn’t actually say it. Still, it is windy in the city . . . I just don’t know why you think I’m cold, and it’s not—” She shook herself. What was the point in her rambling? “Never mind.”

  This was what her mind did.

  Every single time.

  It drifted, focused on mundane details she then couldn’t prevent from bursting free.

  No surprise that once they were free, her conversations were punctuated with awkward pauses.

  Like the one happening now.

  Brit sighed. Give her an interview any time. Let her spout off sound bites to the camera and no problem. It was the real life human interactions that were terrible.

  “No,” Stefan said. “Tell me. What is it?”

  It was only because he seemed genuinely interested that she answered.

  “It’s not summer.”

  “What?”

  Another sigh. Yep. Way to go, genius. “It’s technically fall. Summer has been over for six-and-a-half days.”

  There was a moment of quiet, a long, uncomfortable pause during which neither of them spoke.

  Then surprisingly—shockingly—Stefan laughed. Her heart gave a little squeeze, her brain said, Uh-oh, but then before she could really panic, he spoke, “You’re absolutely right. Now come on.” Snagging her sticks, he nodded toward the arena. “I’ll show you the ropes.”

  Three

  Oh no, this wouldn’t do.

  This. Would. Not. Do.

  Brit stared up at the obviously hastily created sign—black squiggles of Sharpie and crumpled computer paper tended to highlight that fact.

  This would not do.

  "Okay then. See you on the ice,” Stefan said, handing over her sticks and walking down the hall.

  Brit dropped her bag to the black skate mat laid across the concrete floor, pushed open the door, and peered inside the room, just to make sure it wasn't full of her teammates, that this wasn't a lame joke for the new girl.

  It wasn't.

  Hot rage slid through her that she tried to swallow. She needed to be on her A-game. Needed to focus.

  And this wasn't the players’ fault. Apparently, management had decided to go for this little endeavor on their own. Likely, they were trying to keep things PC in order to avoid a potential lawsuit.

  But this was Brit's future.

  She fumbled for the switch and flipped on the light. Her heart sank further as a wave of disappointment welled up.

  It was exactly as she'd feared.

  A single bench. One equipment rack.

  Yup. Getting dressed by herself was sure going to help her integrate into the team.

  The locker room was the heart of any hockey team, where joking and ribbing and plenty of cursing took place. It was where she'd always felt most comfortable, and where she'd been able to find at least a few allies.

  How was she supposed to receive coaching sequestered by herself? Should she just watch the team bond and draw up plays without her? Miss the talk about D-pairs or changes in the system?

  She wasn't the first woman to sign a contract with a professional men’s hockey team, but she was damn sure the first to have earned a chance at the backup goaltending spot.

  Which might someday lead to a starting position.

  A major step of which was connecting with her teammates.

  Brit let the door slam closed, shouldered her bag, and walked down the hall.

  She heard them before she saw them.

  "Chin up," she murmured and pushed into the room.

  It took a few moments for the guys to notice her. Silence fell, stifling, hot, embarrassing.

  Not that a little embarrassment would stop her.

  Spotting an empty bench and rack, she walked across the room. Her bag hit the floor with a thud; her sticks clacked together as she set them against the wall.

  She could have heard a pin drop, could practically smell the smoke coming out of her teammates' ears.

  Not about to let them get the drop on her and having been through this more than her fair share of times, Brit knew it was best to get the awkwardness over.

  She unzipped her bag, hung up her gear, then toed off her shoes and stripped down.

  All the way down.

  “Everyone get that good look,” she said into the quiet locker room.

  Her gaze slid around, meeting each of the guys' in turn. Some were obviously confused or shocked, a couple were irritated by her or her interruption, and some were typical men—if their eyes glued to her breasts were any indication.

  Others—like Blane, her teammate now three times over—were familiar with her methods. He didn’t even blink at her nakedness, just kept his eyes on hers and nodded in greeting.

  "Get it out of your system,” she told the interested ones, “and get over it,” she said to the irritated section. She was here to stay, and if they had a problem . . . well, they could suck it.

  To the rest, she said, “Now let's play some fucking hockey."

  With that, she snagged her sports bra and underwear and started getting dressed.

  "Style points, sweet— I mean, Brit.”

  She grinned up at Blane, who was half-dressed and standing in front of her, and feigned indifference, even though her heart was pumping with jitters. This may not be her first professional hockey rodeo, but it was still the NHL, where the best came to play.

  No way she wanted to screw that up.

  “You know how it is,” she told him. Her anxiety eased when he stepped closer and gave her a quick hug. It was nice to have him there, especially since the two of them went way back, having played together in juniors.

  “Ten points out of ten.” His voice dropped. “You okay?”

  “Now I’m fine.” She was. And as soon as she got onto the ice, she’d be even better.

  “Good.”

  Her lips twitched. “Good for you to catch that sweetheart.”

  Blane grimaced, tapped his nose. “Hasn’t been the same since the first time I made the mistake of using it.”

  She’d been young with a chip on her shoulder the size of a redwood. Blane had made the mistake of trying to prove to his friends he could get in her pants.

  The result had been a broken nose for him and a month-long grounding for her.

  But they’d gotten that nonsense out of the way, had settled into a warm and easy friendship.

  “I’d say sorry—” she began.

  “But I wouldn’t believe you anyway.” He grinned. “Glad you’re here,” he said and crossed back to his spot to finish getting dressed.

  Brit grabbed her pelvis protector, pulled it on, then snagged the black and gold striped socks that had been in the other dressing room. Just as she was about to slip one over her foot, a soft voice interrupted her.

  "Well done," Stefan said.

  She turned to look at him, not having noticed he was in the stall next to hers, and her heart gave a little tremble.