Charging Page 3

  “Thank you,” Char whispered. “I love you, too. Can I call you back in a few days? I was just heading to bed.”

  Her mom’s voice gentled. “Of course. Get some sleep, baby.”

  “Don’t work too hard,” her dad added.

  She said goodbye and hung up, missing her family and what their relationship had been like several years ago. She wanted that closeness back but didn’t know how to get there, probably because she didn’t understand exactly what had changed.

  Was it the move?

  Her job?

  Or just her? Maybe there was something wrong with her inside.

  “Ugh, Char,” she muttered, plunking her cell onto the counter and glancing up at the ceiling. She took a long, slow breath. “It’s late. You’re slightly buzzed and disappointed and a terrible loser. That’s it.”

  Feeling marginally better, she reached for her phone.

  The doorbell rang.

  Her eyes flicked to her smartwatch, saw it was nearing three.

  “What the fuck?”

  She snatched her cell, shifted so she had eyes on the hall leading to the front door, and, feeling suddenly stone-cold sober, pulled up the app on her phone that controlled the cameras on the porch.

  As usual, it seemed to take forever to load.

  Then when it finally did, all the air left her lungs.

  The bell went again, and Logan stared right into the camera, somehow seeming to be able to see her right through the technology. The night vision made his eyes seem black, but she knew those deep pools of emerald would be able to look right through flesh and bone and see the vulnerable woman she was beneath.

  Walls. Good God, she needed all of them.

  Needed them quickly.

  Her fingers spasmed on her cell and thank fuck, but a wave of anger washed over her. “He threw you aside like garbage,” she whispered. “Like you didn’t mean a damned thing and then went on to spend the last eight years fucking everything in sight.” A deep breath released slowly. “And he’s just a player.”

  That was it.

  Calm washed over her, and she glanced down. She was still in her suit. She’d sobered up, all signs of calorie talk gone.

  And one of her players was on her porch.

  She had an open-door policy, had told them they could show up at any hour, for any reason, had made sure her address was readily available.

  But they rarely needed to see her here.

  And Logan had, for obvious reasons, never come.

  The bell went again.

  He was here now, and she had to deal with this. Put the past to bed once and for all. Simple as that.

  Char turned off the kitchen light, hit the switch in the hall, filling the space with a soft, yellow glow, and pocketed her cell as she strode to the front door. One quick flick had the lock open. Another had the knob turned. The last had the heavy wooden panel tugged open.

  He stood there, all casual for all it was three in the morning, his legs spread loosely, his thumbs in his pockets, but his gaze arrowed to hers, froze her in place.

  Her chin came up, and she spoke through the pounding of her pulse.

  “What can I do for you?”

  He kissed her.

  One second he was two feet away, the next his mouth was on hers, his lips soft and yet demanding, his tongue sliding in to dance with hers when she gasped. It was hot and searing, but it was a reminder—of how they used to be, of what they used to be.

  And as she was still grasping that—and the fact that she was kissing him back, that her hands were gripping his shoulders and pulling him closer when she should be pushing him away—he broke the contact, cupped her cheek for a split second, then stepped back and shoved a box into her hands.

  “You forgot those,” he said.

  A nudge had her back into the house, teetering on wobbly legs.

  This time, it wasn’t from the booze.

  Oh no, this time, it was all Logan Walker.

  The door closed, his voice came muffled through the wood. “Lock up.”

  She dropped the box on the floor, slammed the bolt home, and stormed off to the kitchen.

  She didn’t bother with the glass, just grabbed the whole damned bottle of rum.

  Logan Fucking Walker.

  Five

  Logan

  He sat in his car for long minutes, watching the light show taking place inside Char’s house.

  Off and then on. Rinse. Repeat. And repeat some more.

  First, in the front of the house. Then in the hall he’d glimpsed before Char had slammed the front door in his face. Next, upstairs in what he assumed was her bedroom. This educated guess was based on the two large windows with only a faint outline of light peeking around the edges of what he assumed were blackout shades, considering the large number of late nights and necessary sleeping in after games. Then those rectangles of light disappeared before another square, this time not just a border, but a full one, albeit slightly softened through frosted glass in what he would bet his slapshot on was her bathroom.

  Because Char and her baths.

  When they’d been together before, she’d taken more baths than showers, bringing a glass of rum and a book and soaking until she resembled a prune.

  Bubbles clinging to deep russet skin. Strawberry and bourbon scented body wash. Hot water sluicing over his body when he gave in to the temptation of sliding in behind her. The tub would always overflow, and neither of them ever gave a damn.

  Fuck, he’d done so many loads of sopping wet towels.

  Grinning, he waited in his car, watching that window like a pathetic version of Romeo, sitting there when he should, without doubt, be sitting in his apartment, drowning his disappointment in losing the Cup with a beer.

  Instead, he sat in the dark and plotted.

  He was twenty-nine years old.

  He had a five-year, multimillion-dollar contract with the Gold. A contract that had a trade approval clause, one that had been written very effectively by Devon Scott of Prestige Media Group and ensured that if he didn’t approve the trade, he would be paid out his contract.

  In the professional sports world, he had it all.

  In the having-some-semblance-of-a-personal-life world, he had nothing.

  Which sounded completely melodramatic; he knew that. Logan had his family, and he was one of the lucky ones with decent parents who lived their own lives and didn’t butt into his, and a pair of siblings he got along with extremely well.

  Mostly because they had all survived their parents’ volatile relationship.

  His mom and dad were kind and caring to the people around them, had been wonderful, supportive parents in many ways; he couldn’t deny that.

  But . . . they weren’t great with each other.

  Communication was lacking. His mom harbored understandable resentment about being the one forced to leave the job she loved, to put everything on hold for her family, her kids, all for little to no thanks and zero chance of reentry into her former business circles once the kids were old enough for her to go back to work.

  Plus, it was tough to hold a consistent position when a woman had a husband who traveled frequently, who didn’t leave his office early ever—not for doctors’ appointments or school plays or hockey practices.

  He’d pick up slack on the weekends by spending all day with Logan at the rink or taking Cecily to her volleyball tournaments, but he’d missed a lot.

  And as far as he knew, they’d never sat down and discussed the disparity, talked through what they both wanted and made compromises. He didn’t know whose fault that was—if one or the other of them had attempted or rebuffed—but he had watched the resentment grow over the years.

  Grow large enough that he knew he couldn’t risk doing that to Char.

  Or any other woman for that matter. Which was why he was twenty-nine and, aside from the whirlwind of him and Charlotte, had never been in a serious relationship.

  Never.

  He’d slept arou
nd a bit, but those days were long gone, and frankly had been long gone for years. First, he’d been so excited to have anyone of the opposite sex somewhat interested in him. Then, he’d been trying to forget Char. Then he’d realized there was no forgetting Char, not when she was quietly and persistently making her way through the ranks of management, making her mark on a sport that was still male dominated. Not when her rise had become less quiet, more noticeable to the press.

  Along with everyone she dated.

  Athletes—but not hockey players.

  Two movie stars—one that had been on the A-list circuit.

  A governor.

  And Logan had scoured the news, her social media, the gossip sheets for any and all details of who Char had been seeing because . . . he’d been jealous as hell.

  Because even though he’d blown up their relationship, felt he’d had to in order to secure both their futures, he’d never gotten over Char.

  He knew he’d done the right thing.

  But in many ways, missing Char was the gift that kept on giving.

  That was going to change. He was done scouring the gossip columns for news of Char’s love life. He was done trying to lose himself in work—and definitely done with losing himself in women who could never live up to her.

  And . . . he was way fucking done with spending almost every day in the same building, the same plane, the same room as her and not being able to show her how much he cared.

  The only problem was how to get back through to Char.

  She was different now.

  Harder. Tougher. Nearly impossible to read.

  Logan had some insights because they’d once been so close, but when he’d signed with the Gold, he’d hardly recognized her. Not because she’d aged or physically changed, but because she had walls of steel and rebar four-feet thick that surrounded her.

  Not cold.

  Just . . . separate.

  So, he’d watched and waited, plotted and planned, and . . . frankly, he had no fucking clue how to win Charlotte back. He hadn’t known when he signed. He didn’t know after nine months of working with her.

  Hell, the only thing he did know was that he’d been lost.

  And the only thing that made him feel found was Char.

  The light in the bathroom flicked off, the one in her bedroom came back on a moment later, but it only stayed on for a few minutes. Then the house went dark and stayed dark.

  In bed. She’d be asleep soon.

  He’d always been jealous of that, of her ability to slip into sleep the moment her head hit the pillow. Logan was awake. Char was out.

  Logan was alone.

  Char was . . . alone, too.

  She worked into the wee hours. She was always at the rink, always preparing for the next game, the next battle. Meetings with different members of the organization from sun up to sun down, never missing a game or a road trip.

  Beyond committed.

  But just as alone as him.

  Well, Logan was tired of being alone, and he was betting that Char was, too. That bet was risky, might cost him his job, his career.

  But he’d seen the slice of lonely in Char’s expression.

  And he was going to make it disappear.

  Six

  Char

  Stop pouting and go back to the drawing board.

  She glared at her cell, and by default, the message from Luc. Sighing, she pushed out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom, eyes bleary but fingers working in tandem.

  I’m not pouting. And I don’t need a drawing board. I just need to tweak the one I already have.

  Mint toothpaste was on her tongue when her phone buzzed again.

  That’s the spirit.

  A beat.

  So, who are you going to let go that I can pick up?

  Spitting out the foam and rinsing, she glared at her cell for the second time in as many minutes.

  Stop trying to piss me off.

  A buzz.

  Sometimes that’s the only way to get through to you.

  She grinned.

  You’re just saying that as someone who benefitted from pissing me off.

  His response came a second later.

  Damn right.

  Char sent a rolling eyes emoji.

  Also, before I let you go. I’m proud of you, kid. I know you didn’t win, but you did really good.

  Maybe it was Luc or Logan or talking with her parents. Maybe it was the loss or just being so close to something she’d worked so hard on but missing out at the last moment. Maybe it was just realizing that her life wasn’t quite as great as she’d been pretending.

  She presumably had it all. Parents who were happily married. Siblings she adored. A good friend and a great mentor in Luc. A job that fulfilled her.

  And yet . . . there was a hole inside her.

  One that had once been easy to ignore but now was growing, a sinkhole gaining speed as it pulled her slowly in.

  Her phone vibrated again.

  Accept the compliment gracefully.

  She snorted.

  Just like you accepted being knocked out of the first round of the playoffs gracefully?

  A buzz.

  Exactly.

  Char chuckled and shook her head, remembering how it had taken her a solid fifteen minutes to talk him down from the edge.

  Luc?

  Yeah?

  Thanks.

  Anytime. Come home to Baltimore at some point soon so we can have a beer.

  Two conversations. Two requests to head East. Even putting aside missing her family and the work she’d had to do before she left, she knew her trip would have to come sooner rather than later. Either that, or she’d be hosting her family and Luc before long.

  And her house was not big enough for the Harris family and her former mentor, whose personality filled up all available space, Luc.

  Planning on it, already.

  Plan faster.

  Another grin.

  You’re not my boss anymore.

  Remind me why I allowed that to happen again?

  Char giggled as she turned on the shower.

  Because you love me.

  That I do, kid. That I do. Talk soon.

  After typing out a goodbye, she stepped into the shower and let the water sluice over her. Maybe she was imagining that hole. She could just be tired and worn out from the season, understandably on an emotional edge.

  Right?

  Her eyes drifted to the slippers Logan had bought for her. Sometime in her rum-fueled buzz earlier that morning, she’d gone back for the box and brought it upstairs. Now the offending cube of cardboard sat just to the side of the sink and was taunting her.

  A sliver of longing wove through her. She could open the box, open herself up—

  Fuck.

  No, she wasn’t imagining it.

  “How are you doing?” she asked Liam when he paused on the threshold of the office.

  She’d gone to the arena, purposely leaving her door open in case anyone wanted to talk. Most of the consoling had happened the night before, and the back offices were mostly empty today, except for a few players trickling in and cleaning out their lockers in preparation for summer.

  “Bummed,” he said. “But looking forward to next season.”

  “I feel you,” she told him. “The team is lucky to have you. That tear of points you had at the end of the series almost snagged us the win.”

  “Almost.” He made a face.

  She patted his arm. “We’ll get them next season.”

  “That we will.” A nod. “Anyway, I just wanted to stop by because Mia wanted me to let you know that she’s running a self-defense clinic this weekend.” He shrugged. “She does one every couple of months for free for the women who work for the Gold and I wasn’t sure if you knew about it.” Liam extended a flier. “The info is there if it’s something you’re interested in and available.”

  Char gripped the paper, that strange longing feeling filling her again. Pride a
nd warmth in his voice when he spoke of Mia. Love in his eyes. Her heart squeezed. “Thanks, Liam. I’ll try to make it.”

  He grinned. “I’m the dummy that night, so if you have some beef with me about my gameplay, now would be the time to knock me onto my ass.”

  “Don’t get that ass injured,” she teased. “I paid a pretty penny for it.”

  They both laughed and then spent a few more minutes discussing Liam’s summer plans before his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen. “Mia,” he said. “Reminding me that I need to talk to you about the class.”

  “Well, that mission’s accomplished.”

  “Exactly.” He shook her hand. “Thanks again for a great season. I’ve enjoyed playing for you.”

  After that they said their goodbyes, and Char returned to her desk, carefully tucking the flyer where she’d remember to check the dates, and then she did her best to clear her decks for the moment.

  A knock had her glancing up.

  “Mandy,” she said, “how are you doing?”

  One of their most talented trainers for the Gold, Mandy was married to Blane, their veteran defenseman. She was also heavily pregnant.

  “I’m great. Fat and exhausted, but great.” She leaned against the doorjamb. “I wanted to invite you to my last-hurrah-before-I-push-out-a-kid dinner next week.” She lifted her hands. “It’s not a baby shower—I don’t need gifts. I just need some adult conversation before it’s all breastfeeding and dirty diapers.”

  “I thought Blane was on dirty diaper duty.”