Backhand (Gold Hockey) Page 5

  Except, that wasn’t true.

  He could almost understand how someone who didn’t know her might believe that. But her friends and family? The way they’d crucified her on social media and to the press…

  Sara’s fall off her pedestal had been abrupt and from an exceptional height. She was banned from competitive skating, both in the U.S. and internationally. She couldn’t coach, wasn’t even allowed to teach a four-year-old how to stand up on a pair of skates.

  “Fuck,” he muttered, shoving his feet into sneakers and popping his earbuds in.

  The Gold were still on the road, would be for another four games. Mike had arrived at the arena early. He’d played for the Columbus Blue Jackets for a season, knew the ins and outs of their home rink.

  Which was good because he needed to blow off some steam.

  What he didn’t account for was Brit and Stefan standing outside the visitor’s locker room. Oh, he knew they came to the games early — initially separately and now that their relationship was out and proud, so to speak, they came together.

  They each wore sneakers and had their headphones on. Ready to go. Except that they appeared to be waiting for him.

  Mike paused, wondering what the hell to say. He’d been upset since the fight with Sara, but he hadn’t gone off the deep end. Had his inner turmoil screwed with the team?

  He waited for them to lay into him, but his teammates, hell, his friends — and good God, when was the last time he’d been able to say that? — didn’t speak.

  Instead, Brit raised a brow at his hesitation, pushed past him, and jogged into the arena.

  “Oh God, you’re going to let her go first?” Stefan moaned, taking after her.

  Mike shook his head, confused as he turned his music to blaring and followed.

  It took him two-point-two seconds to understand Stefan’s complaint.

  Brit set a blistering pace, jogging up the stairs of one aisle, down the opposite side, then across a row and into the next section. Up. Down. Across. Over and over.

  And, fuck, but she was fast.

  Mike was sucking wind by the fifth aisle, almost ready to puke by the last, and Stefan was no better off. When Brit stopped after they’d made the full weaving circle of the lower bowl, both of them collapsed to the ground, chests heaving, breaths coming in rapid gusts.

  Brit stood lithe and graceful as a ballerina, one foot calmly bent behind her to stretch her quad.

  She wasn’t even out of breath.

  “How?” he gasped, yanking out his earbuds. They vibrated from the music still blasting in them against his shoulders, the rapid pound-pound-pound of the punk band he preferred.

  “How what?” Brit switched legs.

  “How… are… you—” he sat up, sucked in a huge breath, tried to steady his racing heartbeat “—not even tired?”

  She smirked and sank down next to him, continuing to stretch like a pretzel with what also appeared to be very little effort. “You’re listening to the wrong music.”

  Mike frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean—” she dropped her voice and glanced around, as though imparting state secrets “—your music sucks. Makes you run slow.”

  Stefan groaned and pushed up to sitting next to them. “Don’t listen to her, Stewart. Remember that her idea of good music is Miley Cyrus.”

  He winced. Yeah, if he heard “Party in the U.S.A.” in the locker room one more time he might blow chunks.

  “Yeah,” Stefan said. “Knew you’d see it my way.”

  “Whatever, losers.” Brit stood. “Just remember who runs faster,” she called, heading back down the hall toward the visitors’ room.

  “But who can skate faster?” Stefan called back.

  “I’m a goalie! I don’t need to skate fast.” Her voice was almost drowned out by the pop music kicking on in the locker room.

  Mike chuckled and reached for his phone, pausing his playlist.

  “You know we’re here for you, right?” Stefan said.

  In the past, Mike might have made some snarky remark about heart-to-hearts, and Stefan not really giving a damn.

  But Stefan did.

  In Mike’s entire playing career, he’d never seen a more devoted captain. Stefan cared about every single person in the Gold organization.

  Legitimately cared.

  Mike hadn’t believed it at first, had thought it was a superficial façade. And if there was one thing he hated it was liars.

  Turned out, he’d been wrong about Stefan.

  So instead of brushing off his captain, he told the truth. “I’m all twisted up about a girl.” He thrust a hand through his hair. “It’s like high school all over again.”

  And his feelings, lust and love and frustration, were all tangled up inside his gut. Pathetic, really, but there it was.

  “This Sara?”

  Mike cut his eyes toward Stefan who shrugged unapologetically.

  “Brit,” they both said simultaneously then grinned.

  “Never seen you with a girl,” Stefan said after a moment.

  “Never been any but this one.”

  Stefan blew out a breath. “Well, fuck. It’s that?”

  Mike nodded. “Yeah.”

  “So why aren’t you going after her?” Stefan bumped his shoulder. “Or did you already fuck things up?”

  “Not really.” He stood. Well, truthfully, he had fucked it up with Sara. Both then and now.

  “Aw, fuck man, that means yes. Well, I’m sure you can fix it. Turn on some of that Stewart charm.” Stefan’s lips twitched as he pushed to his feet. “It’s got to be in there somewhere.”

  “It’s not that easy.”

  “Why not?” Stefan asked. “You love the girl, you go after her.”

  Ha. “And it was that simple for you and Brit?”

  “Brit and I were different. We had complications because we’re on the same team, because she was the first woman in the league.”

  “Yeah, you guys had it tough. But Sara had it bad too.”

  Stefan froze, his blue eyes blazing with fury. Their captain was an easygoing guy, but mess with his teammates or someone he considered innocent or vulnerable, and the man did not mess around. “Did someone hurt her? Do we need to—?”

  A noose Mike hadn’t realized was wrapped around his insides loosened.

  Stefan hadn’t asked, “Did you hurt her?” Instead, he was ready to kick the fucker’s ass. Or at the very least, hold the jerk down while Mike did the honors.

  Unfortunately, Sara’s problems weren’t on so small a scale — not that he wouldn’t give his left nut to break every bone in her former coach’s body. But her issues were on an epic, global, very public format.

  “I almost wish it were that simple,” he said.

  “Then what?” Stefan asked. “What can we do?”

  There went that loosening again, the bindings on his lungs slackening, feeling as though he could truly breathe for the first time in years.

  “I don’t know,” he said honestly, “because my Sara is Sara Jetty.”

  “Well fuck,” Stefan breathed.

  “Yeah,” Mike said. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  SARA STIFLED A curse when she stubbed her toe on something large and heavy that hadn’t been there the night before.

  “Oh come on,” she muttered when her inner teenager giggled at the unintentional sexual innuendo and then thought, That’s what she said.

  “You’re an adult, Sara. Act like one.” She fumbled along the wall, turned on the storeroom’s lights.

  Then winced when they revealed the sight.

  The room was packed, absolutely packed, with wooden pallets and crates.

  A whining noise escaped her, and she didn’t bother to berate herself for the un-adult-like behavior. “Ugh. Why Mitch?”

  Today was Wednesday. Friday was shipment day. Friday she expected the storeroom to look like this.

  This wasn’t Friday.
>
  And she was tired.

  Really, really tired.

  Ten days since her argument with Mike. Ten days since sleep had gone by the wayside.

  The plus was that she’d drawn a lot. The minus was that she couldn’t sell any of it, since everything was of Mike.

  And so it was Wednesday, and she was a real-life version of a walking, talking zombie.

  Red eyes, pale skin, shuffling steps.

  “Ugh,” she said again. Why had Mike come back into her life and peeled back the layer of numb she’d surrounded herself with?

  Life had been so much more comfortable when she hadn’t really felt anything.

  But Mike had traipsed back into her existence and burst through her barriers, and now she was all exposed and uncomfortable and… shit.

  The bell above the front door dinged, and she straightened, her ribs already aching in anticipation of dealing with all the boxes, before calling out, “This is fucked up, Mitch! You do not pay me enough to deal with the amount of shit packed into this room!”

  And silence.

  And — shit, shit, double shit — there was only silence in response.

  Which meant she must have forgotten to lock the front door of the store, and a customer had snuck in early and—

  “Always did have a mouth on you, Jumping Bean.”

  Every single cell in her body froze then rocketed to full attention, honing in on the voice, whirling her body in a movement so fast that ninjas would have been jealous.

  Mike.

  She couldn’t hold back the breath of relief that slipped through her lips.

  If she’d had a cartoon bubble over her head it would have read, Thank-freaking-God.

  He hadn’t left her in the past, hadn’t decided she wasn’t worth the trouble.

  And Sara hadn’t even realized that she’d been worried about that until Mike was in front of her, eyes cautious but hopeful.

  “Hi,” she whispered.

  One brow rose. “Hi.” He leaned back against the doorframe, crossed his arms. “What did Mitch do?”

  A snort, a wave of her hand to the disaster zone that was the storeroom. “Umm. Basically all this wasn’t here when I left last night.”

  Mike’s gaze flicked around the space. “All of it?”

  Her shoulders sagged, and with a sigh, she bent to open the first box. “Yeah. All of it.” She tore the flaps open. “Mitch does nothing halfway.”

  “That, I can see.”

  “He has this idea for an online art store. Which would be great—” She pulled out a gorgeous glass vase and carefully set it beside her before pushing the paper in the box to the side and retrieving two more nearly identical pieces. “—if he bought reasonable amounts. Or we had the storage space available.”

  Sara picked her way through the room and managed to place the pieces in a velvet-lined niche of cubbies that was built into one of the walls. Which was already full and, even though they moved merchandise at a pretty good clip, it would take weeks to make room for the pieces that Mitch had ordered.

  And they still had their regularly scheduled delivery on Friday.

  Which she knew since the delivery company had confirmed the previous day.

  Closing her eyes, she let her head flop backward and sighed. How her boss survived the business world was beyond her.

  The sound of wood scraping against concrete had her eyes flicking open, her gaze whipping to Mike.

  Who was bent over a pallet, shifting it to the side.

  “What—?”

  He shook his head. “Let me help.”

  “But—”

  “If we shift the bigger pieces to the side and take out the little boxes in between, we can get more space.” A grunt as he shoved the entire square of wood against the back wall. “Then we can stack the less-fragile stuff.”

  “But…”

  Mike straightened, flexed an arm. And good God, what an arm it was. She wanted to bite into it like a drumstick.

  Holy balls, Sara. Get a grip.

  “I’ve got muscles, sweetheart. Put ‘em to work.”

  That he did, but still, Sara hesitated. “Are you—”

  Two steps.

  That was all it took for him to get in her space, to tower over her, to crowd her back against the stack of boxes.

  Except it wasn’t aggressive… or well, it wasn’t disconcerting. Hell, that was a lie. It was both. The really unnerving part was that she liked it. Liked Mike so close, wanted him to come even nearer. She wanted nothing between them.

  Not inches. Not air. Not clothes.

  Her lungs hitched, and desire shot straight between her thighs.

  Mike as a teenager had been nearly impossible to resist. Mike as a man — strong, tall, muscles-for-days, not to mention the sexuality and confidence oozing out of every pore — and resistance was useless.

  “You have a game tonight. I don’t want you to be tired.”

  “You know my schedule, babe?” His flash of white teeth made her stomach tremble. It also made her lean closer for a better look.

  “Which is your fake tooth?” she asked, since she wasn’t going to answer his question about the schedule.

  Yes, she’d been watching the games. Yes, she knew that he was playing that night at home before heading to Los Angeles for their game against the Kings. Then they would be back at the Gold Mine — the fans’ nickname for Reynolds Arena — for an extended home stand.

  But come to think of it, knowing Mike had a fake tooth wasn’t really much better than knowing when and where his games were.

  Obsessed, meet pathetic.

  Mike stared at her for a moment before reaching down and gently encircling her wrist. He tugged her hand up, tapped her pointer finger to the tooth one left from the center. “This one.”

  Sara might have been embarrassed that she was practically performing a dental examination, if not for the fact that his movements had the side effect of bringing her very close to his body.

  She sucked in a breath, felt her breasts rub against his chest, and stifled a moan.

  Her hand was suddenly on Mike’s shoulder, her back firmly pressed against the wall.

  And — God — he smelled good.

  He had mint on his breath, the faintest hint of cologne on his body, spicy and wholly male.

  She wanted to burrow into him, to wrap the scent around her like a cat.

  She wanted him to press into her, to feel that body of his firmly against hers.

  And maybe she wanted to climb him like a tree so she could slant her mouth across his.

  “Sara.”

  His voice was gravely, and when she met his eyes, the need within them was enough to take her breath away, enough to finally spur her into motion.

  Enough for her to say, “Screw it.”

  She rose on tiptoe, leaned in, and pressed her mouth to his.

  Mike froze, but Sara didn’t immediately back away. She’d dreamed about this, wished for it, hoped that it might—

  Arms banded around her middle, a solid chest pressed tightly against hers, lips opened, and tongues tangled.

  And it was… glorious.

  Heat blossomed in her stomach, spread to her limbs, desire pooled deep and heavy and low.

  Her other arm came up, wrapped around Mike’s neck, and she tangled her fingers in the soft hairs on his neck. His hands slid, hitching under her butt, and pulling her closer to his mouth.

  She was wrapped pretzel-style around his body and not giving a damn when the very loud, totally indiscreet cough came from behind them.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  MIKE GAVE A mental groan and gently released Sara’s legs, letting them slide down to the floor. He made sure she was steady before turning to face whatever asshole had interrupted them.

  A tall man with shaggy dark hair, tan skin, and green eyes smirked from the doorway. He wore a fitted purple suit with brown shoes and a paisley shirt.

  If there was one thing besides hockey that Mike knew, it was s
uits — because he had to wear so many of them for game days.

  This man brought the suit game.

  Sara slid out from behind him and crossed her arms, glaring at the man. “What is this, Mitch?”

  Ah. So that was Mitch. The boss.

  And he should probably be feeling guilty for potentially getting Sara in trouble at work, but the kiss — her lips, her moans, her lithe body in his arms — was everything.

  Mitch cocked his head to the side, his gaze flicking between the two of them. “I’m thinking that I should ask you the same question.”

  “No,” Sara warned. “Really, you shouldn’t.”

  “Is this Text Message?”

  Mike’s brows raised, and he glanced over at Sara, whose cheeks had gone a little pink. “Text Message?” he whispered.

  “Shh, you,” she muttered before raising her voice. “Who he is doesn’t matter.”

  Ouch, Mike thought. Tell me how you really feel, Sara.

  “We need to discuss your ordering,” she said. “There’s not enough room for all this.”

  “I’ve secured a warehouse for the online items. They’ll be shipped here for photographs, then picked up, and transported there.” Mitch waved away Sara’s words when she started to respond. “We’ll discuss the details later.” His eyes cut to Mike. “For now, I think you’d better tell the truth to Text Message here.”

  “T-truth?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “You know, like the fact that who he is definitely does matter, given that you’ve been moping around here for the last week and a half.”

  Mitch turned, paused. “More kissing,” he called over his shoulder. “More kissing might soothe the sting of that one, honey.”

  And he disappeared into the front of the store. The phone rang, and he heard Mitch answer it.

  Only after Mitch seemed to have settled into a long conversation did Sara move.

  She rotated to face him, teeth nibbling on her bottom lip. Which made him want to kiss her all over again, not exactly the best thing in this moment, all things considered.

  Who he is doesn’t matter.

  Yup. That sounded about right. That sentiment had been drilled into him plenty of times over.

  “Mike,” she said.

  “Did you Google me?”