Backhand (Gold Hockey) Read online

  She released a breath, and the sweet burst of air caressed his lips. God, he wanted to kiss her again.

  He wanted to make love to her again.

  But before they could, he needed to know that she was with him.

  “Yeah?”

  She rolled her eyes. “I’ve always loved when you don’t give me a second to think and push me for an answer.”

  “I’ve always loved your sarcasm.”

  “Yeah?”

  He chuckled.

  Her shoulders lifted and dropped on a breath. “Okay.”

  “So we’re doing this?”

  Sara smiled and sat up. “I thought we were going to talk later.”

  Mike’s breath caught when she slipped from the bed then turned in the direction of the bathroom.

  He’d appreciated the up-close view of Sara’s body, but seeing her like this: sunshine dappling her skin, her ass jiggling slightly as she strode unabashedly across the bedroom, the little peek-a-boo of side boob as she paused at the door to the bathroom and crooked a finger at him, the red scar along her spine, an angry line leading to her hip—

  What?

  He was up and out of bed before his eyes had finished processing, standing in the doorway of the bathroom, staring at the mark in horror.

  “Shouldn’t you deal with that?” Sara pointed at the condom he still wore, bending over to peek in a cabinet, then another, as she searched for something.

  On her third try — and he wasn’t even in the right frame of mind to appreciate the sight — she pulled out three towels. He still stood on the threshold, but when she tossed a box of tissues at him, he mechanically caught it and took care of the condom.

  Sara was hanging the towels over the side of the shower when he finished then opened the glass door and cranked on the water.

  Only after she’d adjusted the temperature and turned back around did she seem to realize he hadn’t moved.

  “What’s the matter?”

  Fury boiled under his skin, blood actually pounded in his ears. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

  Because he knew what that scar was shaped like.

  A skate blade.

  Sara’s eyes closed, her chest lifted on a long inhale. She let that breath out slowly before speaking. “It’s not what you think.”

  “My mind is not in a good place, Sara. So you’d better explain. Quickly.”

  She crossed her arms. “Don’t be an asshole. I don’t have to tell you anything. You’re not my father or my boss or—”

  “I’m the man who was inside you less than five minutes ago.”

  Twin spots of pink appeared on her cheeks. “That’s not the point.”

  He was across the bathroom in two strides, his chest against hers, pressing her back against the shower wall. Water sluiced over their skin, heated trails dripping down his face, soaking into her hair. He reached an arm behind him and closed the door.

  “The point is that I thought we were doing this together.”

  Her expression was as furious as he felt. “The future. Building something together doesn’t mean we need to rehash every fucking thing from our past.” She lifted her chin, fixed him with a glare. “Especially shit that doesn’t matter.”

  Except, if it really didn’t matter, then she would just tell him.

  “Spill it, Sara girl.”

  “There’s nothing to spill,” she ground out, trying to slip to the side.

  Mike pinned her in place with his hips and grabbed her cheeks, forcing her eyes to his when she might have turned her stare away. “Yes. There is.”

  “No.” Her lips pressed flat. “There isn’t.”

  This couldn’t work. He didn’t have a chance at out-stubborning Sara. Never could.

  So Mike changed tactics. He kissed her, hard and hot and enticing, and when he broke away, they were both panting. Sara was no longer trying to escape him; rather, she was leaning into him and rubbing her breasts across his chest.

  He liked that. Probably too much since he was trying to be lucid enough to figure out why in the fuck his girl had a ten-inch scar along her back.

  Just the thought of that jagged, angry line infuriated him enough to pull blood from his dick and funnel it north to get his brain to work.

  “How’d you get the scar?”

  Her head plunked back against the tile, slipping her cheeks free of his grasp. “Can’t you just let it go?”

  He pushed a strand of sodden hair off her face. “No, honey. I’m sorry. I can’t.”

  His tone was gentle, the words soft.

  And finally, they seemed to get through her armor.

  She swallowed hard. “I’ll tell you. But let’s shower first. I — I can’t do this here.”

  Mike started to open his mouth, to ask why location made a difference, but Sara raised a hand to his jaw.

  “It’ll make sense later.” Her smile was sad. “Just know I need to be warm and dry to tell it, okay?”

  He nodded and stepped back, letting her have most of the water. When she’d wet her hair, he handed her shampoo then soap.

  “Sorry,” he murmured. “I don’t have that conditioner stuff girls use.”

  Another smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “I’ll survive.”

  Unfortunately, Mike thought the sentiment was all too true.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  SARA CLENCHED THE towel tightly to her breasts, watching Mike rub the cotton along his chest and legs before tying it around his waist.

  Unfortunately, she was completely unable to appreciate the sight.

  Why hadn’t she realized that he would see the scar?

  Of course he would notice.

  Impulsivity.

  Always her downfall.

  “Here.”

  She blinked. Mike had slipped out of the bathroom and dressed without her noticing. He wore sweats and was holding a shirt out for her.

  “Oh,” she murmured, fumbling to hold the towel and grab the slip of cotton. Both fell from her fingers, puddled on the floor. “Crap.”

  “Don’t move.” He bent, slung the t-shirt over his shoulder, then picked up the towel. But when he brought the terrycloth around to her back, she flinched away.

  Not the scar. Don’t touch me there.

  “I said don’t move.” And gently, oh… so… gently, Mike brushed the towel along her back, up her spine, between her shoulders, mopping up the water she’d missed.

  He slipped the shirt over her head and lifted her into his arms. A moment later, she was back in bed, under the covers cradled against Mike’s chest.

  The position hurt her hip, and she shifted, feeling her mind clear slightly when his arms came up to hold her in place.

  It almost made her smile, almost, when the hard limbs gripped her tighter.

  “It happened six years ago,” she said, picking up his hand so she could adjust her position, to allow her aching hip some relief. “I really should be more fully recovered. I mean, I can run again, within reason, but yoga is still a pain. Not that I really work at it. It’s still Satan’s idea of exercise. I’m fine. It’s just that things get stiff if I’m in one spot for too long or if I do some new activity—”

  She broke off. One, because she was rambling, and, two, because she realized what new activity she’d participated in the previous evening. Her cheeks felt red-hot, and her eyes shot to Mike’s.

  “I like that, sweetheart,” he murmured. “That this isn’t common for you, that I’m one of the few men who get to touch you—”

  “The one man.”

  He frowned. “What?”

  “You’re the one man I’ve been with,” she said then hurried to add when his face paled, “Not ever. Just since the accident.” Sara shrugged. “It’s why I forgot about the scar.”

  His silence was followed by a long, slow breath. “That’s good.”

  She frowned at the relief in his words. “Would it have mattered if I was a virgin?”

  Now was his turn to frown. “Is t
his a trick question?”

  “No.” Sara tugged at the comforter; the man was like a furnace wrapped around her, an electric blanket on steroids. “But why would you care if I had been one?”

  “Why would I care if you’d been a virgin?” he asked, lifting his arm and pulling down the blanket so it was at their waists rather than their shoulders.

  She huffed out a breath, stilled his hand when it went to crawl under the hem of her t-shirt. “Yes. Why that?”

  “Because I would have wanted to do a better job.”

  Oh. Oh.

  And somehow sprawled in bed, bickering with Mike about something completely unimportant was right.

  The story, the truth about the accident slipped from her almost as easily as breathing… or maybe it was like getting her breath back after the wind had been knocked from her lungs.

  Painful but necessary.

  “I’d gone on several dates with Leo Tomskoi after the Olympics, but it never went anywhere. We were both too busy — he was on the professional ski circuit, and I had the skating tour, interviews, endorsements, visits to schools. You name it. My agent and publicist had me signed up for it.”

  “Sounds exhausting.”

  She smiled. “Yeah. But exhilarating too. You know I always loved that side of it.” Her lips twisted. “Especially since the press had been nothing but kind to me.”

  “You were good at being the media darling.” A brush of his fingers across her cheek. “Too charismatic by half.”

  “Except with you.”

  “If you only knew.” His words were so tortured that Sara started to ask what was wrong, but he waved her off. “Then what happened?”

  “He called me a few years after everything came out, said he knew I wouldn’t cheat, that he didn’t believe a word of the press’s nonsense.” The parallels between him and Mike were obvious. Except, of course, for the fact that Mike actually believed her. And Leo… well, Leo had wanted to get back at her.

  A hand slid down her spine, and she shuddered out a breath. “He took me out on one date, then another, then he kidnapped me—”

  Sara felt him stiffen beneath her. “Not like that. I mean it was supposed to be romantic, and it was. In a way.” She shook her head. Rambling again. “Leo blindfolded me, took me to a frozen pond. He had blankets and food, ice skates and candles.”

  The moon had been bright on that clear night, the stars cheerfully visible. It had been cold as hell, of course, but the most romantic gesture ever.

  Or so she’d thought.

  And those skates. Her skates. They were her kryptonite.

  “Turned out his stepsister was Rebecca Julian. She’d finished third at Nationals.” Her words caught in her throat. “I — I didn’t even know they were related.”

  “What happened?” Two words, deadly soft.

  Sara remembered the surprise push from behind as Leo had leaned down to kiss her, the crack of her face against the ice when he’d moved back to let her fall, the burn as the cold made contact with her exposed skin. She remembered the blood from her nose dripping down her face as she’d looked up to see Leo skating away.

  And then the agony of sharp steel piercing skin.

  Rebecca Julian had never made it to the highest level of competition.

  Because of Sara.

  Because of the cheating.

  Because Sara had taken her spot.

  “I got cut.” Rebecca had stepped on her, trampled Sara beneath a skate blade like a toddler crunching a fallen leaf. “They left me out there.”

  “Sara, honey.” Gritted out words, false calm from Mike in the wake of furious brown eyes. “That’s not an answer.”

  “She shoved me down. I was cut by an errant blade, and they left.” Sara shuddered, remembering the blood — hot at first, then cold, so cold — spreading over her skin.

  “They found me the next morning. I had frostbite on my fingers, my nose, but the worst was obviously the injury on my back.”

  “They left you?” If Mike had been furious before, now that fury looked like mild irritation. “They sliced you with a fucking skate blade and left you to die?”

  “I didn’t say—”

  “You didn’t have to!”

  He erupted out of bed, the motion knocking her to the mattress, before he paced the room in rage-filled strides. Curse words spewed through the air, many of which she’d thought plenty of times over the years.

  “I didn’t learn until later that an anonymous male caller had phoned the police that morning. Made sure I didn’t die out there.”

  Leo had an episode of conscience. Or so she presumed.

  By the time she’d reached the point of asking, months later in her recovery, he hadn’t taken her calls.

  Not her finest moment, letting that pass, putting off the doctors and police when they pointed out that her very illogical cutting-herself-on-her-back-with-her-own-skate-blade explanation was impossible.

  But she also couldn’t completely regret the act and her passivity.

  Her cowardice was why she’d come to San Francisco in the first place. Running.

  Sara had wanted to get as far away from her old life as possible. Somewhere warm, somewhere large with a community for artists. She’d wanted to get lost in a big city, but not one rampant with paparazzi.

  L.A. had been out.

  San Francisco in.

  “Fuck!” Mike. She’d been viscerally aware of his agitation, of his pacing and muttered curses, but the outburst still made her jump.

  “It’s—”

  Furious brown eyes whipped toward her. “If you’re going to finish that sentence with okay then don’t bother.” He was at the bed in an instant. “You’re not close to okay, Sara. You’re so far fucked that I don’t know how to fix you.”

  Wow.

  She’d always been surprised that words could hurt so badly when they didn’t create a mark.

  Or a physical one, anyway.

  Because that slice across her heart…

  Her breath whooshed out in a rush. “I’ve never asked you to fix me.”

  Sara should have said she didn’t need fixing, that she was perfect the way she was. But she wasn’t delusional.

  She had problems.

  “Christ.” He thrust a hand through his hair. “You never do, Sara. You never do.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” She clutched the blankets to her chest, a cotton barrier against whatever he was going to say next.

  “It means—” Mike blew out a breath, shook his head.

  His phone buzzed.

  “It means I’ve got to get to the airport for the team’s flight.” He crossed to the closet, words suddenly rushed and brusque. “We’re flying to Los Angeles for our game against the Kings. I’ll be home late tonight. We’ll have to table this until tomorrow.”

  Table this?

  This being the discussion about the story he’d all but forced out of her?

  The story that had made him furious… at her. Logically, she could understand anger as a reaction to what had happened to her. She’d been angry plenty of times over the last six years, at herself for not going to the police, at Leo and Rebecca for wanting to hurt her. But that didn’t make Mike’s reaction any more palatable.

  She wanted him to be mad for her, not mad at her.

  “Mike,” she said.

  He popped his head out. “Do we really have to do this now? I’ve got stuff to do.”

  “For the game,” she said, expressionless.

  “Yes, of course for the game.”

  And she might have believed him, if not for the look in his eyes.

  He wanted her gone.

  Well, that problem, at least, she could solve.

  After tossing the covers aside, Sara stood and snagged her clothes. She was glad she’d had the foresight to fold and stash them on the armchair in the corner of the room.

  It made getting dressed quick work.

  Mike was talking again, something about pregame ro
utines and puck drop, flights home and potential delays. She ignored him, slipping into her shoes then opening the app on her phone to call an Uber.

  One staircase down with stiff legs, one alarm-code input, one door shut behind her.

  The Uber pulled up as she was approaching the gate. She was inside, and it was driving away before the metal barrier had begun to close.

  Silence reigned on the way to her apartment.

  The driver didn’t speak, her phone didn’t ring, didn’t buzz, and her heart… that fragile organ, a delicate papier-mâché project still forming — attempting to dry even as its wet weight tried to collapse in on itself — cracked and crumbled.

  It dissolved to ash.

  But ash sometimes made the strongest type of armor.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  MIKE SHOULD HAVE felt like the biggest jackass on the planet when he walked, fully dressed, out of the closet and found his bedroom empty.

  But he didn’t.

  Hence, the Biggest Jackass Award.

  Instead, the emotion that poured through him was relief.

  Relief that he didn’t need to hash out the feelings inside him, that he didn’t need to face the guilt.

  Yes. Guilt.

  Why had he let Sara go?

  Everything was his fault.

  “Fuck,” he muttered and swiped a hand down his face.

  The martyr complex was stupid, he understood that. He knew it was impossible to control the rest of the world, that he wouldn’t have been able to stop her coaches from cheating her, couldn’t have hoped to prevent the betrayal.

  But he would have been there for her.

  She wouldn’t have been alone.

  “Fuck,” he said again and strode from the room. It still smelled like Sara, soft and floral and with just the barest hint of pencil lead. The scent may as well have been embedded into his pores.

  He pounded down the stairs, twisted the knob for the door leading to the garage, and stopped.

  Had that been there the night before? Or had Sara dropped—

  Shaking his head, Mike picked up the folded piece of paper. Of course it hadn’t been in the middle of the floor last night. It was obviously one of Sara’s drawings, the material the thick white paper from her sketchbooks.