Chapter Two

Then

 

“God fucking damn,” I cursed loudly, slamming the blade of my stick to the ice as the arena was silent, except for a few claps from Chicago’s traveling fan section.

Fucking assholes, the lot of them.

I skated into the bench, my good friend Caden Payne waiting for me by the door. He slapped my back twice as I stepped inside. I slammed my ass down to the bench and slid down, making room for both Payne and our roommate, Nick Kolak. The fourth in our apartment, Teague “Ketty” Ketterhagen, was skating in from his perch at goal.

“Alright, men, listen up,” Coach started the moment Ketty’s mitts hit the boards. Ketty was handed a water bottle and he flipped his facemask up onto the crown of his head, as Coach went over how the hell we were going to attempt to win this fucker in the last twenty-six seconds of the game.

We were down by two.

It could happen.

It wasn’t fucking likely, but it could happen.

Coach finished his spiel, and five of our men, plus Ketty, headed back out to the war-torn ice. My eyes glanced around the zones, up to the scoreboard, then over the once-crowded arena.

Once-crowded was a stretch, but we sure as shit had more people filling the seats fifteen minutes ago, than we had asses down now.

The Beloit Enforcers were new.

New the area. New to the American Hockey League.

At first, there’d been some excitement at the hockey team joining this small ass town that was known for its Hormel plant. But quite frankly, we weren’t a consistent group of hockey players, and those who started to call themselves fans, were quickly dwindling—and we weren’t even two full months into the season. I’d bet my left nut that all us men would find ourselves in a different locker room next year, because our parent NHL club in San Diego wouldn’t want to keep wasting money on us.

I really needed this season to go off without a hitch, though. I was getting ‘old’ in hockey standards. No, twenty-four wasn’t ancient, but when eighteen-year-olds were coming into camp like Wayne fucking Gretzky, it made a guy realize: one of these seasons, I was going to be a fixture in the AHL and not have a way out. I’d get older, start playing slower, and end up on the lowest of low totem poles.

I didn’t want to play the Big Game for the money. Sure, those zeroes looked fucking fantastic on the contract, but I grew up in a modest house, with penny-pinching parents. Eventually, after working their lives away, my parents bought a gorgeous lake house up north. It was huge, and it was theirs outright.

I wish I could have helped them with it. Given back to the two people who helped get me to where I was at today—the midget club days; the high school days. I’d gone to school on a scholarship, so that at least lessened their load.

I still wanted to give them something in return, but that was hard to do on a forty-K year.

Shit, I just wanted the chance to prove I was good enough, fast enough, tough enough, for San Diego. I wanted to be called up so fucking badly, and I’d do anything to prove I was what they were looking for. I wasn’t asking to be on their first line. I’d gladly take a spot on the fourth line, if it meant showing I had the grit they were looking for.

That I could go out during my shift and be the grinder I’d been labeled as, in college.

A grinder was a player who went out and played hard—whether that was stick and puck handling, or handling opponents against the boards. The grinder could be a heavy hitter, but was more than just a presence on the ice.

I could be that person.

Hell, I was that person.

Bzzzzz.

The buzzer and Kolak’s backhanded slap to my chest shook me from my thoughts, and I realized I missed the last twenty-some seconds, but apparently that was all I’d missed.

We were still down by two.

Which further meant we were officially the lowest-ranked team in our conference.

“Fuckin’ A,” I muttered, standing. While the other guys shuffled in toward the tunnel, Kolak and I moved to the ice, there to bring our boys back in. It was something the two of us started three weeks back after a really fucking good game, and even though we found ourselves doing it after one lost game after another, you didn’t mess with tradition.

“Maybe if we stopped doing this, we’d start winning,” Kolak threw over his shoulder, a smirk on his mug but a pissy gleam in his eyes.

“You wanna piss off the hockey Gods more than they already are?”

“Point.”

Kolak turned in right after slapping Ketty on his padded shin, and I bumped our goaltender’s helmet with my stick. “Good stops, Ketty.”

He muttered something, probably along the lines of all the swears I’d been cursing the entire game, but skated in, with me right on his heels.

“Prescott!” My name was called from the seats near the tunnel, but the woman pronounced it like biscuit.

Grated on my fucking nerves.

I glanced up to where the woman was standing. She was pretty, even in a heavy hoodie, as her long blonde hair fell over her shoulder. She was my type, that was for damn sure.

Too bad I wasn’t in the mood.

Or there was also the fact she wore a huge rock on her ring finger, a rock that could not go unnoticed as the woman’s arm hung over the rail, a folded piece of paper in her down-stretched hand.

Probably another phone number, though I’d have to admit it was my first from the married type. But hey, bunnies came in all shapes and types.

Who wanted to get it on after a shitty game like this one, though?

When my eyes met the woman’s, she reached the note down further. “My friend Ryleigh wanted to give this to you. She’s ridiculously shy,” the woman said.

Sure. Friend.

I grunted and reached up to take the paper, even though I had zero intentions to do anything with it. It would be finding a home in the nearest trash can.

“Good game, Noah,” the woman continued, turning to take the steps two at a time, which was quite the feat as they were deep-set stairs. I let my gaze follow her, hoping for some sort of twinge of excitement.

Yeah, yeah, I wasn’t in the mood for a bunny, but it had been a long damn time since I’d gotten laid. A few dates, heavy kisses, hands and fingers and bodily fluids...but no closing deals. I just couldn’t find prolonged excitement lately. My best guess would be because of the stress of the season.

At the top of the stairs, the woman met up with another female; this one dark where the other was light. Short, dark hair. Black hoodie, compared to the other woman’s light blue one. Nothing on her face, at least from what I could tell down here.

Then, when her eyes landed down on me…

The feeling in my gut was like no other.

I felt like I knew her… In fact, I even thought I recognized her, but I knew I did not know of any Ryleigh.

I had to fight a grin when the girl blushed to high heaven.

Huh.

Maybe I’d be keeping the note, after all.

***

“Attention, all you grumpy bastards!” One of the many rookies on the team, Jason Thompson, yelled from his spot at the end of the bus. “It is officially 11:11—” There was an interrupted addition of “23:11,” but Jason just kept talking.

That’s what the kid was good for. Talking.

“...on November 11th. Now, we’re a bunch of superstitious fools, so how about a word from our assistant captain, the one who wears our own brand of eleven? Noah! Take the floor.”

I groaned and sat further down in my seat, my wind pants sliding effortlessly against the leather. We weren’t lucky enough to have a plane—we had to drive this godforsaken bus every-fucking-where—but at least they afforded us leather. Cloth seats would stink to high heaven with the lot of us.

“C’mon, man,” Jason said, strutting up the aisles of the bus until he was next to my seat. “Give us some words of encouragement.”

“Fuck off, Jason.” I ran my hand through my short brown hair before pulling it roughly down my face.

“Good start, buddy.”

“I just want to sleep.”

“No ‘Go, team, go’?”

I knew I wasn’t going to get him off my case, but maybe if I turned my head to look out the window…

“You’re down to twenty-seconds.”

“Make them count, Prescott!” was yelled from the front of the bus. No doubt, it was Kolak. If he were close enough, I’d tell him what I thought of him for throwing me under the bus. Unfortunately, Kolak and Payne preferred the front of the bus, my man Ketty preferred the solitude of the back of the bus, and I always found myself smack-dab in the middle.

Figuring I wasn’t going to get out of this one, I shook my head and spoke up, not showing my face. “I just want to sleep, boys. So how about you all just sleep it off. Tomorrow’s a new day, new game. We have plenty of time to make something of ourselves.” I had a lot more to say, but it would do no good now. Besides, I just held the A to my chest; I wasn’t captain.

What I really wanted to say, though, was we had too much fucking potential to keep playing the way we had been. Rather than extending that potential though, we had guys who tired easily, or just plain wanted to slack off at the worst of times. If we all hustled from beginning to end, if we all fought hard and pushed for it, we could be a team at the top of the league. I felt it in my bones.

I said none of that, instead turning my attention back to the rook. “You happy?”

“‘Eh,” he said, shrugging a shoulder. “It could be better. Work on it.” The fucker laughed as he turned to move back to his spot in the rear.

Shaking my head, I tried to get comfortable. We were on our way down to Houston—one of those long-assed trips that would be much more comfortable on a plane. I never did sleep well on buses, but we’d hit town in the morning, have a quick tapes meeting where we’d go over plays and Houston’s play videos, and then nap.

Shit, I was most excited to nap. We may not have the best in transportation, but we stayed at some pretty nice hotels. I could imagine the down comforter...

As I closed my eyes, trying to feel the pillows and sheets, a vision of short, dark hair filled my mind, and I found myself digging the folded piece of paper out of my pocket.

It never did make it to a trash can…

Holding it up in front of my face, close enough to see the white in the dark confines of the bus, I flipped it between my fingers. Resting my elbow on the window sill of my seat, I rubbed at my temple with my index finger, debating.

I could still put it in the trash.

It wasn’t anything important.

I didn’t have time to make nice with a puck bunny.

This year, my focus was on proving myself worthy of a call-up. It was about playing the ice hard, not the field. Women wanted sex, but then they wanted commitment, and right now, the only commitment I had time for was with the team. I also didn’t need another person—in addition to my parents and sister—to have to worry about when it came time for me to move teams.

Not that I had to worry about them exactly, but where I ended up was as important to them as it was to me.

…But then that high blush filled my memory banks, and I could picture that same coloring going down the woman’s neck, flushing her upper chest…

I gave in.

I told myself it was because it was late, and I needed a quick laugh, a quick disgruntled groan, a quick...shit, something to ease my body into sleep.

With the note in hand, I reached up to turn on the light that accompanied my seat, hitting the soft-touch button with my pinky, before bringing the note back down and unfolding the sheet.

The handwriting was soft and feminine, but not loopy like some girls’, and the note was short, but much longer than just a telephone number.

Frowning, I let my eyes move over the sweeping of ink.

 

Noah—

I’m sure you get it all the time, but I must join the parade and inform you that you are gorgeous. Now, by no means am I a puck bunny, jersey chaser, what have you, nor is that my intent. I simply... Honestly, I’m not sure what I would accomplish by this, but I wanted to, so I did. And if you received it, that means a well-intending friend pushed me to go through with it.

On another note, you have an amazing talent that I cannot wait to watch grow as you move from AHL to NHL, as I’m sure you want from your career. I look forward to watching your career thrive.

—Ryleigh Scott

 

I turned the paper over, re-read the two short paragraphs, only to re-read it again, sure that I missed something, but nope...there was no number, no innuendo.

It wasn’t what I expected.

Sure, there was the gorgeous remark—I smirked as I reached up to turn off the light again. However, she hardly touched the comment before running off on another thought.

She’s ridiculously shy.

I thought back to glancing up at Ryleigh, or who I assumed was Ryleigh, after the game, and remembered the feeling of knowing her. I focused on it, trying to figure out how, or why.

Then it dawned on me.

She was a ticket holder—or, at minimum, she was lucky enough to score the same seats every game. There had been a number of occasions where I’d be on the ice, randomly looking out over the seats, and my eyes would settle on her.

The seat she occupied was right next to the railing separating seats from our tunnel, and the seat to her right was often empty. Whenever I noticed her, though, she’d have her head turned, talking to those around her, including the booster club president, Maryan. She may not always be there with someone, but she’d made friends with those around her.

Now that I thought of it…

There had been a time or two when my eyes would land on hers, and she’d look away quickly, that same blush from this evening highlighting her features.

Well, then…

If the note accomplished anything, it was that it left me more confused.

There wasn’t a come on; it was pretty much to the point—whatever the hell point she was making. Shit, I’d been called a cocky hockey player in more words than Ryleigh had used!

Now that I placed Ryleigh in more places than just tonight, I could definitely agree with the “not a puck bunny” statement. The label was thrown on girls who liked to plump up their tits and flirt, with the end goal of making it into bed. Ryleigh, though, was often in baggy sweatshirts.

Not saying anything bad about baggy sweatshirts.

Once again, my mind took a left turn and I pictured her in another hoodie—one that belonged to me.

Her hair a wild mess around her head.

A wide smile, her light eyes shining up at me as I leaned over her.

Damn.

Confused.

That’s what I was.

So fucking confused.

If the note had been at least somewhat of something I’d expected, I could channel my thoughts and put the damn thing aside, but now?

Now, I had Ryleigh on the brain.

So much for sleeping.