Chapter 3

FORD PACED HIS HOTEL room, the same mantra playing over and over in his head.

You’re a fucking idiot.

Every now and then he changed it up with fool or moron or even asshole when he was feeling particularly vitriolic, but the bottom line was the same. He had let Addy go without any idea how to contact her.

That she’d wanted this should have put his mind at ease. After he had come with such force on the balcony he might have hit the John Hancock Center two miles out, they’d both sat there for a few minutes, recovering in the night’s stillness. He’d wanted to give her the chance to make the next move, and in delaying, he’d scared her off.

Thanks, she had said, and then smaller, quieter, Good night.

It sounded a lot like goodbye.

His lust barely slaked, he could have gone all night. Shown her what every man she’d ever allowed in her bed had done wrong. They would have feasted on each other until dawn.

Instead, he’d let her go and then spent the night alone, jerking himself raw to the memory of those sounds she’d made when she came. Filled with regret this morning, he’d gone out to the corridor to knock on her door only to find housekeeping cleaning up. A dropped fifty led to the discovery that she had checked out.

Addy. He knew her first name. He knew the sounds she made when she imagined his fingers and tongue inside her.

He knew he was royally fucked.

His phone rang, a call from Jax. Back to reality we go.

“Hey.”

“Marcy said to call.”

Shit, he’d never answered the text from his brother last night because he was otherwise occupied getting a gorgeous stranger off on an open-air balcony in the middle of downtown Chicago. You couldn’t make this shit up.

Penthouse, check your mail.

“Tell her lasagna sounds amazing. I’m looking forward to a home-cooked meal.”

“You need to get yourself a woman instead of banging all those fans on the road.”

Ford snorted. They rarely spoke, but Jax had to know Ford was too serious about hockey to spend his spare time screwing anything that moves. Of all the Callaghan boys, Ford had been the most focused, hard-working, and driven. He didn’t have Jax’s brute force or Paulie’s natural talent, and now he bore the heavy mantle of the Callaghans, the dreams of their ghosts.

“Having a regular woman’s no guarantee of a home-cooked meal. Life on the road tends to put a damper on that.”

“Wouldn’t know,” Jax said on an exhaled breath.

No, he wouldn’t. His knee had a pin in it, so he’d missed his chance.

After two seconds of their customary awkward, Jax picked up the slack. “The kids are dying to see you. They can’t wait to touch the Cup. Pretty proud of their uncle even if he did do it with the Raisins instead of a decent team like the Rebels.”

The Raisins was the not-so-nice nickname given to the Rajuns. It used to bother him, but then he won the Cup, so fucking whatever.

“Sorry to inform you, bro, but the Rebels suck.”

Jax sighed, relief in that sound to be on the safer ground of local sports and the inevitable disappointment that came with being a Rebels fan. “Yeah, the old man’s still got a death grip on the reins. He’s been driving the team into the ground for years.”

It was a commonly held belief that Clifford Chase’s dominion over the Chicago Rebels had done more bad than good. They used to show promise but former player and NHL Hall of Famer Chase didn’t want to spend the money for decent skaters. His daughter was on tap to take over, but Ford—and just about everyone in the league—had their doubts about how a woman would fare in the cut-throat, testosterone-drenched world of professional hockey. It wasn’t as if this was pansy-ass football.

An alarm went boom in his head, and he had to struggle to refocus on the conversation. The voice on the other end of the line was no longer his brother’s.

“Uncle Ford?”

His nephew Coby, a wicked talented little skater who had all the makings of a great defensive linesman when he grew up. Give him twelve more years.

“Yeah, buddy, how’s it hangin’?”

“Are you going to bring me a Rajuns shirt signed by the players?”

Ford flicked a glance to his suitcase where he had packed away three Rajuns shirts, all autographed by the team. He’d even had to walk in on Kazakov’s hairy ass as he celebrated with not one, not two, but three “fans” on the night of the final game. Everyone was scattering the day after, so he took one for the team and bleached his eyeballs later.

The things he did for his family.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got you covered. Looking forward to seeing you. All of you.”

That tinge of guilt reignited in Ford’s chest. Surely Jax wouldn’t be angry Ford played it this way, arriving in Chicago a couple days ahead of schedule. Coming in early had given him time to adjust to being back in his hometown after so long. Away games didn’t count.

I’ve needed the quiet. The anonymity. Last night he’d reveled in guilt-free pleasure with a woman who knew nothing about his stats or his big contract or his tragic backstory.

The sound of a scuffle heralded the arrival of another nephew. Ford spent a few more minutes playing famous hockey-player uncle before he rang off.

Damn, he missed them. He missed them all. He didn’t want to play famous, absent, hockey-player uncle forever. At the grand old age of twenty-six, it wasn’t as if he’d been on the road forever, but the yearning to find a home—to make a home—was singeing the edges of his heart.

Now what was it that had pinged him while he was talking to Jax? He played back the conversation in his head. Chicago Rebels. Clifford Chase. Chase’s daughter.

Harper.

He knew he’d recognized her voice, that melodious, fifties sex-kitten lilt. He’d met her a few times over the years, usually at some hockey PR event. If she were plain, she would’ve had a better shot at being accepted in the locker room. But she was far from plain. She was an attractive woman with cupid-bow lips and a sexuality she was unafraid to flaunt.

For all her multiple attractions, however, she had nothing on her friend.

Addy.

Ford smiled to himself. Guess he had a call to make.