Chapter 8

EDWIN “DON’T-CALL-ME-EDDIE” MOTZ WHIPPED out the rag he carried everywhere and rubbed at some imaginary smudge on the Cup. Guy treated it like a mom cleaning off schmutz from her kid’s cheek, except whereas Ford’s mom would have used God’s natural cleaner—the old tissue-saliva combo—Edwin would never dream of sullying the Cup with his bodily fluids.

He was about the only one who held it in such high regard.

The stories Ford had heard curled his toes. People feeding their family, friends, and dogs right out of the Cup. Players baptizing their kids in it. Fuckwits taking a piss in it. It had been mistreated for years, yet like the class act it was, it came up shining new every year. And that was mostly down to the Keeper of the Cup, Edwin Motz.

“Looks good, Edwin.”

The guy peered at him through his oversized glasses. Ford felt certain that if Edwin had a choice on whether to push Ford or the Cup out of the way of a runaway truck, Ford’s funeral would get a semi-decent turnout.

“She’s ready to be seen,” Edwin said with tremendous gravity.

Waiting outside was a bevy of kids, parents, club staff, and media who had gathered at the Chicago Pirates rink, the Tier I junior hockey club where Ford had honed his blades before going to Vermont and playing NCAA. Most of the guys took the Cup back to where it all started for them and Ford was no exception. The Pirates club was where each of the Callaghans had become men.

The door opened and Sean O’Hurley, his old coach, put his head around the door. “Got some visitors for ya, Fordie.” His name was barely out of Sean’s mouth, and his nephew Mikey bounded in, closely followed by Coby and Petie.

The sight of the Cup rendered them speechless. As it should.

“So that’s what it takes to shut them up,” Marcy said, walking in behind them with Jax.

Ford spared a smile for Marcy and a nod for his brother. He’d left early this morning so they hadn’t talked since last night. Since before he’d gone to see Addy.

What had he been thinking? Just attacking her like a lion taking down a gazelle the minute he crossed the threshold. And not just any threshold either. Harper Chase’s home. One word in one ear and Ford would be fucked, and not in a nice way.

But he didn’t think Harper would do that. She was Addy’s friend, and she had never struck Ford as malicious.

Perhaps he’d text Addy later, check in and make sure she wasn’t suffering from a severe case of rug burn on that gorgeous rear of hers. Christ, that ass was a work of art and hell if it didn’t fit his palms just right.

He looked down, newly conscious that Mikey was speaking while Ford’s thoughts had shot over the plexi.

“What’s that, kid?”

“Can we touch it?”

“You bet you can. Try lifting it if you want.”

Edwin shot Ford a look, so he quickly put the Keeper at ease. “Just kidding, Eddie, they’d never—”

Shit. Ford just about managed to get to the Cup before it toppled over and crushed one or more of his nephews.

“Jesus,” Jax said, but there was humor in it. He grabbed Mikey by the collar. “That weighs as much as you. At least forty pounds.”

“Thirty-four-point-five, to be exact,” Edwin cut in.

Jax and Ford shared a moment. Ford knew Jax had that information down to the ounce. He was just being a smart-ass.

“Where’s your name?” Petie asked, squinting at the miniscule engraving.

Ford pointed to where his name had been etched along with the rest of the team and the coaches. He loved how the league handled it—not a replacement trophy each year for the winning team and not leaving it at just the team name. Everyone got a piece and it stayed that way until the band filled up. Sixty-five teams could fit on the Cup and the Rajuns’ band wouldn’t be removed until they’d run out of room. A lot of years left for his name to shine, and after that the strip would be placed in the Hockey Hall of Fame.

Immortality.

Ford slid a glance to his brother who was studying the engraving. Was he wishing that F was a J? Wishing F would eff himself? This had to be killing him.

Jax finally looked up, his eyes soft before they flattened. “Thanks for doing this.”

Ford heard an apology in there, and it was good enough. He didn’t want to spend his last couple days in Chicago fighting with his brother. Paulie wouldn’t have wanted it this way. They had to make peace, even if it was stilted.

“Gotta have some perks, right?”

Coach put his head around the door. “Not gonna be able to keep them out for much longer, Fordie.”

Ford looked at Edwin. “You ready, chief?”

Edwin waved in resignation. “So it begins.”

Addison sank below the bubble-laden surface of the tub in Harper’s guest bathroom, relaxing for the first time that day. She’d been running around like a headless hen trying to get her ducks in a row for her move into her new loft apartment in the West Loop. This city was going to work for her. Big and bold and brash, just like Addison herself. Having a friend like Harper to smooth her entrance into the social circles would make all the difference.

And then there was Harper as Miss Matchmaker.

Addison chuckled to herself, thinking of that gleam in her friend’s eye when she proposed creating a list of eligible men. Suitable men.

Men not like Ford Callaghan.

Bye-bye, happy place.

She shouldn’t have given him her number. Not because it was a terrible idea for them to be in contact—which it was—or because the sizzling chemistry between them could go nowhere—which it couldn’t—but because eighteen hours had passed and he hadn’t used it.

The pain in his eyes when she opened the front door last night had cut her in half. And then the way he’d plowed into her body as if he wanted to split her in half had pretty much done her in. His mastery of her was a thing of beauty, but it was a beauty that could turn ugly very quickly. She thought she’d done the right thing—the mature thing—in offering to be his shoulder and even if he had to be all close-mouthed typical male about it, she’d hoped he would get in touch just to . . . get in touch.

A night and day later, and nothing.

Annoyed at her weakness and no longer able to enjoy this so-called relaxing bath, she pulled the plug, clambered out, and dried off. This was for the best. No good could come of it anyway. He was too young, too hot, too off limits.

Out of my mind you go, Ford Callaghan. Gracias for all the orgasms.

Her ears perked up like a lioness sensing danger on the savanna. What was that? Oh, hell. Exiting the bathroom, she almost broke her ankle sprinting to catch her ringing phone.

Missed call. She didn’t recognize it and it could be anyone. She wouldn’t usually answer an unknown number, except it might be . . .

It rang again.

“Hello?”

“Hey.”

Thank God.

That voice like dark, decadent chocolate seeped into her bones, warming her more than the steaming water she’d just left. She sank down onto the bed, pulling at her towel nervously.

“Hey,” she said back, sort of sharpish because she felt foolish at how ridiculously relieved she was to hear his voice.

“Sorry I didn’t call sooner. It was my day with the Cup and I had a thing.”

Of course. She’d read that last night and it completely flew from her brain.

“How’d it go?”

“Good. I took it to my old junior club so there were a lot of kids with their parents. My nephews as well. They went wild for it.”

She laughed. “I bet. They must be your biggest fans.”

“I don’t know about that. They like the merch, for sure.”

“So your family lives in Chicago?” She knew this already, but now it struck her strange he was staying in a hotel.

“Yeah, I’m staying with them now. It’s . . . been a while since I’ve seen my brother. Been a while since I’ve been home.”

So much meaning laden in that word. Home. Her heart checked, remembering what she’d learned about his past. That sorrow still hung over him like a heavy cloak. “Away games don’t count,” she said in sympathy.

“No, they don’t.”

She lay back on the bed, adjusting the phone to her ear. “He must be proud of you. Your brother.”

Long pause. “He is. Well, I guess he is. It’s just not how we imagined it would turn out.”

“I read about Paul. I’m so sorry, Ford.”

“Thanks, sweetheart. It was a long time ago, but thanks all the same.” He waited a beat. Then another. She let him get there on his own schedule. “Things with my brother have been a bit strained.”

“Since the accident?”

“Yep.”

Ten years. This poor family, how they must have suffered. “Are your parents still around?”

“No. My dad died of cancer about six years ago, and my mom didn’t last much longer after that. Paulie’s death really took it out of her. He wasn’t supposed to go like that.”

No one is. In those words, she heard the guilt he carried with him. She longed to throw her arms around him, console him with her body. But there could be no more of that. Giving him her number was purely so he could use her metaphorical shoulder, not her actual breasts, for comfort.

Ford’s messy hair brushing against her breasts . . . Focus, Addison.

“Tell me about your brother, the one who lives in Chicago.”

“Jax? He’s so talented.” He paused. “Well, he was. A wall of badass, nothing got by him. But quicker than someone his size should have been. He wasn’t the same after the accident.” Because of me, he may as well have said. All those regrets and if onlys.

“You were so young, Ford. Just a kid.”

“Old enough. I was responsible for them. For getting them home safe. For making sure Paulie got to Toronto. Fuck—” He broke off, his memories overtaking his speech and sending it into a stall.

She sat up, her heart aching at his pain. What she would do to try to ease it if they were in the same room. “Baby, I’m here.”

He huffed a laugh. It sounded rusty. “I didn’t call to get all maudlin, y’know.”

“No? Why did you call?”

“I could say I wanted to know what you were wearing but I think we’ve moved past that, don’t you?”

She chuckled. “Probably.” It felt like they’d leapfrogged all the steps and landed right in the comfort zone. How had that happened? “So, if you’re not interested in this itty-bitty-little towel that’s barely hanging on”—at his groan, she giggled evilly—“and you don’t want to confide all your problems, then what’s on your mind, Callaghan?”

“I’d like to see you again.”

Ah. That’s what she’d been hoping and dreading in equal measure.

“You know we can’t. You know it’s a terrible idea.”

“So you say.”

She thought about that, probably for too long because he spoke again.

“My family’s throwing a party for me tonight at Jimmy’s Tap in Bridgeport. Any chance you could stop by?”

A public event with people taking photos and uploading them to social media? Was he out of his Cup-winning mind?

“You know what I just said about this being a terrible idea. That goes double for public meetups in bars. Besides, that’s not what’s going on here, is it? This was never supposed to be anything more than—”

“Screwing in secret?”

“Right.” That shouldn’t have hurt her heart the way it did. She had “met” him three days ago and she sure as hell wasn’t interested in anything more. Likely, her feminine pride was wounded because he had reduced it to its basest elements.

Pick a lane, Williams.

“I should go or my hair will dry into a bird’s nest. So . . . good luck, Callaghan.”

She heard his long intake of breath, a build to something more. But all he said was “Take care, sweetheart,” and ended the call, leaving her chilled—and not from the damp towel wrapping her body either.