These girls have a long road ahead of them and quite frankly, in this reporter's opinion, I don't see much chance for them.

Taylor swallowed back the fury bubbling through her veins and replayed the clip. It was two minutes long. Two full minutes, filled with the same condescending, negative tripe as the bitch's last line.

A clip of Taylor stumbling on the ice at the end of practice.

I don't see much chance for them.

A clip of them huddled around the coach, their weak "Yes Coach" sounding weary and unenthusiastic.

I don't see much chance for them.

Another clip. This one of Chuckie talking to her, his hand on her shoulder, right before she went back onto the ice. The look on her face spoke volumes: anger, resignation, frustration. Is that how she always looked? No, it couldn't be. No way.

Oh God, it was awful. Worse than awful. The bits and pieces about Dad and Uncle JP and the Banners were great, bubbling over with enthusiasm. But the blips about the Blades—about her—were horrifying.

Depressing.

I don't see much chance for them.

She was going to kill Chuckie. Literally.

The screen on her phone lit up, flashing another number, one she didn't recognize. She flipped the phone upside down and ignored it, just like she'd been doing for the past hour, ever since the piece had aired.

This was bad. This was worse than bad.

And as much as she wanted to blame Chuckie, to lay all of this at his feet, she couldn't. Even she knew he wouldn't have done this deliberately. He couldn't have known how bad it was going to be. Could he?

No, he couldn't. It was his job to promote the team, not knock it down. There was no way he could have known.

That didn't mean she didn't want to kill him.

She hit replay and watched the clip again, searching for anything the least bit positive in it. The search was an exercise in futility because nothing positive existed. She should just turn it off. Pretend it never happened.

Go to sleep and wake up for work tomorrow and hope the whole thing would just disappear. It was just a stupid news clip, right? How many people actually watched the news until the end? Hardly anyone, right?

Taylor could almost believe that, if her phone hadn't started blowing up with calls right after the piece aired.

I don't see much chance for them.

"Screw you." Taylor leaned forward and grabbed the glass of iced tea as she hit replay once more. The sound of the doorbell startled her, causing her to spill some of the tea down the front of her shirt. She stared down at the brownish streak spreading across her shirt and sighed.

The doorbell buzzed again, louder this time. Taylor didn't want to answer it—she wasn't expecting anyone and figured if she ignored it, whoever it was would just go away.

She swore under her breath when the doorbell buzzed a third time then pushed herself off the sofa. Maybe it was just one of the kids who lived in the building, trying to sell something. Chocolate bars, maybe. She could go for some chocolate right now.

Except it wasn't a kid standing at the door.

Taylor blinked, her mouth dropping open in shock when a pair of deep ocean blue eyes stared back at her. She snapped her mouth closed and tightened her hand on the knob, ready to slam the door in Chuckie's face. He must have sensed what she was about to do because he stepped inside, his hand reaching out to hold the door open.

"I'm sorry."

"Go to hell." Taylor tried closing the door but he wedged his body against it, stopping her. "I mean it, Chuckie. Get out."

"I'm sorry. I didn't know—"

"Yeah, right."

"I swear it, Taylor. I had no idea."

She studied him for a long second, sensing the honesty in his words. And it didn't take a master of observation to see the misery in his eyes—the same misery that had been swamping her since the piece had run.

He looked tired. Worn out. Dark stubble covered his jaw and his hair was tousled and messy, like he'd been running his hands through it for the past hour. Faded jeans clung to his lean hips. The sleeves of the old, stretched out sweatshirt were pushed up past his elbows, exposing muscled forearms covered in the barest dusting of dark hair. She tried to hide her surprise when her gaze skimmed over the college insignia embroidered on the chest of the sweatshirt.

The man in front of her didn't look like the Chuckie she remembered—not the awkward boy from her childhood, and not the crisp, suit-clad man from the last few weeks. The man in front of her looked completely different. Tired. Stressed. Dejected.

Miserable.

Taylor sighed and loosened her hold on the door. She didn't step back, though, or invite him in. "What do you want, Chuckie?"

"I came to say I'm sorry." He held up a cardboard six-pack of a local craft brew. "And to commiserate."

"Chuckie, I don't think—"

"Misery loves company, right? Besides, this is probably the last time I'll see you. I'm pretty sure I'm going to be out of a job tomorrow."

Taylor hesitated, questioning the wisdom of what she was about to do. Then she sighed and stepped back. Chuckie gave her a half-hearted smile and moved past her, his gaze sweeping the small apartment.

She held her breath, waiting for him to comment. To say it was smaller than he expected; to ask why it wasn't fancier or more glamorous. It wouldn't be the first time she had been asked those questions. For some reason, people automatically assumed she had money to burn because of her family. Or that her family took care of her and paid her bills.

"Nice place. Cozy."

"Yeah. Cozy." Taylor shut the door and looked around. The overstuffed loveseat, upholstered in a striped peaches-cream motif, sat across from the flat screen television mounted on the wall. The single remote and a large glass vase filled with potpourri sat on the old wooden trunk that served as a coffee table. A refinished desk sat against the far wall, its surface cluttered with her laptop and scattered paperwork.

The dining alcove was just beyond the living room, adjacent to the small kitchen. A short hallway led back to the bathroom and small bedroom. The apartment was small and efficient, which was all she needed.

And probably all she would be able to afford for the next five or ten years.

Chuckie lowered himself to the loveseat and placed the six-pack on the old trunk. He hesitated, a frown crossing his face when he noticed the news clip playing on the television. The frown turned into a scowl when he looked at her.

"Would you mind turning that off? I can't stand watching it again."

Taylor grunted her agreement then grabbed the remote and powered everything off. Silence settled over the room, awkward and stifling.

So now what? Should she offer him something to drink? Probably not, since he was busy opening a bottle of beer. She ran her hands along the sweatpants and looked around, unsure of what to do now.

Chuckie offered her the opened bottle of beer. She stared at it, not moving.

"It's not going to bite Tay-Tay."

"I know that." She stepped forward and took the bottle from him, then glanced around as she tried to figure out where to sit. The loveseat was too small, too crowded with Chuckie sitting there. But it wasn't like she had much choice, not unless she grabbed one of the chairs from the dining room and dragged it over.

She bit back a sigh and finally sat down, scooting as close to the side of the loveseat as she could. That only left a few inches separating them.

Chuckie shot her a questioning glance then reached for another beer, uncapping it and raising it in mock salute. "To careers cut short."

"Um—"

He took a long swallow, sighed, then leaned his head against the back of the loveseat and closed his eyes. "Christ. What a colossal fuck up."

"I'll drink to that."

He grunted but said nothing, just sat there with his head tilted back and his eyes closed. Taylor watched him, her eyes drifting over his broad shoulders and chest and down to his jean-clad legs. She forced herself to look away, telling herself to ignore the heat flaring in her stomach.

Her eyes darted back to Chuckie once more, studying the hand carelessly resting against his thigh. The long fingers curled slightly toward his palm, the nails short and clean. He had nice hands. Not smooth, but not heavily callused or torn up. Large. Strong.

And oh God, why was she staring at his hands? This was Chuckie. Chuckie-the-fart. She had no business looking at his hands, even if she did have a weakness for them.

She forced her gaze away once more and took another sip of beer. Silence stretched around them, not quite uncomfortable but not exactly companionable, either. Taylor searched her mind, trying to think of something to say.

Wondering if she should ask him again why he was here.

"I really am sorry, Tay-Tay."

"Yeah, well." She sighed and shook her head. "Shit happens. Nothing we can do now."

He turned his head to the side and cracked open one eye. "Why do I have the feeling you're holding back?"

Taylor shrugged and leaned forward, putting the bottle on the coffee table.

"Well, whatever the reason, thank you." He closed his eye and sighed. "Tomorrow is going to suck."

"You really think you're going to get fired?"

"Yup."

"It wasn't exactly your fault."

"I'm the one who set it up."

"Yeah, but it's not like you had any control over what came out of the bitch's mouth."

Chuckie opened his eyes again and looked over at her, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Better be careful, Tay-Tay. It almost sounds like you're defending me."

"No. I just—" Her mouth snapped closed and she looked away. She was defending him. And the worst part was, she meant it. Yes, she might want to blame everything on Chuckie, but what she said was true: he couldn't control what came out of anyone's mouth.

"You just, what?"

"Nothing." She reached for the beer and took a long swallow, using the few seconds to regroup her thoughts. "If it makes you feel any better, I'll be catching shit on Saturday at practice."

"Why would you catch shit? You didn't do anything wrong."

"Won't matter. A few of the players will blame it on me. They, uh, they don't exactly like me."

"Why not?"

"I told you. A few of them think the only reason I'm on the team is because of Dad. That's why I didn't want to do it. The interview, I mean."

Chuckie was quiet for a long minute, his gaze too intense, seeing too much. She forced herself to look away, prayed that her face wasn't stained bright red.

Another long minute stretched around them, finally broken by the sound of a heavy sigh. Chuckie's hand brushed against her shoulder. The tips of his fingers grazed the sensitive flesh of her neck then dropped away.

Taylor didn't move. She couldn't move, not when his touch had frozen her in place. But how could she be frozen, when her skin was suddenly burning from his touch? It didn't make sense.

"I should have listened to you."

She blinked, forced her head to move. Chuckie was watching her, those deep blue eyes focused on her with an intensity that sent shivers dancing across her skin. "Huh?"

"I said I should have listened to you. I'd say next time I will, but I don't think there's going to be a next time."

"So you're really positive you're going to get fired?"

"Hell, I'd fire me. Don't see why Murph would do any different."

Taylor stared down at the bottle, her mood sliding downhill at Chuckie's certainty. Why did the thought of never seeing him again sadden her? It wasn't like they knew each other. They didn't even really like each other that much.

Or maybe it wasn't really Chuckie's fatalist mood that was depressing her. Maybe it was the sudden certainty that all of her dreams were about to disappear. The reporter's words came back to her, taunting.

I don't see much chance for them.

Is that what everyone thought? If it was, maybe the whispered rumors of the league not lasting past three games had some basis in fact. And if that was the case—

Taylor sighed and took another sip of beer, longer this time. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand then dropped her own head against the loveseat cushion. "This sucks."

"Yup. Pretty much."

"This whole thing was never going to work out, was it?"

She sensed rather than saw Chuckie straighten. "What thing? What are you talking about?"

"The whole league—if you can call it that. It was just one big joke, wasn't it? Over before it finished."

"The league isn't over, Taylor."

"Yeah it is. I'm not stupid. None of us are. If there aren't any ticket sales, there's no money coming in. And if there's no money, there's no team. Doesn't take a genius to figure that out."

"The team isn't going anywhere."

She turned her head to the side and opened her eyes. Chuckie was close—too close. And those eyes of his were fixed on hers, watching her, holding her in place. Her breath caught in her lungs and she forced her eyes closed.

"Yeah it is. We both know it."

"Sounds like you're quitting before you even get started."

"Isn't that why you're doing, Mr. I-know-I'm-getting-fired-tomorrow?"

"I'm good at what I do, I can find another job on Monday. And that's all it is: a job. But you—Taylor, you've always been destined for more. Hockey is your whole life. That's all you've ever dreamed about. Don't give up on your dreams, Tay-Tay."

Her eyes popped open, surprise filling her at the conviction of his words—and at how close he had come to the truth. "What makes you so sure of that?"

Something flashed in his eyes, a spark or a reflection that caused heat to flare inside her once more. Then he blinked and it was gone, making her wonder if she had imagined it.

He leaned back, putting some distance between them, then offered her a crooked smile, one that made him look dangerously boyish and charming. "I may have had a crush on you when were kids."

"What?" She sat up, nearly bumping her forehead against his nose. Beer splashed out of the bottle, landing on her sweatpants. She ignored it, too stunned to do anything but stare at him in open-mouthed shock.

He chuckled, the sound warm and low, and reached out with one finger to close her mouth. "Why do you look so surprised?"

"Because—because—" She swallowed and took a deep breath. "We were kids. I was, like, ten. And you—you were—"

"The slow, fat kid."

"No! That's not what I going to say!"

"Why not? It's the truth."

Taylor ignored him, not knowing how to reply to that. She shook her head. "You were thirteen. That's just gross."

"Gross?" He sat back, his brows lowering in a deep frown. "Thanks for that ego-boost, Tay-Tay. Just what I needed."

"I didn't say you were gross. Just—ohmyGod, I was ten."

"And now you're not. Still grossed out?"

She opened her mouth then promptly shut it again. What was he saying? Or was she merely reading too much into things? Because certainly he couldn't mean he still had a crush on her.

Could he?

He leaned closer, the heat in his eyes burning her. But it was a slow burn, one that started deep in her belly. A burn that promised so much more. His voice when he spoke was low, filled with the same promise reflected in his eyes.

"Nothing to say?"

Taylor shook her head, knowing that anything she said would come out as a small squeak—if she could even manage to get any words out. That dangerously charming grin curled the corners of his mouth again. He reached for the bottle in her hands and eased it from her numb fingers, his eyes still focused on her as he placed the bottle on the table.

Then he moved even closer, mere inches separating them. Taylor didn't miss the silent question in his eyes, the uncertainty that flashed in their depths. She reached up, her trembling fingers grazing the soft stubble outlining his jaw.

And then his mouth was on hers. Soft, warm. Hesitant and seeking. Taylor sighed and leaned into the kiss, giving herself over to the sensations crashing against her.