“Okay. Okay. If you want me to pretend that incredible kiss didn’t happen, then I will. But I don’t think either of us will forget it,” he manages to whisper before Mr. Carling and Ryanne are standing in front of us. She looks equal parts power and beauty in a pair of tailored black pants, with her long dark hair pulled back in a low ponytail that looks as silky as her red blouse. I open my mouth to introduce myself, but her eyes are on Eli, not me. She extends her hand to him. “Mr. Casco. I’m looking forward to seeing what you can do out there tonight.”
He shakes her hand and flashes a confident grin. “I’m looking forward to impressing you.”
Ryanne glances at Mr. Carling. “This one is much bolder than his brother. Let’s hope he can back it up.”
“I should get into my gear,” Eli says and then puts a hand on my back, which makes me bristle. “I’ll leave you to talk to your best and brightest communications team addition. Nice meeting you.”
Eli walks away and I’m left frazzled again, but I try not to show it as I look up at Ryanne and give her what I hope is a poised smile. “Dixie Wynn. I’m very happy to meet you, Ms. Bateman. You’re the reason I wanted to work here.”
She smiles and shakes my hand. “I’m flattered. Your whole department—hell, the whole organization—has nothing but positive remarks about you.”
I smile brighter, my nerves starting to dissipate. She leans in and winks at me. “And I admire the fact that you haven’t told them who you are. You earned your fantastic reputation on your own.”
She stands straighter and turns to Mr. Carling again. “I’m heading to my box. Looking forward to seeing you all at the party later tonight.”
And just like that she’s off down the hall, her four-inch heels clicking loudly against the concrete floor. That went way better than I thought it would after all the drama leading up to it. I turn to Mr. Carling. “I’m going to go brief the team on the media info for after the game.”
His phone buzzes and as his eyes slide to the screen, I leave him to head into the locker room. I march right in, even though some of the guys are in various states of undress. I learned early on that being timid or shy with these boys caused them to give me more grief than if I just walked in on them when they were half naked.
“Boys! Listen up!” I bellow and ninety percent of the heads in the room snap to attention. Only one of them is glaring at me in horror—my brother, Jude Braddock.
“Hey, Ms. Wynn,” he says, accentuating the Wynn part. “Maybe knock before entering or something!”
I give him a quick I don’t give a fuck smirk. He knows the look well, and I know it annoys the hell out of him, which is why I do it. The only thing I love more than Jude is irking the hell out of Jude.
“I’m not the Virgin Mary, Braddock.” I let my eyes sweep the room, but they somehow get stuck on Eli. He smiles and casually reaches up, touching his lips with his fingertips, subtly reminding me…teasing me…I blink and wrench my eyes away. “Nothing I haven’t seen before.”
I shoot out my directions about press after the game like a drill sergeant, explaining it’s a light schedule tonight because the media only want to talk to the Casco brothers after the game. The irony is I was holding this list the entire time. If I’d just read it in the elevator I would have known Eli was playing for us. I leave, forcing myself not to look back at Eli even though every fiber of my being wants to. I have to let it go—forget the kiss and how attractive I find his bold, goofy personality.
Fifteen minutes later the players are filtering out to take the ice. Eli is the last one out of the locker room and as his eyes connect with mine, he grins and gives me a wink. Everyone continues down the hall chattering away, excited for the game. Eli pauses for just a second right in front of me and in a rough whisper says, “Admit it. That was one hell of a kiss.”
“Go!” I command sharply and he struts off down the tunnel with the rest of the team.
Alone in the hall, my fingertips brush my lips absently, my breath hitches. He’s not here to see my response, but I can’t help nodding my head in agreement.
1
Elijah
One Year Later
I walk into the dark apartment and drop my keys on the coffee table as I toe off my shoes. I don’t bother turning on the lights as I make my way to the kitchen. I swing open the door of the fridge and blindly reach for a bottle of water. My hand hits a can of beer instead. Even better. I usually prefer mixed drinks, but tonight I don’t care. I grab the Coors Light and crack it open, taking a sip as I make my way to the back of the apartment.
It’s only nine at night. The whole team has gone out to drown their sorrows—at least that’s the excuse, but the fact is they go out, win or lose, after every game. I rarely do because I rarely have something to celebrate, and when the team loses I don’t want to commiserate, I want to stew. Especially when I was in goal, like tonight.
I make it to my bedroom and decide that turning on a light, as much as I don’t want to, is the best option because my room is a mess, and I’m likely to trip on something if I don’t. I turn on the small lamp on my desk and put my beer beside it while I shrug out of my suit jacket and start unbuttoning my shirt. My laptop is open on the desk with the screensaver looping silently. It’s made up of images from my cloud. I set it to one specific folder filled with images from my hockey career. The good times—championship wins, MVP trophies, medals, press photos of amazing saves. I thought reliving those moments would help. Positive reinforcement. But it hasn’t. I’m still playing like shit.
I let in three goals tonight, and only one of them was forgivable. The other two should have been easy saves. But I tensed and froze for the slightest second at just the wrong time on both. My heart was pounding the entire game. I could feel my knees wobble. I couldn’t get a decent grip on my stick. It sucked.
I let my shirt fall to the ground and kick it out of the way so I can pull out the desk chair. I drop into it and run my hand over the mouse pad so the screensaver goes away, then take a long, slow sip of beer. If positive reinforcement doesn’t work, maybe negative will.
I pull up a browser and search for the video. It’s not hard to find. I’ve only watched it once. Right after I got out of the hospital and went back to the dorms, my roommate pulled it up to show me. I didn’t ask to see it, and I didn’t realize how much I didn’t want to see it until I was watching it.
I don’t want to see it now, but maybe I have to. Avoiding the memory hasn’t helped me, so maybe I need to watch it repeatedly and desensitize myself. I’m surprised by how much of it I do remember.
It was a good game. We were winning, and I was five minutes away from a shutout. I was in control. I was relaxed. I was confident. I was me.
I stopped a shot, but the puck bounced free. There was a scramble for it by players on both teams inches from my face. The video shows a big blur of body parts and jerseys. I used to love those dustups and fed off the frantic energy. I almost always dove into the mix and ended up with the puck. I’d done it a million times. I watch myself drop closer to the ice and lunge forward, reaching for the puck everyone is battling for.
