Page 3 of Bagging the Blueliner
It sucked, but I knew my place. I was here to play hockey, as she had so kindly pointed out.
That didn’t stop me from staring at her as she pulled a raven-haired toddler girl into her arms and began chatting with a blonde young woman holding a blond baby boy.
“Who is that she’s with?” I asked Jaxon, figuring he’d been around a few years and knew everyone by now.
Jaxon’s voice was wistful as he replied, “Natalie.”
Tearing my eyes away from Hannah—already mourning that she was off-limits—I assessed my young teammate. Jaxon stared longingly at the tent the two girls occupied with the children.
I knew that look. My boy had it bad for Natalie.
“She your girl?” It seemed unlikely, considering it appeared that at least one of those kids was hers. Upon further inspection, she looked far too young to have multiple kids. Maybe she was one of the players’ nannies.
Jaxon stiffened beside me. “No. She’s married.”
Oh boy. “To one of the players?” It wasn’t uncommon for older players to have very young wives and bang out a bunch of kids close together.
He let out a heavy sigh. “No, not to a player.”
Glancing at the ladies, they seemed very close. I wondered how she was connected to the Comets. “Another of Coach’s daughters? He’s got three, right?”
“Not exactly, but close. She’s one of Hannah’s best friends.”
There it was.
I felt for Jaxon. If he were a cartoon character, hearts would be shooting out of his eyes, but someone else had gotten to Natalie first. Then there was Hannah, who’d stunned me into silence—which wasn’t easy—but I could never pursue her.
We were a couple of schmucks with crushes on girls who would never be ours.
Chapter 1
Hannah
Ten Years Later
The draft was over,and free agency opened in less than twenty-four hours. It was crunch time.
Don’t get me wrong. This was one of the most exciting times of the year in the hockey world, only behind actually winning a championship. I learned at an early age that the choices made in the next few days would alter the course of the next season, either for the better or the worse.
The Connecticut Comets were my team, or more accurately, my dad’s team. He was their head coach, but I didn’t get too hung up on titles—everyone knew who was really pulling the strings.
I grew up at the rink, where being called a rink rat was worn like a badge of honor. Being the youngest of the three Moreau girls, I didn’t get to enjoy the front half of my dad’s playing career—where he mainly stayed with the team that had drafted him, the Houston Heroes. By the time I came around, he was team-hopping every other year, chasing the dying embers of his playing days.
Most people have heard of a military brat. Well, I was a hockey brat.
Born in Salt Lake City, we moved to San Diego when I was three, then to Portland when I was five. After that, it was consecutive one-year stints in New Orleans, San Francisco, Denver, Halifax, and finally, Milwaukee.
I was ten when Dad finally hung up his skates. My sisters, Allison and Chrissy, were much older than me—Allison ten years older, and Chrissy eight. It didn’t take much guesswork to determine that I was my parents’ “whoopsie baby.” That meant my sisters were off to college by the time Dad stopped playing, and I was left as an only child.
Hockey was Dad’s life—and by extension, mine—so retirement didn’t mean leaving the game. He’d transitioned seamlessly into coaching, taking a role with the Connecticut Comets’ minor league affiliate, the Providence Prowlers. Moving up the ranks from assistant to head coach, it wasn’t long before the Comets asked him to take over the helm of a flailing team.
Hartford became home when I was fourteen, and I couldn’t imagine ever leaving. It’s where I’d built my life.
There were perks that came with being the daughter of the head coach. I had unlimited access to team facilities, box seats for every home game, and was granted the opportunity to become the official anthem singer of the Comets.
It also meant that I was constantly surrounded by the hunky men who carved up the ice to the raucous cheers of the crowd.The dolled-up puck bunnies envied my easy rapport with the players, but I was the one who was jealous of them.
On day one with the Comets, Dad had made it crystal clear to every player in his locker room that his daughters were off-limits. Yes, my sisters were old enough to date players at twenty-four and twenty-two then, but I was only fourteen. It might seem that I was too young, but the hotshots fresh from the draft were eighteen. I was a freshman in high school, and they were the same age as the seniors. It wasn’t completely crazy to think one of them might look at me differently.
