Page 8 of Mister Hockey
Neve stiffened at his request, but her shoulders relaxed after his explanation about how it would be easier to retrieve the jacket and wallet himself. “It’s only a couple of minutes out of my way.” He talked fast, as if verbal speed could mask his edginess. A slight frown creased his brow. He wasn’t the type to get the fucking jitters. His even-keeled temperament was a source of pride. Mental toughness wasn’t just for the rink, but the bedrock upon which he built the foundation of his life.
But fifteen minutes later, as he pulled his Land Rover up in front of the address he’d plugged into the GPS, his pulse accelerated to fifth gear.
“You have arrived at your destination,” the navigation voice intoned.
He peered through his rain-drenched windshield. Breezy Angel’s house barely qualified as a cottage, with white shutters and shingles painted a robin’s egg blue. Despite the shitty weather, the tiny place radiated a cheerful glow. Buttery light poured from the two front windows that were framed by cheerful sunflowers.
After setting the handbrake, he caught sight of his goofy half smile in the rearview mirror. He looked like a goddamn giddy teenager going to prom or some shit. Time to slow his roll. All he was here to do was grab his coat and go.
“Grab and go,” he repeated, slamming the door. “Grab and go.”
He dashed from the car to the front porch, but received no answer to his knock. Bluesy music played inside, overlaid by the sounds of muffled swearing. Someone was home at least. He knocked again, using more force. A creak of footsteps drew near followed by the unsettling sense of being scrutinized through the peep hole. He waved.
More muffled swearing. He chewed at the corner of his top lip, eyebrows raised. This sweet-faced children’s librarian knew curses that could shame a locker room of disgruntled hockey players.
“Uh, hello?” He leaned closer. “Breezy? Everything okay?”
Two summers ago, he’d taken a trip to South Africa, went cage-diving with great whites. The tour operator had chummed the water and the sea turned red with bloody fish guts. It hadn’t taken long for the great beasts to emerge from the deep gloom and attack the cage in a mindless frenzy. The sounds emitting from inside the cottage were almost as wild. Furniture getting dragged. A distant door slammed again and again.
What the hell was she doing in there, hiding bodies?
After a long minute, he raised his hand to knock for a third time, but this time the door swung open as if on cue. His throat throbbed like he’d been cross-checked in the trachea.
No sign of the destroyed costume. Instead the librarian had replaced her ruined superhero suit with a tight T-shirt that read I Still Believe in 398.2, a cardigan and black skull and crossbones leggings that accentuated her heart-pounding waist-to-hip ratio. All that thick, glossy hair was tied up with a red polka-dot scarf like that vintage World War II mascot. Don’t forget the thick black-framed glasses. The whole effect was classic housewife meets naughty nerd, and it worked like a fucking treat.
Blood rerouted to his cock. Oh yeah, he liked this.
He liked it a lot.
“You.” The tip of her pink tongue darted out, flicking across the small indentation in her top lip. “You’re here.”
“Yeah.” He glanced down to his rain-splattered sneakers and back to her stunned face. “Looks like I am.”
A long silence ensued. As he stood there, an unexpected feeling of rightness settled over him as if standing on Breezy Angel’s porch wasn’t the culmination of a series of unfortunate events, but part of a grand and mysterious plan.
He chuckled, but the sound was hollow in his ears—his dumb ass better wise up real fast. He wasn’t some regular Joe Blow swinging by to grab a missing jacket from a pretty girl. He was Jed West, Hellions captain.
Wasn’t that all people ever saw?
The name.
The fame.
Not that celebrity went to his head all that much—a thousand fans cheering could go to a thousand fans booing in a single play. On shitty nights, that’s exactly what happened.
But he didn’t need to dash off invitations to a pity party. After all, he made a great living playing an even greater game. The lack of privacy, the critics, the curious fans and even the recent self-chosen celibacy went part and parcel with the territory. If he wanted to play, he had to pay the piper somewhere.
He jerked his head toward where the rain was doing its level best to erode the sidewalk. “I loaned you my Gore-Tex and—”
“Sorry, yes. Oh God. You’re right. I’m sorry.” She stared, horrified. “What an idiot. Me, I mean.I’mthe idiot. Not you. You are definitely not an idiot.”
Amusement tugged at the corner of his mouth, his lips slowly spreading into another wide smile. She was funny.
He liked it.
He liked her.
“I normally keep my wallet in my back pocket but...” He made a vague gesture toward his sweatpants-clad ass, privately cursing his own awkwardness. “No pockets,” he concluded lamely.
