Chapter 4
To sayI am excited to see ocean-blue eyes watching me when I board my return flight to Los Angeles is an understatement. After a week on an island with my single and out-to-mingle teammates, watching Morgan help an older woman with her bag is a sweet sight. I have never been more thankful that the beginning of the season is near than I am after this trip. Something needs to rein these boys in.
Settling into my seat, I relish the way Morgan brightens when she sees me and can’t help but admire the view. Her flight attendant uniform does nothing to distract from how stunning she is. The outfit is supposed to give them a similar appearance, but in true Morgan fashion, she personalized hers with several bracelets that shift up and down her arm as she moves.
After one movement, they slide up far enough that I notice something on her wrist. Did a pen explode? The area under her bracelets is covered in small bluish smudges. When her arm twists, a lead ball drops in my stomach, and I realize the marks make the shape of a hand around her wrist. I don’t think those are from ink.
Rage swells in my chest. Her reaction when she sees where I was staring tells me everything I need to know. Someone grabbed her wrist hard enough to leave bruises. Considering I didn’t notice them last week, I’m betting they are fresh and that I know exactly who marked her golden skin.
I stew in my seat through the pre-flight service, where she deftly avoids coming near me, and the safety demonstration when her focus is straight in front of her. I’m tempted to press the call button after takeoff, but I suspect she would send her coworker. The fact that I can wait this patiently with the amount of fury building inside me is a testament to my time playing hockey. Without that discipline, I would have blown up already and demanded answers.
After stalling all she could, Morgan approaches my row. “Hello. What would you prefer for your in-flight meal?”
“Morgan,” I say, disregarding her spiel.
“We have chicken salad or BBQ sliders. Personally, I prefer the chicken salad; the BBQ can be heavy for—”
“Morgan.”
“For air travel, but your stature says you aren’t afraid of a heavy meal and need as much protein as you can—”
“Zlatí?ko!” Though quiet, my voice comes out as a command she can’t ignore. When she finally flashes those baby blues down to me, they are full of trepidation. Slowly, so as not to startle her, I reach my hand over hers. Avoiding her wrist as much as I can, I move her sleeve and bracelets to better inspect the bruises.
Turning her arm, I examine the dark purple marks. “Who?” I question without glancing away from the abused area.
“It’s fine. It was an accident. Someone grabbed me too tightly. It looks worse than it is.”
“I’ve been grabbed accidentally and intentionally many times in my life, honey, by exceptionally strong men. None left marks that resembled these.”
“I must bruise easily. Maybe I should have my doctor see if I’m anemic,” she suggests lightly, but I can tell she’s trying to diffuse my anger. Surely, she knows it isn’t directed at her—never at her.
I’m not buying that explanation, and she knows it based on how she swallows when I shift my gaze back to her face. She tries to pull her arm away, but I gently run my thumb over the bruises. Normally, it is a soothing action, but seeing the marks under my motions makes my blood boil.
“Where does he live?” I ask in a fierce tone I hardly recognize.
“What? Why?”
I don’t reply, but when she tugs against my hold again, I reluctantly release her arm. She sighs as she takes in my fierce expression.
“I appreciate your concern, but you don’t need to worry about this.”
“You handled it then? Did you file a report?”
“The police aren’t going to care about a few bruises. They barely help during real domestic disputes,” she chuffs.
“It seems we’ve come full circle then. Where can I find him, Morgan?”
“Ralphie,” she sighs. “It’s fine. I promise. Things got out of hand when I broke up with him, but I ended it. He isn’t my problem anymore, and he sure as hell isn’t yours.”
As angry as I am that the prick laid his hands on her, I am happy to hear that she ended it with him. Not only because I want a chance with her but also because no woman should be with a man who hurts them.
“You broke up with him because he did that?”
“No, he did that because I broke up with him,” she clarifies. “I mean, not because, but to stop me. It didn’t work, and now he’s out of my life. I’m better for it. Turns out, he was subtly manipulating to mold me into his perfect Stepford wife.”
“Mold you?” I question. The Stepford reference eludes me, but I can gather enough from the context. What I don’t understand is why he would need to ‘mold’ her. She’s already perfect.
“Mhmm,” she hums. “Apparently, I am ‘too much’ to be a good wife. I may cook a mean Shepard’s Pie and give great head, but I’m still only a working-class airhead who has potential but isn’t good enough as is.”
And the rage is back. “He said that to you?!” I demand.
“Not in those exact words, but yes. Whatever, it doesn’t matter. He’s old news. Now, do you want the sliders or the chicken salad?” I almost grin at the drop of her professional demeanor.
Sensing that I’ve pushed her as far as I can on this topic, I choose my lunch and let her return to work. If she thinks this is the end of the conversation, she has another thing coming. I may not be going after the douche canoe—yet—but I won’t let Morgan believe the things he said about her. She may have brushed it off, but I can see the ding in her confidence since I last saw her. She’ll know how incredible she is if it’s the last thing I do, whether she gives me a shot or not.
Before the end of our uneventful flight, I convince her to give me her number. It’s under the guise of getting on the list for Two-One-Oh, but I don’t feel bad about the deceit. I do technically plan to go to the club and sit in her section. I just also plan to do whatever it takes to make her forget her shithead ex and know how much better she deserves to be treated.
The restof the week drags as I wait until Morgan works at the club. She mentioned that since she is picking up extra flights this week, she won’t be there until Thursday. That’s fine, though. Out of season, my schedule is wide open. All I do during the off-season is train and work on the areas I need to improve from the prior season.
Today, I’m training with Connor, Mikelson, and Danvers. Fitz would normally be here, but he is still on his honeymoon. Connor is a winger with me, while Fitz and Mikelson play defense. Danvers is our goalie. He’s a bit of an odd duck, but what goalie isn’t? He’s the youngest of our group, but he’s damn good, having the most shutouts in the Pacific Division last season.
Since we can’t scrimmage, we spend most of our session working on drills, which leads to racing.
“Damn,” Connor whistles. “I can’t remember the last time I beat Wreck-It Ralph in a foot race.”
“Shut it,” I say, bumping his shoulder. “Don’t get used to it. And is it considered a foot race if we are on skates?”
“Tomato, to-mah-to” he replies.
“You do seem off your game,” Danvers notes.
Mikelson sighs. “D, we’ve been through this. Some thoughts are inside thoughts.”
“I’d want to know if I was sucking,” Danvers mutters.
I throw the towel I used to wipe the sweat off my forehead at him in retaliation. He shoots me a disgruntled glare.
“Don’t poke the team grouch,” Connor chides. I don’t argue about the title. My quiet nature and sheer size intimidate most people. I revel in the grump moniker. It means most people leave me alone, and opponents think twice before squaring up.
“You good, though, bro?” my teammate asks. “Not still pining after the sexy bottle girl?”
I bristle at him regarding Morgan as simply the ‘sexy bottle girl.’ She is drop-dead gorgeous, but in our brief interactions and texts, I’ve discovered she’s much more than that. Sure, she enjoys a good party, but she also spends her other evenings crocheting and binge-watching sitcoms. She has atrocious taste in music and grocery shops for her elderly neighbor, Sybil. She thinks she isn’t smart, but she has more emotional intelligence than I could ever hope to possess. She is more dimensional than she lets people see, and it’s their loss.
“I’m not pining for her at all,” I scoff. “I’m seeing her tonight.”
“No shit?” Connor asks, astonished.
“She’s working at a club in Hollywood. I’d invite you fuckers to join, but I don’t want to bring you down with my grouchiness.”
“Whoa there,” Mikelson interjects. “I never said anything. I could use a night out.”
The others agree.
“I’ll see if she can get you guys on the list, too,” I tell them.
I shake my head as Connor and Mikelson chest bump. I cannot wait for Fitz to come home and help me deal with these miscreants.
1:12 PM
Me
Is there room for any more on tonight”s list?
Zlatí?ko
Depends… Are you bringing more hockey hunks?
Me
Does that mean you think I’m a hunk? ;)
And yes. Three, if that’s okay.
Zlatí?ko
Of course, my boss will love me for bringing in NHL customers. She is always on our asses about getting more athletes in here. She says they are ‘less annoying than the artist types’ and can ‘put away more drinks.’
Me
We are happy to prove her right.
Be there at 11?
Zlatí?ko
See you then! I’ll be the one wearing sequins, in case you can’t find me.
Me
Morgan, I’d be able to find you in a room filled with a thousand clones.