For Pucking Keeps: A Hockey Romance (The Seattle Vipers Series Book 1)

7. Jaz

SEVEN

The thump-thump-thump of my pulse through my eyelids sends a wave of nausea through me. Oh yeah, I hurt. I hurt bad. I raise my hand to my face, and I swear my fingers hurt as I try and fail to pry my eyes open. Is this crust or cement plastering my lids together? I drop my hand in defeat, giving up the fight until I can muster enough strength for my facial muscles to move. I groan, deep and guttural like a reanimated corpse when I realize it must be my mascara. I didn’t remove my make up last night. Well, shit.

Shifting my legs, my satin duvet caresses my bare skin and I give myself a mental pat on the back for at least getting my leggings off. But my celebration is short lived. I am still in everything else, including one of my shoes. How the hell did that happen? I roll over and lay on my back and let my saggy sack of bones settle into the mattress and contemplate my life choices. This is what happens when you drink after the age of twenty-seven. Okay, I left my twenties behind a few years ago, so that only makes the aftermath of my injection of liquid courage more devastating on my body. Go big or go home, my ass. I was a fool to think I could drink so many mojitos without it wrecking my body the next day. My mouth is dry, rum seeps from my pores, and did I mention the pounding, throbbing, pulsing spike of pain killing me slowly with every beat of my heart? I won’t attempt to lift my head from my pillow. It would be asking too much, too fast from myself, and I don’t have it in me.

I let the night before play behind my closed eyes and visions of Tor’s face come to mind. His neatly groomed beard, those beautiful hazel eyes with flecks of gold scattered throughout his irises, and those lips. Thank goodness I hadn’t made a fool of myself in that department. When I kiss those lips, I want to remember. Wait. There are not going to be any kisses between us. There will be no us. However, I do remember him agreeing to help me learn more about hockey. Wait, my drunken ramblings. Did I fall out of the car? I gave him my number.

“Oh God.” I groan, remembering my embarrassment. Damage control activated. I can keep this professional. Right? I can’t deny the chemistry, it’s there, and I could feel it throughout the night. Even when Lia convinced me to stay, and we all sat down at the table together, I found his eyes on me more than once. I put on my author persona and wowed everyone around me with tales of the worlds I’ve weaved with my words for the past four years. Jazminne Starr, Jaz for short, is not shy. She is bold, confident, unapologetic, owns her sexuality, and is comfortable in her own skin. Writing about love and romance, giving her readers exactly the happily ever after they crave.

Alexis Rhodes, my real name, the real me, is the complete opposite. I hide behind my public persona, a recluse until I have donned my mask to go out into the world. I am a broken mess who ran away from the life I had built thousands of miles away to lick my wounds here in Seattle. It had been easy to introduce myself as Jaz Starr to my neighbor, Lia, and I never told her my real name. I wanted to be my alter ego all the time. So, I am embracing Jaz, giving myself a chance to start over. Well, to forget at least. The last thing I want is to fall into the trap of diving into a relationship that is unrealistic, no matter the attraction. I have been hurt enough. Alexis has taken too many blows. Jaz has books to write and fantasies to create. Jaz can be whoever she wants, do whatever she wants, and I am fine with falling into that part of myself for a while.

My phone vibrates from somewhere beside me, followed by the heavy bass beat of Cardi B’s Money. Fumbling and reaching blindly in the dark, I find my phone tangled in my sheets. Regretting the song choice for my ringtone, I grit my teeth and swallow back bile as another wave of nausea hits me hard. I answer, and almost wished I hadn’t.

“Alex, what the hell happened last night? You’ve gone viral overnight. Your reader’s group is buzzing with comments about your next book. Was this a publicity stunt you didn’t clue me in on? This is something you let your publisher/best friend know about. Jaz Starr is trending everywhere, and not all of it is positive, unfortunately. A hockey player, Alex!” Julia shouts down the line. Rolling my eyes would hurt too much, so I choose to move the phone away from my ear as her verbal bullets hit my eardrum, making me wince. For a moment her words don’t register as my brain attempts to catch up with what she’s saying and then the fog clears.

“Wait,” I croak out, wishing I had a glass of water. She continues to speak so fast my head is spinning as I jump up out of the bed, trip on my half-discarded clothes, only to sit on the edge of the bed again. Losing my balance and face planting will only add insult to injury. Hungover and clumsy, I hold my hand up to stop her from talking. Like she could actually see me.

“Alex!” she shouts. “Are you listening to me?”

I place the call on speaker and set it next to me so I can rest my head in my hands. This is going to be a long conversation. Julia Marks, my best friend and owner of Wells Publishing, has been my support system for half my life. Hence, why she is calling me by my actual name. We’d been in love with books from the moment we picked up our first Dr. Seuss. When I began my journey as an author, I refused her help. We were friends first and I was adamant we stood on our own two feet. I wanted to earn my way and not take the leg up she was offering until I had written something worthy of a publishing company. Of course, she was starting her own journey as an independent publisher, so she was eager to take on new clients. It took her five years to get Wells Publishing off the ground and now she is highly sought after. She only signs the best of the best. It wasn’t until I’d written my first bestseller that I entertained accepting her help. Four years and seven successful books later, I’m one of her top authors.

“Jules, please. Shut up.” I cough and clear my throat. “I’m going to be sick if I move any faster here.” I groan. “What do you mean, I’ve gone viral?” I ask, but before she can respond, I remember the flash of the camera last night. The picture. The one Tor was so anxious about. “Shit.” I hang my head.

“No, shit. Shit,” she admonishes. “It’s a toss-up here, Alex. I want to fly to Seattle and strangle you for blindsiding me and high-five you for the mouthwatering hockey player you were clinging to.”

“I wasn’t clinging to Tor. He helped me up and I stumbled into his arms,” I retort defensively.

“Well, it doesn’t matter what actually happened. It’s what the world assumed happened that matters.” She curses under her breath, then continues. “Promise me you won’t look at social media today. Let me handle—” she goes silent, and all I can hear is the pounding of her fingers against the keyboard of her laptop.

I picture her sitting at her desk in New York, the morning light shining through her office windows. Coffee on her left, manuscripts piled high on her right, as she clicks anxiously at the keys. Her anxiety feeds my own, and all I want to do is see what she is seeing. You know when someone tells you not to do something, and damn if curiosity rears its ugly head, whispering in your ear to take a peek. There is no way I can promise not to look. I know I am going to be ripped apart by meaningless words that mean everything. Regardless of how much armor I don, the blows will both soothe and hurt at the same time. Especially comments from my readers. I’ve been MIA for months. For personal reasons, but none of it matters when you have hungry fans eager for their next read.

The mob is never kind. Always willing to chew you up and spit you out, assuming they are privy to the actual truth. Nine times out of ten they are clueless but none of it matters. Truth. What truth? Whether they are loving you one moment or hating you the next. Fame is fleeting, paid press lingers in the air polluting your existence, stifling every breath you take. Once the wind shifts and said air clears, nothing is ever quite the same. You are left with a bad taste in your mouth and a shit load of mistrust. Ugh, I want to climb underneath my covers, never to be seen again. But I refuse to run from it. I will face the firing squad, take the hits and keep moving forward. It’s a picture. I’ve survived worse.

“It’s gone!” Julia says in disbelief as she continues typing vigorously through the phone.

I blink slowly and pull myself back to the present. “What’s gone?” I ask, my voice laced with exhaustion.

“The picture.” She laughs, sounding almost impressed. “I just realized. You have someone more powerful in your corner. It appears Torrance Bailey has one hell of a PR Team. The picture has been removed and most of the posts have been taken down. The only one that remains is from one of those TikTok fangirl puck bunny pages.” She blows out a breath.

“This is good, right?” I ask in relief. The last thing I want to do is damage control. I need to write, not spend the entire day trying to debunk lies. But Torrance had protected me, like he said he would. I owe him a thank you. If anything, it gives me a reason to reach out at least. I originally thought Julia was calling to bitch me out about my looming deadline. I guess I am grateful for the reprieve.

“This is great. But that doesn’t mean your readers, or the press, are going to forget about it so easily. What’s the deal with the hockey player? Is this book related?”

“Of course,” I replied quickly. Maybe a little too quickly, I can almost see her pursed lips. “I only met him last night through my neighbor, whose brother plays for the Vipers as well. He offered to help me with my hockey knowledge so I can actually write this book,” I say matter-of-factly. I leave out everything else, wanting her to think this is nothing but what it is. A professional exchange. Yeah, go ahead and lie. It sure as hell felt like more. Ugh.

“Uh huh,” she says with not an ounce of belief behind it. “So, I am expecting a hockey romance in the next few weeks. A sport you know next to nothing about. I don’t know, Alex. This is not Jaz’s brand.” She sighs, and I can feel the weight of the incoming conversation before she utters her next words. “Alex, it’s been months, and as your best friend, I know you’ve had it rough. But I need some pages soon. I need to see some progress. I need words on paper. I need Jazminne Starr to earn her keep. You know I am here for you. I supported your move. I have stood on the frontlines for you and battled your family and kept your location secret. But all of that ends today. Everyone knows where you are now. Everyone. You’ve got to come out of hiding and pull yourself together.”

I didn’t think I could hang my head any lower. Julia is right. I need to pick myself up off the ground and get back to work. I need to deal with the fallout of the last few months. I’m a grown ass woman. Yeah, I let my fiancé and my other best friend knock me down. Well, lay me out is more fitting. I ran, but running doesn’t look good on me anymore. I checked out of life to lick my wounds. With all the media attention, my time has officially run out.

The world has seen Jaz Starr out and about. I can’t make it go way, not really, regardless of how good Tor’s people are at getting things removed. I owe Julia. I owe my readers. I owe myself, and I am not in the business of letting myself down. If I have nothing else, I have me. I will take Tor’s help; I will write this book and walk away better for it.

“You’re right. I am grateful for everything you’ve done for me. I will talk to my family. I will deal with Shaun. I’ve been stagnant and existing in a half-life.” I sigh. “Hey, look at it this way. I didn’t need a therapist to pinpoint my problems. I figured them all out on my own.” My attempt at a joke falls flat when she doesn’t reply. I can almost feel her gearing up to say more so I give her what she wants to hear instead. “I will have the first few chapters for you in a couple weeks,” I say as the long stretch of silence between us continues to go on longer than I would like them to. I know she’s worried and she is trying not to express her fears for me.

“Alex—”

“Jules, thanks for the heads up. I will call you back when I don’t feel like the grim reaper is knocking at my door. Love you.” I don’t give her a chance to say more as I hang up. I am feeling too raw and exposed. I don’t want to hear the pity in her voice. I know she doesn’t pity me, but it will be what I irrationally perceive. Julia doesn’t deserve my anger; she’s always had my back, no matter the circumstances. I will do my best and deliver like I always do. I won’t let her down.

Standing slowly, I drag myself across my room and throw open my blackout curtains and let the blessed grey Seattle morning light the space. Mount Rainer is covered in a cloudy haze in the distance as the city begins to wake up beyond the windows. Morning dog walkers, kids with oversized backpacks skipping down the street to the local elementary school, and the occasional joggers and power walkers pass by at random. I take a minute to savor the quiet and let the hum of this new city seep into my bones, renewing my strength and resolve. Turning, I pick up my phone and open up my messages that have been muted for months. Hundreds of messages await me. Messages I’ve ignored from not only my family but from the two catalysts who caused me so much pain and heartbreak. I watch them all appear, one apology after the other, reliving the past from the months prior and letting myself feel it all. I listen to their worried voice messages and angry texts from my sisters. My mother’s pleas for me to reach out, to reassure her that I am okay. I swallow down the guilt I feel for leaving without a word, because I know it was something I had to do. I don’t regret protecting myself and choosing me for a change. I will face it all though, one phone call at a time. Okay, maybe after a gallon of water, pain pills and the hottest shower I can stand.

If I can clear my conscience, then maybe, just maybe, I can finally sit down and let the words flow freely. I am itching to write after last night’s game, and I think I found my muse in a sexy hockey player: Torrance Bailey.