The Blindside Game (Austin Stampede Hockey Romance #1)

1. Chapter One

Chapter One

Kevin

The TexTech Arena smells different on non-game days. No popcorn. No beer. No twelve thousand bodies packed into seats screaming at us to win. Just the tang of fresh ice and the echoing quiet of an empty building that's usually anything but.

I'm the first one here. Again. My best friend Brett says I have a problem with being early, but Brett also coaches snooty prep school hockey now instead of playing professionally, so I’d say his viewpoint is skewed by perpetually late teenagers.

Paige's team has set up the photo shoot area on the main concourse level, just outside the glass along the home bench.

There's a backdrop with the Austin Stampede logo and Lone Star Paws branding.

Professional lighting equipment. Markers on the floor showing where each setup will be.

They've laid down the thick rubber mats we use for events — the kind that won't slip under paws or shoes — creating a safe zone between the photography area and the boards.

Smart. The ice is still there, visible through the glass behind us for that authentic arena feel, but the dogs won't actually be on the slippery surface. Though knowing Ranger, he'd probably try to skate if we let him. He is the original Hockey Dog. Which is also why he’s the perfect dog.

My phone buzzes. Speak of the devil. It’s Brett Campbell, my best friend since college. He must have known.

Camper

Stop pacing. She's gonna love it

I'm not pacing. You’re not even here. You can’t see

Camper

You're always pacing when you're nervous. And Paige is texting me PBP. Give Paige a break she put this whole thing together.

He's right. Paige Campbell, our team's PR director and Brett's wife, has been planning this photo shoot for weeks.

The "Paws on Ice" calendar will feature Austin Stampede players with adoptable dogs from Lone Star Paws Rescue and will be distributed all over Central Texas.

It's brilliant marketing. The kind of thing that could go beyond the borders of Texas and get some national attention.

The kind of thing that could change everything for Sarah and the rescue she’s built from the ground up.

Not nervous. Just want it to go well.

Camper

For the rescue or for Sarah?

Both.

Camper

Sure. That's why you've texted me six times this morning.

Seven now.

Jackass.

But he's not wrong. I've been up since five, then got here around eight, and have been checking and rechecking details ever since.

The lighting setup. The backdrop options.

Making sure there are enough treats for the dogs.

Confirming Ranger's custom jersey from my mom still looks better than any other dog’s in the league.

I'm maybe slightly invested in making sure this thing eats and leaves no crumbs.

All this for “a friend.” If I keep this up, I’m one Excel spreadsheet away from planning our imaginary wedding reception instead of a charity calendar. Get it together, St. Clair.

The arena doors bang open and our teenage rookie phenom Tyler "Momo" Morgan bounces in like a border collie who just spotted a tennis ball. Momo’s got endless energy. It's exhausting just watching him. The good news is he’s just like that on the ice too. Relentless. It’s going to be fun to watch the kid’s career take off.

"Morning, Sunshine!" Tyler calls out, his voice echoing off the empty seats. "This is going to be so sick. Are the dogs here yet?"

"Not yet. Sarah's bringing them at nine."

"Sarah's the dog rescue lady, right? The one who—"

"Runs Lone Star Paws. Yeah." I cut him off before he can finish whatever thought is forming in his just-turned-nineteen-year-old brain.

"Cool, cool." Tyler drops his gear bag with a thud that makes me wince. "Paige said we each get paired with a dog? Do you think I'll get a big one? I want a big dog. Like a mastiff or something massive. Maybe Sarah will let me take him home."

"You live in a one-bedroom apartment."

"So? I could make it work. You have a dog." He's already bouncing toward the ice, testing the surface with a toe. "Dude, this is going to be great for my Instagram. Do you think Barstool will pick it up?"

This is what playing with rookies is like. Every thought immediately vocalized. No filter between brain and mouth.

The doors open again, and Liam "Crash" Callahan walks in with Josh “Beartrand” Bertrand, our veteran goalie. They're the old guard, both with thirty in the rear-view mirror, both with the total couldn’t-give-a-shit attitude that only comes from surviving a decade in professional hockey.

"St. Clair," Josh nods at me, then surveys the setup with an approving grunt. "Not bad. Though if you wanted to impress the rescue lady, you should have just asked me to bring Moose."

Moose is the massive Great Dane Josh fosters. The dog is approximately the size of a small horse and has the energy of a caffeinated toddler.

"Sarah specifically said no personal dogs," I remind him. "These are all up for adoption."

"Moose is adoptable. I'm just fostering him until someone wants a hundred-and-fifty-pound dog who thinks he's a lapdog.

" Josh drops onto the bench, already looking tired despite it being nine in the morning.

"Of course, no one's going to adopt him.

He's too big and too expensive to feed. So yeah, he's mine now. "

"You said that three fosters ago," Liam points out, setting down his bag with significantly more care than Tyler had. "Remember the cocker spaniel?"

"The cocker spaniel was different. She had separation anxiety."

All he does is raise one eyebrow and then looks dead at Bear. "You have separation anxiety."

"Fuck off, Crash."

Liam grins, that cocky bastard smile that makes him look younger than thirty-one years old. "Just saying, for a guy who claims he doesn't want to adopt, you sure have a lot of foster fails."

This is what I love about this team. The chirping. The easy banter. The way we show up for each other on and off the ice. It’s all the best parts of being part of a hockey team, with a good dose of “everything’s bigger in Texas” – especially the shit talk.

The doors open again and Aiden “Sticks” McCrae strolls in, captain's confidence in every step, followed by my D-partner Graham Bertrand — Josh's brother and the newest addition to our roster after a big off-season trade from Colorado. Everyone calls him Cubby, since his older brother is Bear.

"Someone better be making me coffee," Aiden announces to no one in particular. "I had to be up before noon on an off day for this. That's against my religion."

"Your religion is sleeping until noon?" Graham asks.

"No, jackass. I believe in self-care, and sleep is self-care." Aiden spots the setup and lets out a low whistle. "Damn, Sunshine. You went all out."

"Paige went all out," I correct him. "I just showed up early."

"You always show up early." Aiden claps me on the shoulder, then stops when he notices my grip tightening on my phone. "You good?"

"Fine."

"Uh-huh." He's studying me with a look that is not about to be bullshitted by my lame response. "This is a big deal for the rescue, huh?"

"Yeah. Could really help with funding and visibility."

"And it's got nothing to do with the cute rescue director?"

Cute rescue director. I should probably just roll with that, but the words hit a nerve I didn’t know I had.

The idea of anybody else saying it — anybody else looking at her like that — gives me a hit of adrenaline that needs to be channeled.

It’s the exact same feeling I get when someone’s chirping the shit out of me, and I know I’m about to get satisfaction by checking him straight into the boards.

Which is exactly the kind of reaction you don’t get to have about a woman who thinks you’re just the safe best friend with a dog.

It’s also not a good idea to fantasize about checking your captain into the boards. "Sarah's a friend."

"Sure she is." Aiden's grin is knowing. "A friend you text approximately forty times a day. A friend whose dog you adopted. A friend who dog-sits for you every road trip despite having approximately a million other things to do."

"She gets paid to dog-sit."

"Right. Because that's why she does it. The money." Liam has joined us, and there's something in his expression that looks almost sympathetic. "Not because you two have been doing this weird dance for the last year and a half where you're basically dating but pretending you're not."

"We're not dating."

Shit. I didn’t mean to sound that defensive.

"Noted." Aiden holds up his hands in mock surrender. "You're not dating the woman you're basically co-parenting a Labrador Retriever with and all but playing house with — and absolutely gone for. Got it."

Before I can respond — and I'm not sure what I'd say anyway because he's not exactly wrong — the arena doors open and our PR Director, Paige, walks in, followed by the Stampede’s social media admin, Lindy Caspar, with her camera equipment, and behind them, Sarah.

My brain short-circuits a little.

She's shorter than everyone but the dogs and wearing jeans and an over-washed and faded-out Lone Star Paws t-shirt that's from the adoption gala the month after we met.

Her dirty blonde hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and she's got a leash in each hand attached to what looks like a terrier mix and some kind of hound.

There's a smudge of what might be dog food or dirt or something else messy and canine on her cheek.

The rest of the hockey world can have their hookups with Instagram models. I don’t need that. Sarah’s gorgeous in the most real kind of way.

"Morning, boys!" Paige calls out. "Everyone ready to make some calendar magic?"

Sarah's eyes find mine across the arena and she grins. Damn, I love it. That genuine, unguarded smile she saves for when something makes her completely happy. Not the polite professional one she uses with donors or the sarcastic one she deploys when she's uncomfortable.

This one's real.

And it hits me like a check I didn't see coming. Holy shit. It knocks the breath right out of me. Hard.