CHAPTER FIVE
Cal
Rain pelts down on the windshield, setting the mood for the day as I head to the practice facility. Of course, every day has been like a dark cloud hanging over my head for the past four years, so what else is new? I park at the back entrance and make the trek into the facility. Due to the wet clothes and shoes, the cold air from the air conditioner slices through me, causing an involuntary shiver to course through my body. Goosebumps pebble my tanned skin.
I arrive at the locker room, strip out of my wet clothes, change into my practice gear, and make my way onto the ice with my gloves in hand. As I go to put the glove on my left hand, I flex my fingers, looking down where my wedding ring resided. Shaking my head to clear the thoughts of my doomed marriage, my hand enters the glove, and a new memory pops up out of nowhere. A foreign electric current shoots through my body at the thought. The deep green eyes. The pointed and disgusted looks. That smart fucking mouth. Her long, black hair blowing into her face.
I’ve been a professional athlete for almost a decade, and women usually throw themselves at me, giving me unwanted attention. Not that girl. In fact, I’m pretty sure she hates me. And, though the feeling is completely mutual, the way she met me toe-to-toe was something I have never experienced.
Shaking myself of the thoughts of that infuriating raven-haired woman, I skate laps around the ice to warm up. I grab a basket of pucks, dump them onto the center of the ice, and take shot after shot after shot. Rounding the crease and stopping quickly, my blades shoot ice across the goal line as I take yet another slap shot. Over and over, my drills continue.
A water bottle sits on the boards. I snatch it up and squirt the cold liquid into my mouth, then skate over to grab the pylons when movement catches my eyes. I look up and notice a boy standing in the window of the game room upstairs. Focusing back on the drills, I disregard him and lay out the equipment. I’m on the last drill when echoes of someone running down the stairs catches my attention.
The kid looks familiar, but I can’t quite place him; he’s definitely not a teammate’s kid—I know all of them. He’s sporting a baseball cap with our team logo on the front, and his green eyes are wide. His mouth is open in awe, but he quickly recovers. The boy takes his hat off, runs his fingers through his hair, then puts the cap on backwards. Taking a step down, he casually leans against a handrail, arms crossed tight across his chest and feet crossed at the ankle. I can’t help but chuckle at how much his body language resembles my usual stance.
“Excuse me, sir, are you Callan Miles?” He calls out. Shaking his head, then tilting it up, he says to no one in particular, “Shoot. That’s stupid. Of course he is.”
I give him a nod and carry on with my deke drills. Slapping the puck against the boards, I let it bounce back before cradling it with my stick. I skate around the ice, pivoting my skates left-right-left through the pylons, deking again, coming to a sudden stop. Ice flies into the crease. I rear my stick back, take a slapshot to send the puck flying into the net. When I turn around, the kid is standing on the ice. I close my eyes tight. What the fuck?
“Can you please teach me how to do that?” He looks up at me timidly. And shit, something about the expression on this kid’s face just won’t allow me to tell him no.
“Uh . . . yeah. Sure. Do you skate, kid?”
“I rollerblade sometimes, but my mom takes me ice skating at Christmas every year. I’m not as good as you, though.”
I scratch the back of my neck. I didn’t sign up for this shit, but I can’t be an asshole to a kid. My mind battles with itself over how I want to play this until I finally decide. “Come with me,” I give a reluctant sigh.
We walk to the supply room where Ivan’s son, Elija, usually keeps his skates. I find them sitting right next to a little girl’s pink skates and hand them to him, “Here, try these on.”
Making our way back to the rink, the kid sits on the bench right outside the ice, pulls off his shoes, and slides the skates on.
“Do they fit?” I push around on the toe and the sides to make sure. They seem to fit.
“Yes, sir. It feels like it.” He ties them, but they’re too loose.
“Lesson number one: make sure your skates are always tight.” I look at him, “What’s your name?”
“Tucker, sir.” He holds out his hand to shake mine. I can’t help but notice how polite he is, and the grip this kid has when he shakes my hand is firm and confident.
“Hi, Tucker, you can just call me Cal.” I squat down, tighten the laces, then tie them. Steadying him by his elbow, I help him out onto the ice. “So, who are you here with?”
“My mom. It’s her first day. My A unt River had an interview and couldn’t watch me. I told them I’m almost grown now and don’t need a babysitter, but that didn’t go over well. Now, I’m here, but that’s okay because this . . .” He looks up, spreads his arms out wide, looking around as he twists his body from one side to the other to show me the arena. “. . . is fire.” I laugh as Tucker talks in rapid excitement.
I lean my elbow on the boards, watching him as he balances on the ice without slipping. “Oh yeah? What does your mom do?” I ask curiously.
“She helps the players.”
Ah, the new physiotherapist .
He grabs my stick resting against the boards and takes off in a sprint with the sound of laughter trailing behind him. The kid was full of shit when he said he wasn’t that good. He only skates at Christmas time, and he skates like that? I don’t buy it. He cradles a puck and goes for a slap shot, making it into the unattended goal. My mouth hangs open. “You only skate during the holidays?” I ask to confirm.
“Yes, sir. Well, ice skate, anyways.”
“You’ve never played hockey before?”
Tucker shakes his head, “No, sir. We don’t have hockey leagues for kids where I’m from; we play football. My buddy’s dad always has hockey on the TV, though. I would watch it when I was at his house. And sometimes, his dad would take us to watch the semi-pro team in Tulsa. That was cool. But Brent, that’s Rich’s dad . . . you know? My friend? His name is Rich. Anyway, Brent would say they fight like sissies in the semis; the pro teams are more hardcore. Their favorite team is Colorado, no offense,” he rambles, pulling another laugh from me.
This kid needs to be on a little league hockey team; he’s a natural. I run him through drills trying to teach him how to deke like he asked. He fumbles and falls during several attempts. We spend about an hour practicing, goofing off, joking, and giving fist bumps every time he gets something right. I haven’t had this much fun in a long time.
From the corner of my eye, I see someone watching us. I look up to find a tall woman with long black hair, standing in the exact same spot and in the same way Tucker did earlier. My eyes widen in surprise to see Aspen here at the facility. What the fuck is she doing here? But I look at the boy and realize she must be his mom; he’s a spitting image of her. Anyone with a brain can look at these two and tell they’re related. Same black hair, tan skin, green eyes; he even has the same smile, though I’ve only seen her smile appear twice when she was petting that puppy. The rest of the time, she was scowling at me. The only difference between their features is his nose; it’s a little more upturned, and he has a smattering of freckles where she has none.
“Are you a creeper?” I ask her.
The way I seem to fire her up and agitate her every fiber makes me feel more alive than I have in years. I have to admit, I enjoyed riling her up in the driveway yesterday.
“Excuse me?” Her brows pull down, and she gives me a puzzled look.
I throw the words at her that she threw at me yesterday, “Are you following me?”
Tucker laughs, making his way over to the boards, “No way, Cal. That’s my mom.”
She shakes her head. “To answer your question, Mr. Miles, I am not following you . . .” She pauses, looks me dead in my eyes, and says, “I own you.”
What? What does she mean she owns me? Nobody fucking owns me. Just because she had the last words yesterday doesn’t mean jack shit. I squint my eyes at her, and she returns the glare with a satisfied smile. It takes a minute for her words to sink in, and I feel like I’ve been slapped in the damn face.
Holy fuck! No fucking way. She’s the new team owner? She’s the daughter of Ryan West? This can’t be real. This has to be a fucking joke. She gives me a smug smile, and I. Don’t. Fucking. Like. It. It’s bad enough that I have to live across the street from this crazy ass woman, but now I have to share a workplace with her too?
“Never thought I’d render you speechless. Looks good on you. I’ll see you at the team meeting this afternoon, Hotshot,” she says to me, then directs her attention to Tucker, “Come on, Buddy, it’s time for lunch.”
“Mooooommm. Please don’t do this to me. Do you know who he is? He’s Callan Miles! The best center in professional hockey.” He puts his hands together in a plea.
I smirk thinking back to yesterday when I asked if she knew who I was and she was a snarky little shit. I mean, how could she not know who I am? She obviously owns the fucking team. My eyes catch her fierce green ones, and I would almost swear she is plotting my demise. I see the hesitancy in her expression; she doesn’t want to tell him no, but she doesn’t much like me either. Well, the feeling is mutual.
Hell, I don’t really want her to tell him no either, which is a strange feeling, but we were having fun. She’s as beautiful as she is infuriating. Electricity shoots through my body, and my stomach flips when her emerald eyes connect with mine.
She looks between us, nibbling on her bottom lip. Her expression softens towards her son. “Tell your friend bye. We have to go.” She turns around, not giving him another chance to argue. A black dress hugs her body, and her ass sways as she makes her way up the steps in her black strappy heels.
Tucker skates back over to me and holds out his hand. I place mine in his, and he shakes it with a firm grip. “It was really nice to meet you, Cal. Thank you for teaching me today.” He exits the ice, takes off the skates, and starts toward the supply room.
“I’ll take care of it, Tucker.” I call to him. “Go on with your mom.”
“Thanks.” Tucker gives a quick wave before running up the stairs. That girl drives me absolutely fucking crazy. She HATES me! Now she’s my boss? Shit! I need to talk to Carter before everyone rolls in for the team meeting. Skating over to the bench, I pick up my phone and shoot him a text.
Me: I’m so fucked!
Carter: A little dramatic, don’t you think?
Me: I’m serious. I’m pretty sure my ass is about to be traded.
I plop down to rest, waiting for his reply.
Carter: Why? What happened?
Me: Remember that woman I ran into the other day?
Carter: You mean the woman whose car you smashed into? Yeah, what about her?
Me: That’s the new owner.
Carter: You mean the woman you accused of being drunk and high?
Me: In my defense, I thought she was drunk or high.
Me: She was driving like a fucking idiot.
Carter: The same woman who lives across the street?
Me: Don’t fucking remind me.
Carter: The same woman you said had an accent so sexy and hypnotizing that you could listen to her voice for hours.
Me: I didn’t say that.
Carter: Eh, I’m pretty sure you said that.
Carter: She was the same woman who got that kid from the party, right? The one you and Aiden were talking about?
Me: Yeah . . . why?
Carter: You said what you said.
Me: Whatever, dude. Would you stop?
Carter: Truth hurts.
Me: She came down to the ice and said, “I own you.”
Carter: LMAO. She came down there just to tell you that she owned your ass?
Me: No. She came down to get her kid. I was teaching him how to deke. Dude, I gotta tell you, this kid is talented. Like God-gifted natural talent.
Carter: Be there in a few.
I head to the locker room, take a shower, and dress for the team meeting. We always dress up when we have meetings like this. I pair navy Armani pants with a white button-up shirt and a silver tie. It’s a little after one o’clock when Carter walks into the locker room. One hand is in the pocket of his black dress pants, while the other smooths down his tie. Facing me, he casually leans his shoulder against the doorway. “So, are we going to talk about it?”
“Talk about what?” I grab my keys and make my way out of the locker room, passing him. The conference room is on the second floor, so I trek up the stairs, passing the red stadium benches, with Carter trailing behind me.
“Oh, I don’t know . . . maybe the fact you took time out of your solo practice to play hockey with a kid you don’t even know. That’s not like you.”
“It’s not a big deal. And the kid was cool,” I shrug.
“The kid was cool?” He looks at me incredulously.
He’s making a mountain out of a molehill with this. It’s not that I don’t like kids; I actually love kids. I mean, look at Elija; I love that kid as if he were my own. If he were to ask me to skate with him, I would. Tucker asked me if I would teach him something, so I took a little time out of my practice; it isn’t something I would normally do, but I’m not a complete dick.
“Yeah, the kid was cool,” I say nonchalantly, shrugging one shoulder.
Carter hums and catches up with me; our steps are in sequence with each other as we walk down the hallway. We’re almost to the game room when a small body comes barreling out of the room and plows right into Carter. Tucker almost falls on his rear, but my hand snaps out to grab him. His head slowly moves up-up-up, and then his face takes on an expression of surprise.
“No way.” He breathes out, squares his shoulders, and straightens up to his full height. “Hi, Mr. Graham. Sorry for bumping into you like that. I just whipped around that doorway—” His hands close, then pop back open. “BAM. There you were.” Tucker holds out his hand to shake Carter’s. “It’s nice to meet you; I’m Tucker Taylor, sir.” Carter looks from him to me, then back to him. He tilts his head back and bursts into laughter, his shoulders shaking uncontrollably. When he recovers, he shakes Tucker’s hand.
“Hi, Tucker Taylor. I’m Carter. It’s nice to meet you.”
As if life couldn’t fuck me any more than it already has, Aspen comes around the corner. Our eyes connect. She gives a polite smile, though I know it’s not directed toward me. Sure, I assumed after her little performance—when she told me that she owned my ass—that she would probably be the one to conduct the meeting. But I was hoping I would beat her to the conference room so I could hide back in the corner and not make eye contact with her.
“Tucker.” She calls out. “You’re going the wrong way, Buddy. We’re in here.” She nods her head to the conference room by her dad’s office—well, her office now.
She’s an entirely different person with Tucker. Her demeanor is patient, kind, and gentle. With me, her voice is full of sharp tones, and her face is filled with exasperated expressions, but I guess I did piss her off; I can’t really expect anything less.
“Alright boys,” Tucker claps and rubs his hands together, “let’s get this shindig started.” He turns around, leading us toward the conference room.
Carter laughs, “Oh yeah, I can see this from a mile away—you’re S-C-R-E-W-E-D.”
Tucker takes off his ball cap, runs his hand through his hair to straighten it up, and holds the cap to his side, tapping it against his leg. “Umm . . . Mr.? You . . . you do know I can spell, right? That’s five dollars for the swear jar.” He holds out his hand.
Carter chuckles, shaking his head. He pulls out his wallet and slaps a twenty into Tucker’s hand. “You are going to be one rich kid by the time this season is over.”
Carter sports a shit-eating grin as we follow Tucker to the conference room, but before we make it through the door, he places a hand on my chest, stopping me in my tracks. He turns to face me, keeping his voice low. “She’s hot. She is smoking fucking hot. I don’t care what you say about her; this little bickering thing you both have going on . . . yeah, that’s called foreplay. I’m calling it now. You’re fucked.” With that, he turns around with me trailing behind.
My now ex-best friend, Carter, and I sit beside each other in a corner at the back of the room. I’m slumped down behind the bodies of a few big, burly players, actively trying to avoid Aspen’s attention. The rest of the players begin to trickle in, one after another, filling the seats around us. I know what this meeting is about, and I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to see her smug face. This is a waste of my time.
“Holy shit, who’s that?” I hear Jerome whisper.
“I don’t know, but she is a smoke show,” Fletcher Wilson, a new rookie, whispers back.
A scoff burst out of me. I roll my eyes. Yeah, she’s gorgeous, but that woman has an attitude problem, a smart mouth, and she is irritating as hell.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” Coach Jenkins addresses us. He turns his head towards Aspen and Hannah. “And ladies, let’s get this meeting underway. First, I would like to introduce you to Mr. West’s daughter and our new team owner; this is Aspen Taylor.” Aspen and Tucker stand beside Coach at front of the conference room. “And this . . .” He puts a hand on each one of Tucker’s shoulders. “. . . is her son Tucker. I asked Miss Taylor to allow me to introduce him because he’s now a part of the family, and you will be seeing a lot of him.”
“This is unreal,” he whispers with eyes blown wide.
Aspen leans down to whisper something in his ear; he looks up at her, nods with a big smile, stands up straight, then addresses the room. “It’s a pleasure; I’m looking forward to seeing y’all around, but for now, I have a video game calling my name.” He throws his thumb over his shoulder before walking out the door. The room fills with laughter. The kid is fucking hilarious.
“So, I’m going to go ahead and hand the floor over to Miss Taylor.”
“Good afternoon, everyone.” Aspen smiles cheerfully while she makes eye contact with the people in the room. With her slight southern drawl, not to mention her killer body and gorgeous face, she holds everyone’s stares with rapt attention. Our new team owner is stunning, even if she is a grade-a-pain-in-the-ass. I saw the little hearts in the eyes of some of my teammates’ faces when they saw Aspen; they looked intoxicated by her. As murmurs begin to grow silent, she continues.
“Though the circumstances that brought me here are tragic, I feel honored to be here, fulfilling my father’s legacy. My father believed in my potential, so I guess that has to be enough for all of us.” She drops her head toward the floor, inhales a deep breath, and exhales slowly. It takes her a minute to gather herself. She raises her head back up and meets my eyes before casting them around the room to my other teammates. I slide down further in my chair. Carter elbows me in the ribs for being rude, and I let out a grunt.
“I’m going to allow myself to be very vulnerable here for a moment. I’m not only new to this position and organization, but I’m also new to hockey. Given who my father is, I know that may come as a shock to all of you, but without going into detail, those are the facts. My degree is in business, but it’s not in sports business, so I’m not going to pretend to have all the answers. And I’m not going to stand here, lie to your face, and tell you I’m a huge hockey fan. I’m not. But I can promise you one thing: I will be.
‘I will be your biggest cheerleader. I will work hard to learn about this team and the sport my father loved more than anything else. I will grow to know each one of you and your families personally. And I will have your backs day in and day out. I hope, in return, that you will have mine.” She smooths her dress and continues.
“My door is always open, and if there is something you need, you can call or text; Coach is sending out a mass text with my cell number.” She turns and looks at Coach, giving him a soft smile, then turns back to all of us. “And please, just call me Aspen; I’m not big on formalities. If any of you have any questions, please feel free to stay behind and ask. Let’s have a great season.”
“Thank you, Aspen, we’re glad to have you,” Coach says, then turns his attention to me. “Cal, can you hang back a minute?”
“Yeah, Coach.”
Players start making their way out, but some linger to shake Aspen’s hand and ask her questions. Thirty minutes later, the conference room is emptied out, and I’m alone with Coach and Aspen. I don’t know what he wants, but I have a suspicion he knows something about the dynamics between Aspen and me, and I’m about to get my ass chewed for it.
“Aspen, this is Cal. He’s a veteran player with the team and has been in the pros for a decade.” He turns to me, pausing, waiting . . . and I stand there, looking between the two of them, not knowing how she wants to play this because we have already met. Do I tell him we’ve met? Do I shake her hand? Do I tell him she’s a pain in the ass? I don’t know what to do; this is awkward as fuck. What I do know is we don’t like each other. Before I can say anything, she reaches out her hand to shake mine. Ah, so this is how we’re going to play this. Okay, I’ll bite.
“Actually, Cal and I have already met. He was showing Tucker some things down on the ice earlier today.” She gives me a saccharine smile. I shake her hand, and the minute our hands touch, that foreign energy runs through my body again.
“Pleasure,” I’m trying my damnedest to be polite in front of my coach, but my jaw takes on an involuntary tick. I can literally feel my molars cracking. It’s anything but a pleasure to be standing here with her.
“Oh, well, good. I’m glad you two are familiar; that will make this less awkward for you both. Cal, I am putting you on an assignment to help Aspen learn the ins and outs of the game before pre-season starts.”
I don’t want to help her. I don’t want to be anywhere near her. I’m pretty sure our expressions match as both of our brows hit our hairline, but I quickly recover.
“Oh, that won’t be necessary.” She says at the same time I say, “I think she can handle it.”
Coach looks between the two of us, and his eyes narrow on me. “I don’t doubt her capabilities, Cal; I know she can handle it, but this team doesn’t leave anyone out on a limb to flail and struggle. You of all people should know that, after everything you’ve been through. Mr. West was there for you in your worst times; I think the least you can do is help his daughter.” Coach’s tone is sharp, and his eyes hold a look of disappointment.
I was in the midst of my darkest time when I first arrived in New York. Mr. West took me in and treated me as his own son. He was there for me. Which leads me to question, why wasn’t Aspen there for him? Ryan West was one of the best men I’ve ever known. When you joined the team, you became his family. He knew everyone on a personal level, even the player’s kids. Hell, that game room was built so the employees could bring their kids to work and would have somewhere to play. I heard him say on several occasions that the one thing he didn’t want anyone to miss out on was time. So, tell me, how could someone dip out on a man like that?
She was wrong when she said her dad loved the game more than anything else. He was a good man who cared about his players and their families far more than he cared about the game. Just when I thought she couldn’t make me dislike her more, she proved me wrong. She doesn’t deserve this team, and she sure as hell never deserved her dad.
I stay silent. I respect the hell out of Coach, but I’m not agreeing to shit.