CHAPTER 2
CLASHES
***
Madison
The morning light barely breaks through the gray clouds as I make my way to the arena. I juggle my satchel, notebook and pen, and the biggest cup of coffee the Wake Up Call offers. It isn’t like I need an extra dose of caffeine to get me going. My insides buzz, anticipating the excitement surrounding the team.
I’m not a newbie to the hockey scene, but it has been a while since I sought out the sport. There are too many bad memories still lingering in my orbit, self-doubt scoring the highest points for messing with my head. As much as I dreaded this assignment when it was handed to me, I’m beginning to think there’s more of a story here than fluffy hockey hype.
A buzz of excitement surrounds the arena, matching the hum of my twitching nerves. The first full practice of the season is always met with fanfare. Fans arrive in droves, sporting memorabilia from sponge fingers and numbered jerseys to full face paint with the team’s colors. I hate to admit it, but the electrically charged atmosphere is contagious. The only thing marring my mood is the tension yesterday’s meet and greet sparked between Zach Brooks and me.
Getting the story of what’s going on behind that man’s intense baby blues isn’t going to be easy.
The smell of crisp, clean ice mixed with the faint scent of sweat hit me first upon entering the rink. Bright overhead lights reflect against the freshly resurfaced ice where team members are already practicing drills. Coaches stand near the benches with clipboards and serious faces as they watch the team with keen eyes.
I scan the floor as I find my place in the stands. A Zamboni machine emblazoned with the team’s logo sits in the far corner near the ice. Players shout instructions and encouragement as they work through their drills. The sharp sound of skates cutting into the ice and clattering sticks hitting pucks fills the air. I spot Zach immediately, leading his team through drills. His focus is intense, his movements precise, making it clear why he’s their star player.
I find a spot near the boards, close enough to observe but hopefully not close enough to be noticed. I pull out my notebook and start taking notes, watching as Zach commands the rink. He’s good. I’ll give him that. But there’s more to this story than his on-ice skills. Why else would he be worried about me stirring up trouble? I only hope I get the scoop on whatever it is he’s hiding.
The energy inside the rink builds as the players break into groups for specific drills. Defensemen work on positioning, forwards practice shooting and passing, and goalies hone their reflexes. But my eyes focus on Zach. He’s the backbone of the team, playing center position, crucial to both offense and defensive plays. It isn’t surprising with his height and muscular build. Underneath all his gear is a sturdy man with broad shoulders and a wide chest that tapers down to a lean waist and then some. Impressive, to say the least. Not that I checked him out. My press packet came with a list of stats, physical and otherwise, for each player on the team.
By the time practice winds down with a short scrimmage, I’m on the edge of my seat, watching intently, forgetting to take notes. When the final whistle blows, I’m startled back to reality and hurry to catch up with the small crowd of journalists on the beat like me. Though I promised myself I’d never get wrapped up in the excitement surrounding hockey again, I’ve caught the bug, optimistic about where this season will take the Saints. And where it might take Zach and me.
I deviate from the press group and make my way toward the locker room, determined to get some more personal insights from the man with exquisite blue eyes. As players trickle into the long hallway, I spot Zach heading my way. I steel myself, ready for whatever attitude he throws at me.
“Zach, got a minute?” I call out, unsure if he’ll ignore me or throw me a snarky jab.
He stops, staring at me with those piercing eyes, and my heart skips a beat before falling like a rollercoaster on a downward spiral. I catch my breath. There are so many ways this can go wrong.
“Yeah, sure.” He juts his chin upward, never breaking a smile as he struts toward me.
Damn, the man’s gorgeous with or without those devilish lips. Stop thinking about his lips.
“I wanted to ask you about the team’s dynamic this year.” A waft of cedarwood, musk, and a touch of citrus hit me all at once. Good grief. He smells like heaven. There’s no sense trying to hold my breath, so I soak in his scent and focus on regaining my other faculties. “Uh, what’s your approach to leading them?”
His damp, dark brown hair flops over his forehead. He shrugs his broad shoulders and wipes a drop of water from his brow. “It’s about setting an example. If I work hard, they’ll work hard. Simple as that.”
“Can you be more specific?” I press. At this point, I hardly care what comes out of his mouth as long as I can bask in his heavenly scent and drink in his beautiful baby blues. “What exactly are you doing differently this year?”
“We’re focusing on discipline and consistency. Like I said before, last year we had issues, and we’re fixing them.” His jaw tightens. “That’s all you need to know.”
My skin prickles along my spine. I’m so tired of dismissive men telling me what I do and don’t need to know. But I’m irritating him, too, which means I’m on the right track. Keep pressing.
I jot down his response but feel the frustration building in his voice, which oddly turns me on. But he’s giving me the bare minimum, and I’m not buying what he’s selling. I try a different tactic and tell my libido to hold the phone. “You’ve been with the team for a while now. How do you handle the pressure of being their leader, especially after a disappointing season?”
Zach glares at me, clearly annoyed. I’ve hit a nerve. Good. My tummy does a little hip hip hooray flip-flop.
“I thrive on pressure. It’s part of the game. Anything else?” He steps to bypass me, but I step in time with him and block his exit.
He’s not the only one who can make defensive plays.
“Actually, yes,” I say, not backing down. I’m rather enjoying this game of passive aggression. “How do you balance that pressure with your personal life? I’ve heard you’re very close to your family. Does that ever get in the way?”
His eyes narrow, and I can see the irritation flare across his face. That did it. I finally get a reaction that isn’t rehearsed.
“My personal life is just that—personal.” His jaw tightens. “I don’t let it interfere with my job, nor will I allow the press to interfere with my family.”
I meet his gaze, refusing to be intimidated. Overbearing jocks like him are the reason I didn’t want this assignment in the first place. Past memories flood to the forefront, yet I hold my ground. My heart pinches, and I resist the urge to drop my line of questions. I won’t back down. I won’t cower. I know my worth, and my questions are valid.
“It’s all connected, Zach. People want to know what drives you, what makes you tick. That’s part of the story, too.”
He takes a step closer, his voice low and tense. “I’m here to play hockey, not to be psychoanalyzed. If you want to write about me and the team, fine. But leave my personal life out of it.”
My cheeks flush with anger. “I’m here to get the full story, Zach. That includes understanding the man behind the player. If you can’t handle that, maybe you’re the one who needs to rethink a career in the spotlight.”
He stares at me for a long moment, the tension crackling between us. He surprises me when he shakes his head and walks away, leaving me standing alone with my heart pounding and guilt needling its way into my gut.
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. This story is going to be more challenging than I thought. Zach Brooks is a wall of defenses, and breaking through will take everything I’ve got. But I’m not backing down. I’ve faced tougher challenges than this.
As I pack up my things, I replay our conversation in my head. He’s hiding something, and I’m determined to find out what. This story is about more than just hockey. It’s about the people behind the game, their struggles, their triumphs. And I’m going to uncover every bit of it.
No matter how many face-to face-clashes it takes.
***
Zach
The locker room buzzes after another grueling practice. My muscles ache, but it’s the good kind of pain—the kind that means I’m pushing myself to be better. Though catching sight of Madison in the stands didn’t help my concentration any. How could I not notice her? She couldn’t hide in a crowd if she wanted to.
If she thinks I didn’t notice her sitting on the edge of her seat while we scrimmaged, she’s got another thing coming to her. The woman knows hockey. It’s a redeeming quality that has nothing to do with her drop-dead gorgeous looks and snoopy reporter nose.
I towel off and head towards the hallway, hoping to grab a quick moment of peace before the inevitable swarm of reporters. As I round the corner, I see her—Madison Collins—with her notebook and pen ready, looking as determined as ever. I suppress a sigh and brace myself for more questions.
“Zach, got a minute?” she calls out.
I stop, giving her a curt nod. “Yeah, sure.” But before I reach her, she dives right in with questions, like she’s nervous.
“I wanted to ask you about the team’s dynamic this year. What’s your approach to leading them?”
I shrug, keeping my tone even. If I answer her simple questions, she might eventually let me off the hook. “It’s about setting an example. If I work hard, they’ll work hard. Simple as that.”
She doesn’t let up. “Can you be more specific? What exactly are you doing differently this year?”
My patience thins. Under any other circumstance, I’d be happy to have a conversation with Madison. Madison, the person, not Madison, the reporter. “We’re focusing on discipline and consistency. Last year, we had issues, and we’re fixing them. That’s all you need to know.”
A flash of frustration plays across her features before she dips her head to scribble something in her notebook. I’m thrown off balance for a moment. Her eyes seem to change from warm brown and gold to vibrant green.
“You’ve been with the team for a while now.” She stares up at me, defiant, almost daring me to be rude. “How do you handle the pressure of being their leader, especially after a disappointing season?”
I glare at her, irritation bubbling to the surface. “I thrive on pressure. It’s part of the game. Anything else?”
“Actually, yes,” she says, her voice wavering. “How do you balance that pressure with your personal life? I’ve heard you’re very close to your family. Does that ever get in the way?”
My jaw tightens. My family’s a line I’ll defend to my dying day. “My personal life is just that—personal. I don’t let it interfere with my job, nor will I allow the press to interfere with my family.”
Madison meets my gaze, not backing down. In fact, I think I’ve rattled her cage. She’s kind of cute when she’s angry.
“It’s all connected, Zach. People want to know what drives you, what makes you tick. That’s part of the story too.”
I take a step closer, my voice low and tense. If she’d just let my family go, I’d give her what she wants.
Why am I letting her get under my skin like this? It’s crazy.
“I’m here to play hockey, not to be psychoanalyzed. If you want to write about me and the team, fine. But leave my personal life out of it.”
Our tempers flare, and I want to punch my fist against a wall as much as I want to kiss her plump, pouty lips. She’s clearly angry, but she holds her ground.
“I’m here to get the full story, Zach. That includes understanding the man behind the player. If you can’t handle that, maybe you’re the one who needs to rethink things.”
I stare at her, the tension crackling between us. To say it’s a fine line between love and hate strikes a little too close to home. She’s a spitfire for not backing down. That takes balls. But I won’t give her my family. That’s a step too far. I shake my head and walk away before I say or do something stupid. I’m supposed to be an example to the guys.
I grab a bite to eat and head back to the locker room for a quick workout. Madison’s noticeably absent from the handful of reporters hanging around the locker room entrance. I’m not sure if that worries me more than her persistent questions. But I can’t shake our previous encounter. She’s different, tenacious and annoying in an intriguing way. Most reporters don’t push like this. But Madison—she’s relentless. Is she after a story, or is there something deeper to her stubbornness?
I think long and hard about Madison’s questions, about balancing the pressure of leading a team and my personal life. She hasn’t a clue about my family or personal life, but she’s right—it is all connected. But letting her in, letting anyone in, is a risk I’m not sure I’m willing to take. My family’s been through enough and sacrificed too much to stay together, to get me where I am. I owe them the privacy they deserve.
***
I wake early from a fitful night of tossing and turning. Each time I dozed off to sleep, visions of Madison and her chameleon eyes plagued my dreams. Even more annoying was the uncomfortable hard-on accompanying them. Despite the numerous times I fisted the beast, he refused to lie dormant for long.
My phone buzzes with a text from my sister, Lauren. Good luck at practice today! Proud of you!
I smile despite my conflicted disposition. It’s no secret Lauren’s always been my biggest supporter. She also has an uncanny way of knowing intuitively when my mood needs a boost. When Mom got sick, Lauren and I were all each other had. Though Lauren’s younger, she took it upon herself to stand in and be the rock she knew I needed. It’s my turn to return the favor.
I haul my ass out of bed and get to the arena for practice. A team mirrors its leader. They don’t need me showing up to practice half-cocked and out of sorts.
Coach works us hard with more drills, pushing us to the limit as we practice power plays and penalty kills, simulating what we experience when we’re facing off against another team. There’s no room for second-guessing or letting our guard down, especially since we’re playing our biggest rivals on opening night. The Predators are a force to be reckoned with, chiefly due to Mark Anderson, their hot-head team captain.
Despite the rigorous practice, I can’t get Madison’s words and curvy figure out of my head. It doesn’t help that she’s in the stands watching every move I make on the ice. Even when my back is turned, I can feel the heat of her stare. She lights up my nervous system and threatens to send it into overload. For the life of me, I can’t figure out why she affects me the way she does.
Coach blows the final whistle, wrapping up practice for the day. I join my teammates for a few laps around the rink to cool down, waving to the fans who came out to watch us. Despite my efforts to avoid reporters' eyes, my attention continues to gravitate to the woman with inquisitive eyes.
When I pass the press box, Madison is the only journalist left in the stands. I expect her to throw out a question, but notice she’s without pen and paper for a change. We briefly make direct eye contact, and I swear the corners of her mouth twitch into a reluctant smile. I stare too long and trip over my feet, nearly bringing a teammate down.
“Whoa, Brooks.” Graves nudges me with his elbow. “Watch where you’re going.”
Madison’s cheeks stain a pale shade of pink. Her eyes light up with flickers of gold, green and chocolate, swirling like Van Gogh’s Starry Night painting. My heart ticks an irregular beat, knocking me for a loop.
I chance a grin her way as a young fan races down the steps to the rail. He stops and places his hand on the acrylic shield separating the rink from spectator seating. I pause and put my gloved hand against the glass, dwarfing his.
“Wow.” His eyes light up, making my day. “Dad, Dad. Did you see that?” The kid glances over his shoulder at a man looking on from the top of the stairs. “Zach Brooks gave me a high five.”
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t love making a kid’s day. It’s pretty great being someone kids can look up to. I glance back at Madison, but she’s already grabbed her bag and quietly slipped up a separate set of steps.
After I hit the shower, Madison’s waiting near the exit in the same place she grilled me before. I consider avoiding her, but something pulls me to her like she’s magnetic and I’m steel. Or maybe she’s the steel, and I’m kinetic sand. She’s thrown my footing off, and I’m not sure how stable my resolve is anymore. My heart beats wildly against my chest, causing my throat to tighten. I slow my roll, unsure of what kind of spell she’s cast over me but liking it all the same.
Would it kill me to answer a few of her questions and give her a little piece of what she’s looking for?
“Got a minute?” She pushes off the wall and steps in time with my stride.
“Hungry?” I ask, shortening my gait so she can keep up without huffing it.
“Uh, sure.” She tilts her chin, eyeing me quizzically like I’m a one-eyed monster. “Something come over you, Brooks? You’re inviting me to lunch, and you’re not scowling.”
I like the way she says my last name, like we’re old friends with years of stories between us. Come to think of it, I’d kind of like it if we did. At least thinking about her nonstop would make sense if we had a history. Or maybe even the possibility of a future.
“It’s cafeteria food,” I chuckle, and my stomach rumbles on cue. “And I’m too hungry to scowl.”
We eat among the noisy din of hungry hockey players scarfing down protein and carbs. A few players are joined by their wives and girlfriends. There’s even a tot or two darting around the room, climbing into anyone’s lap who’s willing to scoop them up for a ride on their knee. The whole team’s a family, thick as thieves and ready to protect and defend our own.
Madison watches with a keen eye but doesn’t broach the subject of my personal life. Yet unspoken questions sit between us, heavy and strained. If I give a little, maybe she will, too. I take a deep breath, my heart already pounding at what I’m contemplating.
“You mentioned my family yesterday.” I lean forward in my chair and lower my voice. The team knows a lot about my family in recent years, but that doesn’t make me any less guarded about our privacy. I signed up for the spotlight, but Mom and Lauren didn’t. “I don’t like opening them up to the same scrutiny I’m subjected to.”
“Understandable.” Madison leans forward, criss-crossing her arms on the table. A deep green halo encircles her irises, framing the sparkling amber and golden flecks that dance under the harsh cafeteria lights. It’s as if her eyes magically change colors according to her mood. She’s bewitching and breathtakingly beautiful. “Is this off-the-record? I have a bear trap memory and am not easily convinced to forget things I’ve been told.”
Add brash, plucky, and candid to the growing list of qualities that describe Madison. I caution myself on how much to say, knowing whatever comes out of my mouth might show up in ink tomorrow.
“My mom’s a powerhouse. She raised my sister and me alone and worked her ass off to make sure we had what we needed.” My brow furrows, remembering how pale and weak she became after spending months in and out of the hospital. She was so frail, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do to help her except hold her hand and make her proud. “She’s been through a lot, and I don’t want anything I do to add to her burden.”
Madison’s expression softens, and I swear the green in her eyes does, too. She reaches across the table and rests her hand on my arm. An electric current splinters through my body and shocks my heart, spurring it to beat faster.
“Sounds like she’s a strong lady.” She applies gentle pressure to my arm. It’s warm and assuring. “Tell me about your sister.”
“Lauren? She’s amazing.” I relax a little. Lauren’s younger and smaller than me, but she kicks my ass at trivia games every chance she gets. “Smart, funny, and kickass. She’s studying to be a nurse.”
“Sounds like you and your family are pretty tight.” Madison’s eyes flit to where her hand rests on my arm. She immediately withdraws it as if she’s been burned. She sits up and straightens her posture, back in reporter mode. “Thank you for sharing. It’s important for people to see the human side of you.”
“Yeah, well, don’t make me out to be a softie,” I chuckle and glance around the room. “I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t.” She laughs, a surprisingly comforting sound. She checks the time and scoots her chair away from the table. “I’ve gotta get back to work. Practice same time tomorrow?”
I nod as a strange mix of vulnerability and relief takes root in the pit of my stomach. We dump our trays and part ways at the exit. As I walk away, a weight lifts from my shoulders, and a little of the tension I’ve been holding between my shoulder blades eases.
“Hey, Madison.” I turn and raise my voice to get her attention. “I’d like to show you something. You free Friday night?”
She cocks her head and lifts her eyes to the ceiling as she taps her jaw, overplaying the let-me-check-my-schedule scenario. I chuckle, feeling lighter and enjoying her playful yet guarded side.
“Hmm, I think that can be arranged.” She flashes me a grin, which is anything but cautious. If I didn’t know better, I’d say Madison’s flirting with me.
And I like it. Maybe too much.