5. Chapter Five
Chapter Five
Renegades on fire: Shep Landon’s back and this team’s ready to make some noise!
Landon proved he still has the magic touch.
Last night’s game was a testament to his talent and the Renegade’s newfound strength.
That game-winning goal was pure magic, and it’s clear that Landon’s leading the charge.
After last season’s early exit, the Renegades have a grudge to settle, and they’re not holding back.
With Landon scoring again, they’ve got the talent, the coaching, and the fan support.
This team is on fire. Question is, how long can they keep this fire burning? ~Renegades Rinkside
Merri
Not a date.
The mascara wand trembled against my lashes. Four coats should do it. Maybe five.
Not a date.
I didn’t date hockey players anymore. My third—or maybe fourth—coat of mascara left a tiny smudge under my eye.
I dabbed at the mark with my pinky. Cale’s face flashed through my mind—his cocky grin as he’d lounged in the Arvon video room, feet propped on my desk while I worked.
Lesson learned, got the T-shirt, whatever flippant little saying meant I’d had my heart crushed and my pride ripped to shreds, no, thank-you, I wasn’t up for a second serving.
Definitely not a date.
The empty space on my vanity where Joonie should be mocked me from the corner of my eye.
I needed to text Nat about this. My best friend since college would know exactly what to say to talk me down from the edge of panic.
She'd probably tell me to march right up to Landon and demand my Pop back.
But that would mean admitting how much I needed my little blue-haired friend, and I wasn't ready to show that kind of vulnerability.
The mirror reflected my practiced smile back at me, but the corners wavered.
Hockey players spelled career suicide. The memory of Cale Johansen sliced through my practiced calm.
A neat little case study in why dating hockey players belonged on my “never again” list, right between getting bangs and letting the goalie pick a practice playlist.
So, yeah. Not a date. Not even close.
A retrieval operation.
I needed my Pop.
I really needed my Funko Pop.
With a satisfied nod, I whirled away from the mirror and slipped back into my bedroom to slide into a pair of high-heeled ankle boots. I had a feeling tonight’s antics would include more than air hockey, but I could kick my shoes off as easily at Rails n’ Ales as I could in the player lounge.
I curled my toes in my boots. My fingers trembled as I fastened the tiny buckle at the ankle. But this wasn’t a date, so the feeling coursing through me wasn’t anticipation or excitement to see Shep. Nope, not at all. I thrived on competition, always had. And I wanted my Pop.
Not quite an hour later, I pulled into a parking spot in front of Rails n’ Ales.
A renovated old train depot with a courtyard, indoor and outdoor seating, and even a couple of train cars serving coffee and alcohol.
The owners filled the big main building with everything from air hockey tables and skeeball, to ax throwing and duckpin bowling.
Parking lights illuminated the nighttime lot as I made my way to the huge portico entrance.
And there stood Shepherd Landon, all broad shoulders and dangerous grace from his years commanding the ice, a Renegades cap pulled low over blue eyes.
My pulse spiked, and my hand drifted to smooth my hair—Mom’s voice echoed in my head, teasing me about my tell.
I dropped my hand and cleared my throat as I approached my adversary.
“Shouldn’t that cap be your lucky cap instead of the one you lost to me? Seeing as that one has the Renegade stallion on the front?”
His head snapped up at my words, a grin splitting his lips. I sucked in a shocked breath at his ungodly attractiveness, my pulse hammering a sudden staccato beat.
“But my sister didn’t give me this one.”
That flash of guilt from this afternoon hit me again, but I quashed the uneasiness. Shep Landon was an adult. If he gambled away something precious, that was on him. “I don’t intend to lose, so you may need to come up with a plan B.”
He pulled the heavy door wide, motioning me forward.
A fresh scent hit me as I passed—something woodsy that reminded me of summer, with just a hint of citrus tang.
I liked it. Maybe too much, given how my steps faltered, body swaying toward him before I caught myself.
I hurried ahead, putting distance between myself and the danger that was Shep Landon.
A circular desk rose up from the center of the main room and we made our way there. For a random Tuesday night, the place was bustling with people. We waited as a couple ahead of us reserved a couple Skee Ball lanes.
“How’s your air hockey game?”
I grinned, facing him as we waited in line. “Better than my Ping-Pong game.”
His chuckle rolled through the space between us. “Better? Have I been scammed?”
I channeled Mom’s Southern sweetness, pressing my hand to my chest. “Scammed? Why, I never. Wasn’t this all your idea, anyway?”
He wagged his head, his eyes sparkling beneath the brim of his Renegades hat.
A shadow of beard did nothing to soften the sharp cut of his jaw or hide the devilish curl of his lips.
Heat crept up my neck. My anti-hockey-player policy, my carefully constructed defenses, threatened to crumble.
Tempted me to forget about no fraternization rules, career goals, and past heartbreak and instead just wallowed in this man’s intoxicating charm.
“Yep, yep. My idea. I have a lot of faith in my air hockey skills. I’m willing to risk it, I think.”
We’d reached the desk and despite this not being a date, he waved away my protests with a stubborn glint in his eye and paid for our rounds. A wave of warmth, unexpected and unwelcome, flooded my cheeks as I followed the employee.
The employee, a blur of black and white, ushered us past a bar of polished mahogany.
The scent of hops and barley hung heavy in the air, mingled with the tang of salt from the pretzels piled high along the counter.
The tap wall, a shrine to craft brews, boasted dozens of choices—IPAs, stouts, even a cider or two.
I waved toward the tap wall. “I’ll grab our first round to make us even.”
His attention zeroed in on the air hockey table, muscles rolling beneath his henley with all the fluid grace of a replay in slow-mo. His presence drew me in like center ice under the spotlights—dangerous and thrilling and exactly where I wanted to be.
The host led us to a nearby high-top while the air hockey table’s mechanical hum created a steady rhythm beneath the bar noise. After I placed our drink orders, Shep claimed a mallet from the basket, testing its balance with an easy flip, the tendons of his forearms rippling.
“Best of three?”
I jerked my gaze up to meet his, my pulse hammering in my ears. “Did you bring my Pop?”
This time, it was him who pressed a scandalized hand to his chest. “I would never welch on a deal!”
“Your cap’s in my car. The navy blue really undermined my whole aesthetic tonight.”
“We definitely don’t want to cramp your style. I’m happy to walk you out to your car when you lose.”
I laughed, the thrill of competition bubbling up inside me. “This is gonna be fun.”
He winked and the dimple in his left cheek deepened with his grin. “I make losing fun.”
A neon yellow plastic puck rested on the edge of the table. I picked it up, waving the little disc toward Shep as he took position at the opposite end of the table. “Who goes first?”
He rounded back toward me. “Rock, paper, scissors.”
I arched my brow at him. “Ready?”
He counted us down. “Three, two, one!”
His paper smothered my rock. Victory sparked across his features as he claimed the puck, and something dangerous fluttered in my chest.
“Enjoy your moment, mister. The night is young.”
He scored on the opening play, catching me off guard with his speed. Stupid, really. This was Shep Landon, the hockey player known for his on-ice finesse and lightning-fast reflexes. Of course he’d be a little speed demon off the ice, too.
His next shot came at me sharp and clean, but this time I was prepared and countered, my open reflexes kicking in. He defended well. Maybe beating him tonight wouldn’t be a walk in the park after all.
Minutes later, I’d racked up a three-point lead and within moments hit seven to secure the first game.
“Best of three, right?” I twirled the mallet with one hand and my hair with the other. “Or do you want to save time and just concede defeat now?”
He crossed his arms over his chest. The position put his thick biceps on display. I swallowed. “Just rubbing it in, aren’t you?”
I dropped my hair with a laugh. “I even left my shoes on. I should have started with a handicap, if you think about it.”
He dipped to the side, eyeing my cute little ankle boots before trailing his gaze up my body until it locked with mine. My belly clenched.
“I have a feeling you can do just about anything in those shoes,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down my spine.
I wanted there to be innuendo in his words.
I wanted that husky timbre to be insinuating all sorts of wicked things.
My inner good girl, the one who’d sworn off hockey players, was having a full-blown meltdown.
But his voice, rough and laced with that playful smirk—it wreaked havoc on my equilibrium.
I rolled my lips together and gave him a cool nod as if my pulse wasn’t tap-dancing right under my skin.
“I do like pretty shoes.” I aimed for breezy but landed somewhere around flustered.
“Toss the puck, Coach Wylie. Let’s go.”