7. Chapter Seven
Chapter Seven
Merri Wylie’s Arvon stats speak for themselves, but is she ready for the NHL?
The Renegades are entering a new era, and all eyes will be on Wylie tonight.
Tonight we’ll see the impact the team’s new video coach will have on the ice.
Will her college success translate to the rough and tumble world of pro hockey? ~Renegades Rinkside
Merri
My kitten heels clicked against the concrete floor of Algonquian Arena three hours before puck drop. Better to be absurdly early than let my brain spiral into chaos at home.
Ninety games at Arvon under my belt. Sellers trusted me enough to hand over his job. The mantra repeated in my head as I smoothed my yellow dress for the hundredth time. One game. Get through one game and everything would click into place.
I’d memorized the Carolina Red Devils game film until my eyes crossed. Then I’d picked my lucky yellow dress, strapped on my favorite heels. Packed two tumblers of water and enough snacks to fuel a small army.
But no Joonie.
My hands shook as I pushed through the empty locker room doors. Wilson had barely glanced up when I’d volunteered to prep the players’ game day tablets—the perfect excuse to search for my missing Pop.
That sneaky, thinks-he’s-so-charming thief Shepherd Landon had played me.
Yesterday in the office, all honey-sweet smiles while he passed me my tablet, distracting me with those twinkling blue eyes.
I’d been so caught up in my victory, so smug about winning his cap, I’d missed his sleight of hand entirely.
Classic misdirection—while I gloated over my Ping-Pong win trophy, he’d snatched my Pop.
That smug jackass!
The maze of corridors wound past staff outfitted in pewter gray team shirts, the Renegades logos on their hats bobbing as they nodded hello. A few familiar faces from Sellers’ tour, but most remained strangers. Nothing like the awkwardness of a new job.
I froze at the locker room entrance, straining to listen. No sign of him yet. Players wouldn’t start trickling in for another hour at least.
A throat cleared behind me. I spun around, nearly dropping the bin of tablets. The equipment manager—Dave? Dan?—shot me an easy smile. “Looking for Wilson? He won’t show till the last minute.”
“Nope,” I chirped, hoisting the bin higher. My voice came out two notches too bright. “Just here to deliver the goods.”
He chuckled, shouldering a giant equipment bag and waving me ahead.
Inside, another staff member arranged pads and jerseys with practiced efficiency.
The room hummed with pre-game potential—crisp blue jerseys hanging like battle flags, skate blades gleaming under fluorescent lights, the proud Renegades crest commanding the center floor.
My shoulders relaxed a fraction. Stats and strategy, numbers and analysis—this was my arena.
Shep’s number thirteen jersey dominated the left wall. His gear already filled the stall—gloves perched on pegs above, skates below. A folder bearing the front office label, pens in a clear case, and a tin of peppermints cluttered the shelf.
No sign of my blue-haired, yellow-glasses wearing friend.
A crash behind me—another equipment bag hitting the floor—sent my heart racing.
I grabbed the tub of tablets, circling the room with mechanical precision.
Each stall got its tablet, loaded with personalized film folders.
I’d spent hours organizing Carolina Red Devils footage, highlighting opponent tendencies, strategies, weaknesses.
My hands trembled as I placed the last tablet.
What if Wilson walked in on another confrontation with Shep?
Yesterday’s encounter flashed hot in my memory—his massive frame caging me against the wall, his gaze trailing fire down my neck.
My fingers brushed my collarbone, ghost-traces of where his eyes had lingered.
The smart move? Leave. Now.
But confronting him in front of the team might force his hand. No, hockey players guarded their pre-game rituals like dragons hoarding gold. If he’d claimed my Pop as his new lucky charm… We’d be headed for a public showdown then.
My throat closed. Mom’s face swam before my eyes—her last summer, Vegas lights painting the hospital room purple.
The whole city had blazed for some Korean band’s tour, turning our nightmare into something almost magical.
We’d never heard their music, but the energy, the spectacle of it all had lifted us above the fear, if only for moments.
I’d found the Pop at a street vendor’s cart between our hotel and the hospital. The turquoise hair, the yellow glasses—somehow perfect. Mom’s eyes had lit up when I presented him, her smile chasing away the shadows of illness.
Two days later, she slipped away in her sleep.
My chest squeezed. I collapsed onto a bench near the player entrance, gulping air. Fine. I wouldn’t corner him in front of the team. I’d give him that small mercy, despite his theft.
But Shepherd Landon had my Joonie. Not a smidge of doubt in my brain.
I pressed my back against the wall from my seat on the bench as the players filtered in—expensive suits, artistic stubble, cocky confidence.
A photographer lurked at the hall’s end, snapping arrival photos for social media.
I shrank deeper into my corner. The last thing I needed was to end up in those photos, another “look how progressive we are” moment like the ones that had followed me through Arvon.
The PR department could find someone else for their highlight reels.
Theo Fournier, the team’s captain and best two-way center in the league paused beside me.
He towered over my five-foot five frame, his dark eyes and hair mysterious despite the friendly curve of his lips.
I’d studied his plays for years. Masterful on the face-off, amazing defensive forward, and known for pulling miracles out of his back pocket on the regular. I shot to my feet.
“Evening, Captain!” My salute sparkled with the same bright energy I’d perfected through years of being the only woman in the room.
“Very funny. At ease.” He shifted a black and blue athletic bag to his opposite shoulder and extended his hand. “Ready for tonight, Wylie?”
“Absolutely! Your tablet’s loaded and waiting at your locker. Let me know if the new set-up works for you. And I can’t wait to play eagle eyes in the video room during the game.”
“Why’re you lurking out here?”
“I need to catch up with Shep about his film. Figured this beat hovering in the locker room.”
Fournier’s laugh rumbled. “Wrong spot. He’ll be grabbing coffee at the corner shop, basking in fan worship for his pre-game ego boost. Street level entrance.”
Well, crap. Frustration must have filled my face as the captain laughed. “No idea how to get there, right?”
“Not a clue.” I shook my head. “And I’ve entered the arena that way a million times, at least. But never from the employee side of things.”
He pointed down the hall. “Go back the way you came, follow the signs for the employee parking garage. They’ll get you to the general area, then you can ask someone.”
“Thanks so much, Captain! Good luck tonight!”
I scampered through the corridors as fast as my four-inch peep-toes would allow. Breathless at the end of a hall that ended at a wide metal door with an “Employee Only” sign, I stumbled through.
The parking deck spilled out onto the street, and sure enough—there he stood outside the coffee shop, one hand raised in a wave.
He must have filled up that huge head of his with the accolades of his fans, as he left then and strode toward the arena’s main front entrance, canting off to the side to slip under the escalator and through another door there.
I followed quickly, fumbling with my pass card to get the hidden door open.
“Landon!” My voice bounced off concrete walls as the door clicked shut.
He spun, a movie-star grin lighting his face. “Wylie!” He boomed, as if we played a child’s game of hide-and-seek and I wasn’t six feet away.
I stalked closer, scanning his empty hands before zeroing in on his equipment bag. “Give it up. I need to get back to work.”
He scanned the hallway over my shoulder, then turned back to me, his eyes widened in mock surprise. “This is kind of a weird place, don’t you think? To make that kind of demand of a man?”
Heat flooded my cheeks and I clenched my fingers into a fist. “Give me my Pop, Landon.”
“Wow, did you lose the little dude?”
“I didn’t lose the little dude. You distracted me yesterday and stole him out of my office!”
He sidled closer, backing me against the wall for the second time in twenty-four hours.
But this time, he kept coming. He lodged his forearm beside my head, his body a wall of heat too close to mine.
His breath danced across my cheek, feathering through the hair at my temple, igniting a fire beneath my skin.
“Distracted you?” His fingers brushed a lock of hair from my face, his words caressing my ear. “You’re a professional, Merri-love. You track a tiny black puck flying across the ice at eighty miles an hour. Even faster when I shoot them. You don’t get distracted.”
His honey-sweet voice fogged my brain, his closeness drugging my senses. “You should back up.”
“Should I?” He leaned closer, his breath a whisper over my lips. “Is that what you want, Merri?”
No. Not even close.
My brain screamed for distance while my body strained toward him. I wanted to rise on my toes, claim the kiss he dangled like bait, beat him at his own sensual game. Understanding loosened my shoulders.
I slipped my fingers beneath his tie, and slowly stroked down the length of the silk, tugging him closer still. Close enough that when his breath hitched in his chest, I heard it. Felt it. Absolutely savored it.
“You want to give me what I want, don’t you, Shep?” I shifted, slid my hand under his jacket lapel and atop the thin fabric of his button down. His heart pounded under my palm.
He dropped his bag with a heavy thump. His hand swept along my neck, his thumb tipped my chin up, his palm cradled my jaw.
I gasped, his touch ricocheting through me, a hot wave of unstoppable sensation. He tipped his chin down. He meant to kiss me. I angled my face to meet his lips as they came down over mine.
His kiss was softer than I expected, almost tentative. In the back of my brain, in the part that could still think and judge and question, it hit me that he was testing the waters. Seeing what I would do.
He was calling my bluff.
The jerk.
Need battled logic. Give in? Push away? Match his intensity?
The right choice was the one he didn’t expect.
He played his lips over mine, careful, controlled. Waiting for my retreat.
I had my answer.
With more excitement than sense, I laced my fingers behind his neck. I opened my mouth beneath his and flicked my tongue along his lower lip. His grunt of surprise vibrated through me.
His control snapped. He pressed me into the wall, framed my face with his hands, and deepened our kiss.
I dug my fingers into the corded muscle of his neck and shoulders. He kissed me, hard and deep, as if memorizing my every contour, my very flavor. As if memorizing everything about me.
When his tongue slid over my lower lip, I groaned, wedging myself closer to his heavy body. I rubbed my aching breasts against the restrained power of his body.
He gripped my waist and crushed me to his chest. I challenged his tongue with mine, our kiss transforming from power play to raw need. My pulse roared, my core clenched, and reality dissolved into the best kiss of my life.
The crack of a distant door shattered our cocoon of tangled breaths. Shep wrenched away, putting two long strides between us. I sagged against the wall, my pulse still thundering as I scanned the corridor.
We stood alone in one of Algonquian Arena’s countless concrete arteries. Our entrance door lay to the left, a stark white tunnel stretched endlessly right. The sound had ricocheted through these underground catacombs, nothing more.
My heart steadied its wild gallop. My career hadn’t combusted in a blaze of forbidden kisses.
Twin flags of pink blazed across Shep’s cheekbones. He raked his hand over his neck, exhaled a shaky breath. When his gaze met mine, his eyes had darkened to storm-tossed midnight. He hefted his bag to his shoulder. “Point to you this round, Wylie. You won’t catch me off guard again.”
He turned to leave, then paused. His eyes locked on mine, that Southern-boy grin spreading slow as summer molasses. “But don’t worry—” His hand dipped into his bag, withdrawing a familiar turquoise-haired figure. “Our game’s just heating up.”