Her Goal (Love in Hockey Town #3)

Chapter 1

HUDSON

Life has a funny way of humbling me at the worst possible moments—like right now, with nothing but a towel around my waist after a shower.

And by “funny,” I mean about as humorous as those stone-faced guards outside Buckingham Palace.

You know, the ones who don’t crack a smile even when tourists make fools of themselves trying to get a reaction?

When I still played for the Rangers, we had a game up in Ottawa against the Outlaws. A few of my teammates dressed up in bearskin hats and red uniforms, mimicking the Ceremonial Guard—but instead of carrying rifles, hockey sticks were locked and loaded.

Was I one of the guys in costume? No comment.

I’ve traveled overseas, lived all over the country, and am now back in the one place I said I’d never return …

Cobbiton, Nebraska, which recently rebranded itself as Hockey Town, USA.

I’ll be the judge of that.

I took an overnight flight and was bleary-eyed when I arrived at my new house on Golden Bantam Court. I hired a company to do the bulk of the unpacking so I could jump right into preseason training.

If there’s a gotcha to be had, it’s on anyone who teased me about the shoddy duplex I grew up in with my single mom and twin brother because my new house with its chef’s kitchen, high ceilings, and surround sound audio system is as nice as they come.

The Roboveitcheks were all smart and got out of town the same day as graduation. Actually, my mother was gone the week Hunter and I both turned eighteen, but that’s a memory that stays inside the Nothing Box. I never thought I’d live here again and on the nice side of town!

In the haze of my early morning arrival, I left my suitcase downstairs. I find it in the front room by the couch. Pausing, I peer out the wide front window overlooking the manicured lawn. The maples and oak trees have started turning from green to the vibrant shades of autumn.

A slow sigh escapes and then my breath catches in my throat.

Near a birch, I spot movement. It’s early and the sunrise barely scrapes the gray sky so it could be a raccoon, a stray cat, or a neighborhood dog out doing its morning business.

However, if I’m not mistaken, a figure streaks by clutching something to their chest. Not yet familiar with the layout of the house, yet trying to track the trespasser, I hurry from window to window, some of which have the curtains drawn and others are open to the yard.

It’s too soon for a crazed fan to find out where I live. Unlike some of the guys I know, I rarely get mobbed in person, but online is a different story. I’ve had marriage proposals, women offering to have my children if only to preserve my features, and once was offered to do a wife swap.

Don’t have one of those. Not really in the market and swapping is a solid pass, anyway.

From outside, I don’t think the person spotted me, but if this is how new neighbors are welcomed, I’m calling the cops.

Something in the house makes a shushing noise, or perhaps it’s the residual airplane eardrum hum from my flight out of Texas. Planting my pointer finger next to my ear, I give it a jiggle.

Peering into the backyard, I look for the prowler but don’t see anyone.

I probably need to get some shut-eye. I fly all the time, so jetlag isn’t usually an issue. However, sleep doesn’t come until I’m stationary, preferably in a bed. Listening carefully, I continue to hear that shushing sound.

Then comes a tick tick tick noise, followed by a soft thump.

If I inadvertently bought a haunted house, I quit. Not my career. No, I’m hanging onto it by a threadbare piece of hockey tape. I mean home ownership. This is my third place and it would be just my luck to have a Cobbiton ghost try to haunt me out of town.

“It’s not like I want to be here anyway,” I mutter.

Gripping the towel firmly around my waist, as I near the door that leads to the attached garage, I hear the distinct sound of running water.

I check the faucets and it’s not the shower.

Looking outside from the upstairs bathroom window, I realize it’s the irrigation system sprinklers.

Relief washes through me until I hear another thump.

Could be a plumbing issue like air in the pipes.

Or a ghost.

I freeze in place and my heart stops, too. Listening once more, I try to locate where the strange thumps are coming from. If I can’t, I’ll call a landscaper or plumber in a couple of hours. I don’t want to have a flood or a faulty system. Not this early in the game.

Having browsed the front yard like a lord over his estate, I peer into the backyard with a large deck and hot tub. I’m looking forward to that, especially after games on the cold Nebraska nights that I remember well enough to already dread.

Once again, I detect movement in the yard. I’ll have to review the security system. I recall the realtor mentioning motion detection lights and several cameras, but I haven’t synced the app with my phone yet.

It’s yet another item on my to-do list, which includes resuscitating my career.

I expect that I’ll only be here for one season before Coach Badaszek realizes that I’m an okay goalie, but not a great goalie.

I don’t want to experience hockey exile.

However, I’m more than fine with saying good riddance to Cobbiton.

I tell myself not to think about the controversy surrounding the player exchange that took me off the Texas Rangers team and here to the Knights. The buzz that it wasn’t fair. In this case, I got the better deal because Nebraska is top three in the league and I’m at the other end of the spectrum.

My sole focus is to get my stats up, keep my career, and move on. As it stands, I’m just squeaking by and that’s not good enough.

The sprinkler slows to a stop and I open one of the French doors, welcoming the crisp, fresh air.

I take a deep breath and another thump comes from the direction of the garage’s exterior window, looking out over the backyard.

I swing my head to the left and a person dressed entirely in black goes still—as if by doing so, I somehow won’t see them.

They cradle something in their arms and then look away from me and over their shoulder for an escape route.

“Hey! What are you doing? This is private property!”

With a hat pulled low and a bandana over their face, I can’t tell who it is, but a few pieces of long hair trail loose out of the bottom of the hat.

A female burglar or a puck bunny?

Even though I’m the one who just showered, they’re dripping wet on account of the sprinklers.

“Get out of here or I’m calling the police!” I holler.

Without answering, she takes off at a trot. The leaves on the ground are slippery and she loses her footing. Her free arm windmills as she scrambles to keep her balance.

As a goalie, I’m used to making saves and rush forward. Yes, still in the towel, I don’t want an intruder getting injured on my property and then suing me over it.

At the same time as I extend my arms to keep her from hitting the cement patio, the parcel she clutches sails into the air.

My instincts tell me to save the person, but curiosity has me desperate to know what’s in the grubby bundle. It’s about the size of a baby. However, I’m certain I’m not a father.

She must think it’s valuable because instead of trying to save herself, she lunges for it. We collide and land in a tangle.

Pressing to sit, I scoot back. Damp leaves cling to my bare skin and the towel is filthy. I’ll need another shower.

Soaked from the sprinklers, she turns away from me.

“What’s going on? Who are you?” My voice is gruff, but I can’t disguise the surprise mingled with confusion from my features.

“What were you expecting, a troll?” she asks.

I blink with confusion before pointing toward the gate. “Get off my property! Look what you did!” I gesture to myself.

Her dark eyes shadow and in a low, menacing voice, she says, “Which is it? Do you want answers or for me to scram?”

“How about explaining yourself?” I answer, lurching closer with the intent to pull off the bandana like I’m a Scooby Doo character exposing the bad guy.

Gripping the bundle, she takes off running.

I’ve always been a good neighbor and don’t want to frighten anyone on Golden Bantam Lane—half-dressed at this hour—and have the police called on me, so I head inside.

Whoever that was seemed relatively harmless.

Actually, the whole thing was downright weird rather than alarming.

Still, I’ll file a police report after another shower.

After cleaning up and throwing on some joggers, I crash on the bed and don’t wake up until later that afternoon.

I have a slew of calls to return, and no chance to notify the police about my strange early morning encounter.

Instead, I take a few minutes to sort out the security system and finish unpacking.

As I stash the plastic moving tubs in the garage, I yelp at a higher pitch than I’d like to admit when something out of place catches my eye. I leap backward and nearly fall on my backside. So much for being hockey-agile.

“What are you doing here, Howie?”

Clicking my tongue, I realize who was likely prowling around my house this morning. Given that the size and shape of the bundle she held matches that of the ceramic garden gnome presently staring me down, she must’ve come back while I was sleeping.

An electric shiver runs down my spine. I can’t help but wonder what else Cobbiton has in store for me.