One More Puckin' Chance (L.A. Hawks Hockey #6)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Whoever said “Love bears all things” smoked too much weed.

Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things… It was more crap than two opposing hockey players could exchange during a face-off, and that was saying something.

Since Austin Fox most certainly knew the phrase came from the Bible and didn’t want to piss Jesus off – too many people had already yelled at him today – he preferred to keep his criticism to himself.

But, yes, the priest had read the phrase aloud during his wedding ceremony with a blissful expression.

Austin should have asked himself if he could trust words coming from a man who would never marry.

After all, you wouldn’t put much stock in a vegetarian’s steakhouse recommendation. Or a fish’s speech about the functionality of legs.

“Fuck, it’s not fair that I can’t get drunk like any other guy on this fucking night,” he said gruffly, taking another sip of the lousy vodka substitute called water.

“You could get drunk.”

“The season’s on.”

“So?” Moreau, goalie and pretty much his best friend since their simultaneous trade to the L.A. Hawks a few months ago, raised an eyebrow. He was evidently unimpressed. “Nobody has forbidden it. Not the coach or the captain.”

“But it should be forbidden. If I were captain, I’d fucking forbid it.”

Moreau grinned. “You’ve just joined the team and here you are, setting your sights on becoming captain — well, I regret to tell you that you’ve definitely hurt that chance with your performance tonight.”

Fox snorted and sank deeper into the seat, its red plastic upholstery squeaking loudly. “I don’t want to be captain. That sounds like a thankless job with too much responsibility.”

“You live for responsibility.”

Well, the more responsibility he had, the less time he had to spend at home.

Shit, his marriage had been over for a long time – hadn't it?

Sighing, he narrowed his eyes as he automatically went to twist his ring around his finger…when he remembered that he had taken it off earlier.

You’re too young, everyone had told him. You barely know her, they all claimed. Hockey players are the worst husbands in the history of the world, he’d been assured.

God, he hated that they were all right. Twenty had been too young, he hadn’t known Christine well enough, and his busy schedule made any relationship hell.

Of course, no one had told him that models weren’t exactly bastions of morality.

At least he’d always been honest! Christine couldn’t fucking say the same thing.

“I’m so fucking angry,” he whispered.

“I get it,” Moreau remarked dryly. “You don't see a happy-go-lucky guy calling the coach a jerk.”

Groaning, he narrowed Austin eyes. “Coach Brad is a jerk, but under normal circumstances, I probably would have kept that information to myself.”

“I’m not arguing with you. That’s exactly why I only speak when spoken to. For fear of spilling the beans,” the goalie muttered. “And shit, Fox, just have a drink. You’re celebrating the end of a long-term, disastrous marriage that you’ll be laughing about in ten years. No one will blame you.”

“No, a milkshake will have to do,” he replied tersely, tearing up the diner’s horribly creative, printed yummy food napkin.

He didn’t want to file for divorce tomorrow with a hangover.

He wanted to be fully cognizant so he could remember for the rest of his life to think with his head and not his dick.

At twenty-four, he still had a while to use that knowledge.

Marrying a woman because she was hot and you were lonely could only be a stupid idea.

But at least he didn’t have any parents to disappoint.

Only the press would tear him to pieces.

“Let’s talk about something else,” he muttered. “It’s depressing me.”

Moreau looked at him thoughtfully, but then nodded. “Did you hear that Parker Gray called it quits?”

“Yeah.”

“The guy’s barely thirty and the best power forward of the last decade. It’s a shame.”

“His wife died, and he wants to be there for his kids. He can’t do that if he keeps playing professional hockey.

I understand.” Austin would have done the same thing.

He happened to know firsthand how awful it felt to lose a parent – or both – and he would have been happy if someone had quit their job to be there for him.

But, at nineteen, he’d officially been old enough to fend for himself.

Such bullshit! Age didn’t matter. When you were down, you needed someone to look out for you.

That was why Moreau was sitting here with him — and shit, Austin was grateful to his friend for that, even if he wouldn’t have said it out loud.

For the same reason, Austin told every teammate they could cry on his shoulder if they needed to.

The team was the only family he had left.

Within a few weeks, he’d earned the nickname “Dad” with the L.A.

Hawks. Moreau liked to claim he could be hired as a rumpled consultant if his hockey career took a hit.

But Austin didn’t mind. If his offer helped a teammate avoid making stupid decisions they’d regret for the rest of their lives, then it was the right thing to do.

He could have used someone like that four years ago, so…

There was a loud crash and Austin looked up.

They were sitting in Diner USA, which boasted a name as simple as its menu and the feel of a trashcan in a tutu.

The bright neon ceiling light reflected off the cheap plastic-foam-covered benches, while the wallpaper proclaimed Wow, Yummy, Awesome, Five Stars, Best Burger in Los Angeles in an endless string of blatant lies.

Apparently, the owner had tried to make up for the establishment’s lack of charm with the waitresses’ uniforms, pink aprons with the slogan Meals on Wheels – No touching!

The roller skates on their feet made the whole thing seem even more sexist.

And the waitress who had caused the noise apparently hadn’t been hired for her skating skills. She was currently clinging to the counter with both hands as the trays she'd dropped between her feet slid further and further apart with every second, forcing her into a split.

“Julio, help!” she squealed. “These roller skates are trying to kill me. Call the police!”

A smile twitched at the corners of Austin’s lips as a bearded man wearing a dirty-white chef’s hat rushed out of the kitchen, placed two milkshakes on the counter, grabbed the waitress under the armpits, and hauled her upright.

“Don’t spill anything!” he warned, nodding at the shakes before disappearing again.

The waitress stared at the order, which Austin immediately recognized as theirs, and then critically examined the roller skates on her feet.

Her light-blonde hair had once been pulled back into a high bun, but now dozens of strands were plastered to her neck and face, making her look like an ad for a wind tunnel.

She rolled her shoulders as if preparing for a boxing match and then picked up the shakes before turning toward them.

However, instead of using the wheels on her skates, she tiptoed toward their table on the toe stops.

She was so focused on her feet that she walked past them.

Then she turned around and placed the chocolate shake on their table, before looking unhappily at the second one.

“Okay,” she said, shaking her head, “which of you ordered the vanilla shake with Tabasco?”

Her gaze admonishing, she glanced between them until Austin dutifully raised his hand.

“That’s mine.”

She narrowed her light gray eyes and regarded him thoughtfully. Her gaze slid over his shoulders and down his white shirt to his jeans before looking back up at his face. “Have the police been notified yet?”

He blinked. “What?”

“Well, obviously someone stole your taste buds,” she said, smiling broadly, apparently pleased with her own joke. “You know, I can’t forbid you from drinking this, but I can inform you that the kitchen guys are talking about you and questioning your sanity.”

Well, they weren’t the only ones. “It tastes fantastic,” he clarified, even though he was fighting a smile. “And you can’t judge it without trying it. Tabasco goes with everything.”

“God, I hope Tabasco pays you well for spreading the word!” she said, laughing, and Austin saw out of the corner of his eye Moreau snorting behind his hand.

Yes, he had indeed received half a million dollars for an endorsement deal with Tabasco a few months ago.

Since chili sauce was the greatest invention since hockey, he had no problem with it.

“Actually, they’re paying me pretty well,” he stated, although he felt his agent could have negotiated an even better deal. He’d have to start looking for new representation soon. “And I received more Tabasco than I could ever use during my lifetime.”

The waitress laughed loudly — she probably didn’t know he wasn’t joking, but that didn’t bother him much because her laughter was contagious. Loud and a little throaty, and…genuine.

Five years ago, Austin hadn’t appreciated a genuine female laugh, but since playing in the NHL, he’d heard it less frequently.

“Well, you’ve certainly earned this shake,” she said approvingly, pushing the drink toward him…and promptly losing her balance as she shifted her weight.

Austin’s hands shot out, and he grabbed her by the shoulders to keep her from banging her chin on the table.

“Oh man, you have great reflexes for a man with no taste,” she muttered, clutching his forearms as she struggled to stand.

She didn’t seem the least bit interested in him touching her.

This was in contrast to several other women and a couple men, who had promised him they would never wash their hands again after shaking his hand.

Moreau raised his eyebrows at him, and he shrugged. Should he have let her fall?

“You have to push the skates outward when you move,” he said as she released him and unsteadily stood up.