Chapter Four
Phoenix
We're tied with seconds left on the clock when Harrison gets control of the puck. The entire arena leaps to their feet, roaring and stomping. It's so loud, I can't think. But I lock in anyway, my skates cutting across the ice as I move to cover him.
Liam is already hurtling down the ice toward the Hurricanes' goal, trying to create space for Harrison to take the shot. Chance is a few yards from Harrison, prepared to take possession if necessary, but Toby, the Hurricanes' goalie, is weak on the left side, and Harrison is already in position.
He lines up and shoots.
Toby dives for the puck to cover it, but he's a second too late. The puck slams into the back of the net, the goal horn blaring.
The entire arena loses its shit.
I chuckle when Chance leaps on Harrison, damn near dragging him down to the ice. But my attention is already moving from the ice to the press box. Cara is up there somewhere, watching. The entire game, it's like I've felt her eyes on me.
I'm dying to see her again. Hell, I'm dying to put my mouth on her again like I did yesterday. I've thought about little else since. Walking away was hard as hell, but it was also necessary. I can't push too hard, too fast, or I may push her right out of my orbit.
The rumor I started is working. I know damn well that it is.
She spent most of the last two days at the arena, chasing it up.
I know that's why she was waiting for me yesterday.
Kissing her was a preemptive strike as much as a necessity.
I needed my mouth on her. I also needed to keep her from asking, just long enough to really let the rumor settle in her brain.
She's a reporter. If I know anything about journalists, it's this: Rumors and gossip are their kryptonite.
They're physically incapable of letting one go until they know every single juicy little detail.
And I've spent the last week calling in every favor I'm owed to sow just enough seeds to make her rabid.
Bouch slams into me, damn near knocking me off my feet.
"Daydream after you get off the ice," he says, laughing.
"Fuck off," I say, but there's no heat to it. He's right. I can obsess about Cara later. Right now, I need to be here with the team, celebrating.
I skate toward Harrison, slapping him on the back.
He just grins at me.
Within seconds, we're in line, shaking hands with the Hurricanes. I'm impatient as hell to get through it and get off the ice, but the post-game ritual takes forever.
"She watched me the whole game," Corey mutters from behind me when I glance toward the press box again.
I tense, my hands clenching. Swear to Christ, he's on my last nerve with this bullshit. "Fuck off, Simms," I mutter. "She doesn't even like you."
"And you think she likes you?" he retorts, his voice pitched so only I hear it. "Keep dreaming, Michaud."
If punching your own teammate on the ice wasn't against the rules…
"I'll tell her you said hey when I see her in a few minutes," he says and then laughs when I shoot him a questioning look. "I'm doing press tonight, Michaud. She's the press."
He makes it sound as if he's fucking her, which pisses me off.
She wouldn't touch his cock with someone else's pussy.
But I shoot him a dark warning glare anyway before skating toward the back, eager to get to her before he has a chance.
Naturally, he follows on my heels, humming some fucking tune like he's on top of the world.
We reach the locker room at the same time, both of us fighting to get through the door at once. I win by tripping him. What? He deserves it.
He just laughs, but a few of our teammates glance at me like they wonder what the fuck is up with the two of us.
They've been fishing for info all week, but I have no answer, at least not one I'm willing to share.
Truth is, he's the problem here. He only wants Cara because I do.
That's the whole issue. If he'd fuck off, there wouldn't be an issue at all.
I speed through my shower, praying she doesn't leave before I get a chance to see her. I need to see her tonight, for reasons I can't even explain to myself. They have nothing to do with Corey. Like I said, he can get fucked.
"You doing press tonight?" I ask Ryan Walker, our goalie, when I'm dressed. Corey is still in the shower.
"Unfortunately."
"Want to swap?"
Ryan narrows his eyes at me, suspicious. "Swap for what?"
"I'll take your press scrum tonight. You can have mine in Colorado."
"Let me get this straight," he says, slowly buttoning his shirt. "You're offering to willingly go talk to the press tonight?"
"Yes…"
"Jesus." He laughs abruptly. "I do not want any of whatever the fuck you had tonight."
"Man, shut up with that bullshit. You want to swap or not?"
"Hell yeah, I want to swap," he says, still laughing. "Knock yourself out."
"Appreciate it," I mutter, already heading toward the door.
Corey steps into the locker room from the shower before I make it across the room, a towel in his hands. But he doesn't ask where I'm going, and I don't share. He just looks at me like he's amused.
I step out into the hall, my feet moving by instinct toward the press pool. I'm not even halfway there when I catch sight of Cara standing against the wall, her notebook in one hand and her pen in the other. She's jotting notes with a furrow between her brow, oblivious to everything around her.
My steps stall, my gaze locked on her. Her lips move periodically, as if she's reciting what she's written.
About me? About the team? The game? I don't know.
It doesn't even really matter, but the way she's completely absorbed is fascinating to me.
The usual post-game chaos spills around her, people rushing, shouting, and all talking at once, but she's an oasis in the middle of it.
A strand of hair dangles in her face. She swats it away with an impatient hand, only for it to bounce right back. She swats it again, huffing softly.
I chuckle, and she freezes, her hand hovering in midair.
Her head whips up, those big hazel eyes locking on me.
For a minute, I just stand there, rooted in place.
She's startled, her eyes wide with surprise, as if she didn't expect to see me.
Her cheeks are flushed, her bottom lip red as if she's bitten it at some point.
My balls ache at the sight of a tiny ink smudge on her cheek.
"What does your notebook say about me now, gorgeous?" I finally ask, taking a step toward her.
She jumps slightly, glancing around. Once she realizes there are two dozen people in the immediate vicinity, her shoulders go back, her chin coming up.
I'm a little surprised when she marches toward me, her hand clamping on my arm.
Within seconds, she's hauling me back down the hallway, muttering under her breath.
"That excited to get me alone, huh?" I chuckle.
"What? No. I have questions," she says, poking her head into a conference room before yanking me inside and then slamming the door.
"Most reporters do. But they usually ask them out there." I nod toward the door, smirking. "They don't require a private conference room." I lean up against the wall, my arms crossed. "Not that I'm complaining. Feel free to drag me off for a little privacy any time, baby."
"Would you…" she trails off, pinching the bridge of her nose.
Except she still has her pen in hand and nearly stabs herself in the eye in the process.
She grumbles under her breath before clipping it to her notebook and shooting me a death glare.
"I did not bring you here for whatever you're thinking. "
"Pity," I drawl, looking her up and down. "Because I'm thinking all kinds of delicious shit right now. You look edible. Matter of fact, the only way you could possibly look any more beautiful would be with my name across your back."
"What?" she asks, brows furrowed.
"In my jersey, Cara."
"I am not wearing your jersey."
"You will. I'll make sure to send you one for our next home game."
"Don't you dare."
I just smirk at her, which makes her right eye twitch. But she doesn't storm off or tell me to fuck off. Instead, she mutters something under her breath that is very likely an insult and then squares her shoulders like she's preparing for battle.
"Why are you in trouble?"
"What?"
"Don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about!
" she cries, stomping her foot. If she had any idea how much I want to fuck that cute little attitude out of her when she does that, she'd probably quit.
"The entire arena has been buzzing with gossip about you for two days now.
You did something horrible, and now you're on the chopping block. I want your side of the story."
So…she's definitely heard the rumors, then.
Good. Turns out, manufacturing news is fucking hard.
Mostly because it takes a coordinated effort by multiple people, and trying to herd hockey players is like trying to herd fucking cats.
I owe more favors than a motherfucker running a Ponzi scheme at this point.
"What have you heard?" I ask, genuinely curious.
I couldn't come up with anything solid enough to hook her without sending her running, so I told my teammates to leave the details vague.
I'm curious as fuck what story they've been floating.
They spend more time in the press than I do.
They're far more prepared for this kind of thing than I am.
"A lot," she huffs.
"Tell me."
"I heard that you were busted doing something that put your future with the team at risk," she says.
"Mitch had you in his office the day before yesterday, yelling so loud the support staff in the PT suite heard him.
But that's the least of your problems since prison may be in your future.
" She tilts her head, eyeing me like she's trying to figure me out.
"What was it, Phoenix? Drugs? Guns? Something worse? "