DIRTY SECRET: A Slayers Hockey Novel Page 4

Chapter 5

  Vaughn

  “Yeah, Travis, I know. I was there when they said it.” My agent’s pissed because of a soundbite from last night’s postgame interview that’s getting some traction on social media. The one where that dickhead Dixon Lannish essentially asked if it bothered me that half of Chicago thinks I’m an asshole.

  It’s bothering Travis, and it’s bothering Coach, which means it’s bothering me.

  I push out the doors of the practice arena and head for the private lot out back, nodding at Bill, the guy working security, as I go. “What am I going to do about it, stand out front of the arena offering hugs to the fans as they walk in?”

  This call is the last thing I need. I’m tense, itchy, after seeing Natalie last night. I thought going to her place would take the edge off after hours of watching her get pulled into affectionate hugs and easy conversations with every other player at the Five Hole but me. And for the thirty seconds I was there it did. But then… fuck.

  It would have been better not to go at all.

  Better not to have her laugh with me. Better not to have been looking into her eyes while she reminded me of who she was—pissing me off so much, I ended up reminding her who she’d been to me. Better not to have touched her hand, even with that damn phone between us. Because then I was thinking about how soft her skin was… everywhere. I was thinking about what it was like having her laughing, squirming, over my shoulder as I carried her like a caveman down the hall in that hotel.

  “Vassar, you listening to me?” Travis demands, and I can’t even bite his head off and tell him of course I was, because once I started thinking about Natalie and all the places she’s soft and tight and wet, and all the noises she made when I touched them—I didn’t hear a word.

  I stop at my black Escalade and dump my bag in the back. “Look, man, I’m not rocking the boat. I don’t say shit about any of the players on or off the ice. I’m not fighting, and I won’t.” Because showing up at Baxter’s little sister’s house at two a.m. isn’t going to happen again. I made sure she was okay. Gave her my number. And took whatever dirty thoughts I might have been harboring with me instead of putting them into action. “I’m keeping my nose clean and scoring goals.”

  “Keep that up, because Oregon fucking loves it. I was talking to the GM yesterday. He’s got a hard-on for you, all right, but until we have a contract in hand, that could change at any time. Oregon likes your edge, but they’re gonna like you a whole lot better if we get the fans behind you too.”

  Rubbing a hand over my face, I slide into the driver’s seat and shut the door. “Yeah, just like that? Newsflash. These fans don’t like me. They’re pissed about the business with Golden Boy Baxter, and apparently, they’re not going to forget anytime soon.”

  “They will. We’ve just got to give them something else to latch on to. Which is why we’re changing the lineup on your charity work. Higher-profile stuff. I’ve got a consultant going through a list now looking for something to make you pop. I’ll let you know where you’re going when you come back from Philadelphia on Thursday.”

  “Yeah, fine. Set it up.”

  “Glad to hear you so amenable, because we’ve got another opportunity here I’d really like you to consider. And I think it would be gold for your image.”

  “What’s that?” I ask, pulling out of my spot.

  “Chelsey Channing’s people reached out asking if you might be interested in some public appearances together.”

  My foot lands hard on the brake, the car coming to a sharp stop. “What the fuck, are you trying to get me arrested? She’s in high school!”

  “She’s twenty-two and actively trying to break away from her Disney teen sweetheart image while pursuing more mature film roles. The two of you could do each other some good, image-wise. You’d give her some edge and she’d be the girl that turned you around. Couple sappy posts on Insta about how you cried watching some romantic comedy and—”

  “No,” I say with a capital fuck off. Faking that I’m not into one chick is bad enough, no way am I going to fake that I am into another.

  “Why, you got a girl?”

  Allie’s smile flashes through my mind and my jaw clenches. I need to get Natalie Baxter out of my fucking head. “No. No girl. Just not interested. Look, do whatever you want with the charity work. As much time as you can fill, fill it. But that’s all.”

  Natalie

  “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing,” Helene says from where she is suddenly hovering over my shoulder.

  I jump, banging my knee on the table and making the spoon fall out of my yogurt. I turn to scowl at her, but those crossed arms and jutted hip warn she’s not having any of it.

  “Don’t give me that look. You know what you were doing.”

  Letting out a guilty sigh, I pick up my phone and make a show of tucking it into my back pocket. “I didn’t text him.”

  “But you had his contact pulled up, and I saw your thumb twitching over the screen. What were you going to say? Good game… I watched it four times last night and dreamt about it this morning… PS Thanks for the good time.”

  “I only watched it once.” All the way through anyway. I might have spent a little more time on highlights, but as to dreaming about him? Well, that’s been happening for eight months, so I’m not even going to address it. “And all I was going to text was a simple congrats on the win.”

  “And?” She knows me too well.

  “And maybe a compliment on that play at the end of the second, because I’ve never seen anything like it and I know you haven’t either.”

  “Mmhmm, it was nice.” Helene nods, looking around the small clinic breakroom. “But I’m not going to fangirl him about it.”

  “That’s not what I’m doing.”

  “Really, then what are you doing? Because I’m pretty sure you’re the same girl who missed game after game just to make sure number forty-eight didn’t see you in the stands or smile in your direction… and then get killed by your brother. Are you guys going to be friends now? Is that even what Vaughn wants?”

  “No, I don’t think he can afford the fallout any more than I can.” And then there’s the way he looked at me back in my apartment. Being friends isn’t an option. And Helene’s right that using his game as an excuse to text him would be a mistake too.

  “Thanks for the intervention. It would have been stupid to text him. The only reason he gave me his number was in case Greg somehow found out. And he hasn’t.”

  Helene drops into a chair by the window and opens her water. Jiggling her clog from the end of her foot, she blows out a long breath. “You know I love you. You’re my girl. But Nat, let’s say Greg could get past the whole archrival thing and suddenly he was all team Vassar.”

  That would never happen, but I wave her on.

  “What do you want with this guy? You want to be Vassar’s plus one? The WAG behind the player, packing up the house alone while he’s on a flight to whatever city he’s been traded to? Giving your one-week notice to whatever job you’ve settled into so you can follow him to his?”

  For a lot of women, a tradeoff like that is one they’d be more than willing to make if they got to be the wife or girlfriend of an NHL player, but not me. And Helene knows it.

  Growing up with Greg I’ve already lived that life.

  I changed schools twice, once so we were close enough for him to play on a Tier 1 team in high school, and then when he got drafted, we moved again to be close enough to watch him play in Dallas. It didn’t matter that I’d been selected to be captain of my team that next year or that I had friends or that I was happy. Greg was in the NHL. And that came first. Always.

  But I promised myself it wouldn’t always be that way. And once I hit college, I was free. For the first time, I didn’t feel like the supporting cast member in my own life. I went to the school I wanted, got my degree, and then moved back to Chicago… before Greg was playing for the Slayers. Because it’s where I wanted to be.
Where I wanted to stay.

  So yeah, not interested in a life dictated by the National Hockey League.

  “I’m not talking about scoring WAG status.” I’ve never even dated a hockey player before, but still. “There’s just something about Vaughn that makes me want…”

  She raises a neat brow and takes a drink. “What, Nat? What is it you want from this guy that’s worth the fallout with your brother and probably something even worse for him?”

  When she puts it that way, the answer is easy. “Nothing.”

  I might not want to marry Vaughn, but the guy means something to me. The last thing I want to do is be the cause of more trouble for him with this team… or worse yet the next.

  Helene recaps her water and sets it beside her. “You know though, it would be okay if the answer was something. Or even everything. You know that, right?”

  I don’t. Because it wouldn’t. Not really. I made myself a promise about the life I was going to have, and I’m not going to break it. “I just need to get through this season. I need to stay busy, and I need to put what happened behind me.”

  Chapter 6

  Vaughn

  Travis gets shit done. And true to his word, he’s got my every spare moment booked around the city. I’ve been to two pediatric hospital wards dropping off signed jerseys, hats and toys, a food drive, blanket drive, and an animal shelter where a photographer must have taken ten thousand pictures. Though if they got even one of me worth using, I’ll be amazed.

  I hate getting my picture taken and it shows. Fortunately, O’Brian was with me for the shelter and hammed it up for the camera, making baby faces at a dog that fit in the palm of his hand. And Popov did great at the hospital once the cameras started clicking.

  But this, what I’m doing tonight, isn’t something Travis set up. This isn’t about turning my image around. This is about kids being kids and making a sport that I’ve loved since I laced up my first pair of skates accessible to everyone. And best of all, there isn’t any press.

  It’s already dark by the time I pull into the lot. There are more than a few spots up front, but I look for one toward the back just in case. I’ve got a gym bag with me instead of the usual beast that holds my gear, and when I walk into the rink lobby, my plain black Under Armour vest and beat-up Notre Dame ball cap ensure I don’t attract much attention.

  No one fumbles their phone trying to get a picture or post a sighting.

  I walk into the smaller south rink and grin at the dozen pint-sized kids doing drills on the ice. A guy a few years older than me waves and skates over. I’m guessing this is Rick Scholtz, the parent coach I coordinated the visit with. And that would make the peanut decked out in pink and clinging to his pant leg his daughter, Eva.

  She’s got about four hundred sparkly hair clips attached to the silky ringlets spilling out of her helmet and a curious look in her soulful brown eyes.

  Getting low, I smile and offer my hand. “Hi, sweetheart, I’m Vaughn. Would it be okay if I played some hockey with you guys tonight?”

  She inches closer and nods, a tiny smile on her lips.

  “You’ll show me what to do?” I ask, and she giggles, burying her pretty little face in her dad’s leg. Pushing to my feet, I shake Rick’s hand.

  “Hey, man, thanks for coming tonight.” He’s grinning from ear to ear, looking over his shoulder at the kids who’ve started taking notice of me now that their coach and hero is over here.

  I shake my head. “Thanks for having me.” After all the bullshit PR clouding what ought to just be something decent, it feels good to show up knowing this isn’t about anything but the kids. Not having to worry about whether my smile is going to play with the public or keep cool when a photographer interrupts a kid to get a shot.

  And maybe I needed a distraction from a certain brunette with dancing blue eyes and the sexiest smile I’ve ever seen. Being busy as fuck isn’t doing it, but this—this just might.

  I lace up my skates while Rick points out a couple of serious Slayers fans and chats about the slap shot the kid in the corner has. When I pull my jersey on and jump the boards—because you gotta jump the boards—I’m met with a series of awed gasps and a sea of eager faces.

  “So, who’s gonna show me the ropes tonight?”

  An hour later I’ve given away all the jerseys and hats I brought to the rink, pulled a chain of kids around the ice a handful of times, shot pucks, practiced passing drills, and played Sharks and Minnows until Rick blew his whistle and everyone skated up into a neat line to thank me for playing with them. Each gives me a fist bump or hug and a smile that goes straight to the fucking heart.

  After the last little hockey player is headed back to her mom, I turn around and nearly trip over my skates when I see Allie, sweaty, pink cheeked, and pretty as hell, standing in the rink doorway wearing a white and red Wisconsin jersey.

  Natalie

  My ovaries just exploded.

  I’ve spent the last fifteen minutes watching Vaughn Vassar—the man voted least friendly player in the league—playing Sharks and Minnows with a rink full of mite-level special-needs kids. Not for the cameras—there weren’t any. And not out of some obligation—the full-on belly laughs and absolutely delighted gleam in his eyes leave no doubt about that.

  Vaughn loves playing with these kids.

  And any chance I had at putting this pesky crush behind me while he’s still in town just went poof, taking whatever shot I had of cutting out of the rink before he saw me with it.

  Hello, double take and slow, stretching smile. Oh geez, his mouth is something else. Coasting across the ice, he juts his chin at me with a taunt. “You following me, Baxter?”

  I roll my eyes. “You wish.”

  “Hmm,” he says, stepping off the ice.

  I knew lingering was a mistake. Even now, I know I should leave, but instead I just stand there.

  Vaughn straddles the bench and, eyes on mine, starts undoing his laces.

  “You’re pretty amazing with those kids.” My heart is racing, my belly nervous. My words a little more breathless than I’d like them to be.

  He gives his head a slow shake. “Those kids are pretty amazing, period. Fun to play with them today.”

  “It looked like it.” I bite my lip, but then give in to the devil on my shoulder. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you shriek like that.”

  That smile. If the press got a hold of the smile I’m seeing right now, the city of Chicago and the rest of the world would fall in love with this man. His endorsements would skyrocket and the female population would flock to him in droves.

  But today it’s just me and the kids seeing the side of Vaughn he’s so reluctant to share.

  “What about you?” he asks. “You play in an adult league?”

  Right, because while he looks hotter than sin, I’m sweaty and gross. Not fair.

  “Sadly, my hockey-playing days are behind me.”

  His eyes skim down my body, landing on the knee currently screaming for some Advil. I’m wearing jeans, but I have the sense he’s seeing the bare skin beneath.

  “The surgery?”

  I nod, my throat going dry with the memory of his mouth dropping feather-light kisses along the scar that runs the length of my knee and ended my college hockey career. The way he murmured “ouch” and promised to kiss it better. The feel of his stubble as he left the site of that old injury, kissing his way up the inside of my thigh, higher, harder, deeper… until I was gasping his name.

  “Y-yes.” And if that didn’t sound guilty enough to give away where my head had just gone, I’m sure the flames licking at my cheeks will do it.

  “You wouldn’t believe how many times I thought about that scar,” he says casually, putting his skates in his bag, like he’s not talking about something he only saw because I was completely naked beneath him a few hours after we met. “It drove me nuts that I didn’t get to ask you about it. I had a feeling it was sports related, but I didn’t know you were a hockey pla
yer until I found out who you were.” Then after a beat, he shakes his head. “The footage from that last game was intense. You were badass out there, but that collision was brutal.”

  “You looked me up?” I ask quietly, not sure I trust my own voice.

  A shrug, but there’s a darker tone to his cheekbones than there was a minute ago. “What, I’m not allowed to look someone up?”

  He watched me play.

  “Of course, you’re allowed, it’s just not many people do.” Why would they when my brother’s worst day is better than my best. When there’s a real star right beside me, unintentionally overshadowing almost every aspect of my life.

  Coming to his feet, he swings his bag over his shoulder. “So if you aren’t playing, what are you doing? Coaching?”

  “Yep, 12U girls, and when schedules don’t conflict like they did tonight, sometimes I help out with these guys too.”

  “That’s awesome, Allie.” The way Vaughn is looking at me has every cell in my body straining toward him on a molecular level, begging me to step closer, to give in to the pull that’s been drawing me toward this man for longer than I’d like to think about.

  Clearing my throat, I glance over to the rink door. “Well, I ought to get going. It was nice to see you.”

  “I’ll walk you to your car.” Stuffing a hand in his jeans pocket, he nods toward the back wall where there’s an exit to the rear lot. “We could go out that way, so no one sees.”

  A shiver skates across my skin at the thought of being alone with him again. “Thanks, but I, umm, don’t have a car. There’s a bus out front that runs right by my house though, so I’m good.”

  Before my eyes, his features harden and the muscle in his jaw starts to bounce. “Good to get a ride from me, then. Great. Let’s go.”

  I shouldn’t agree. But the second Vaughn’s hand moves to the small of my back, I’m walking with him, my brain shut down to anything but the heat and tingle radiating out from that light touch.