On the Fly
Authors: Catherine Gayle
Tags: #hockey, #contemporary romance, #sports romance, #hockey romance
The characters and events portrayed in this
book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or
dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
On the Fly
Copyright © 2014 by Catherine Gayle
Cover Design by Kim Killion, The Killion
Group
Published by Night Shift Publishing at
Smashwords
All rights reserved. No part of this book may
be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical
means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical
articles or reviews—without written permission.
For more information:
[email protected]
For Sarah.
A huge thank you to my editor, Danielle
Poiesz, for all your help and insight.
An even bigger thank you to all my
readers—you make all the blood, sweat, and tears worth it.
My thighs had
a good burn going, matched only by the burn in my
lungs. I fought to take in enough oxygen to get through the laps
Hammer and I were skating, trying to ignore the slight twinge in my
left foot from my latest broken bone.
That hairline fracture was only one of
countless injuries to keep me off the ice and out of hockey games
in recent years. Ever since I’d turned pro, it seemed like injuries
stalked me like a cat, waiting for another opportunity to pounce
and take me out. The bone had healed now, but this was the first
time I’d used my foot for anything physical, the first time I’d
been able to push myself. That was the only reason it still felt a
little sore, or at least that was what I told myself.
Everything on my body felt a little
sore, though, and had for years.
“
Two more laps around the
ice, Soupy—as fast as you can go,” Hammer said. Daniel “Hammer”
Hamm was one of the assistant coaches of the Portland Storm, the
team I played for in the National Hockey League. Today, he’d been
tasked with putting me through my paces, helping to test me to see
if I was ready to return to game action. “Come on.
Faster.”
Fuck
. He didn’t even sound winded, and I could barely
breathe.
I’d been out of commission for over
five weeks. I’d gotten hurt about a month into the season on a
night when we had been playing the Bruins in Boston. For some crazy
reason, I’d thought it would be a good idea to block a Zdeno Chara
slap shot with my foot. Admittedly, I’d never faced one of his
shots before, so I didn’t know just how hard they really were. I
might have been putting too much effort into proving I could hack
it in the NHL, that I belonged with the big club and not in the
minors. Whatever the reason behind it, blocking that shot had blown
up in my face.
I probably should’ve been wearing one
of those foot guards designed to give extra protection, but I
hadn’t been. I’d never liked the feel of them over my skates. It
was like they restricted my movement, like they slowed my
skating.
Smooth skating and speed had never
been areas of strength for me, a point which my dad, himself a
former NHL player, was always ready to remind me of. But I couldn’t
afford to lose any more speed, so I’d rebelled against the thought
of wearing the guards—much like I’d rebelled against wearing a
shield on my helmet because it limited my vision. I didn’t need
anything else hampering my ability to succeed in this league, even
if it meant maybe getting a few more stitches on my
face.
Good thing I’d never been vain about
my appearance.
My wrist shot and my readiness to go
into the dirty areas of the ice were just about the only two things
I had going for me to keep me in the NHL. Well, both of those
things and a willingness to give up my body for my team. Those
skills got me here, and they were what might keep me here—at least
once the team’s head doctor cleared me first for contact and then
to play.
I sucked in as much air as I could,
churning my legs to keep up with Hammer. He had been one fast son
of a bitch back in his playing days, before he started coaching. He
had always skated with an effortlessness that made no sense at all
given his size. Even though he’d retired as a player over a decade
ago, he hadn’t lost a step in the speed department.
It was taking everything I had not to
get left in his dust.
We turned around the goal and made a
final push for center ice. Once I passed it and stopped, I bent
over and rested my hands on my knees, heaving as much air in and
out of my lungs as I could. I nearly puked, but I forced the bile
down.
The rest of the team was just starting
to trickle out to the ice for today’s practice. I looked up and saw
Eric Zellinger, my best friend and the team captain, watching me
from near the bench.
Zee wasn’t just my best friend. Not
anymore. He’d started dating my sister, Dana, last season. That had
created a gigantic clusterfuck in our relationship, mine and Zee’s,
and things still weren’t great between us. Better, definitely, but
not like before. It was mainly my fault, and I knew it. It was
hard, though, thinking about anyone touching my sister after all
she’d been through, knowing how for years after she’d been raped,
she’d experienced massive panic attacks when any man touched
her—even Dad and me.
