One More Shot (Hometown Players #1) (11 page)

“I can’t do that because you requested me and they want to make the Winterhawks happy,” I tell him bluntly, and cross my arms. Frankly, I’m a little pissed that he’s suggesting it. “Why did you do that, Jordan? Why force me to work with you?”

He finally pulls his eyes up to meet mine. “I wanted to see you, Jessie. I don’t like the way things went in Silver Bay.”

“Which time? At the funeral or when you tried to two-time me with Hannah when we were kids?”

He leans forward. “Are you kidding me right now? I never two-timed you!”

“Then why was she in Quebec with you? Did she just show up there like she did at the draft?” I ask as I fight to keep my voice down. “Am I supposed to believe that again?”

“She stayed in touch and came to a few games—as a friend—and then started dating one of my teammates,” Jordan snaps. “You know, after you ran away. Remember that, Jessie? The part where you ran away?”

“So you’re blameless? Really?”

“That’s not what I’m saying!”

The timer on my watch beeps before I can answer him. I go and grab an ice pack out of the mini freezer and carry it back to him. I unwrap the heating pad from his leg and carefully replace it with the ice bag. He winces.

“Sorry,” I say instantly, like I would with any other patient.

“Don’t worry about it. We all make mistakes, but only one of us is willing to forgive them, I guess,” Jordan whispers so quietly that it takes me a minute to realize what he said.

I look at him and he glances up from under the brim of his baseball cap. His blue eyes are dark, searching mine for something. Probably for a sign that I get what he’s saying; that I’m not just a hardass bitch who can’t give him credit for trying. I blink, feeling my face soften.

And then the door opens and Tori marches in. I step back from the table—from Jordan—and fiddle with the timer on my watch. Tori curtly hands him a typed up list of stretches she wants him to do at home.

“Thanks, Tori,” he says with a smile—the big kind that makes his dimple appear in his cheek—and for a second it looks like she might fall for his charm. Then my watch beeps, and the cold, hard look takes over her face again. I walk over to peel the ice bag off his leg.

“Okay,” Tori says, and claps her hands dismissively. “We’re done for today.”

I’m so relieved it’s over, I almost sigh out loud. I don’t know how I am going to spend this much time so close to him day after day. God help me.

“Okay, so tonight I need you to do the stretches I have listed there,” Tori explains, pointing to the paper she just handed him. “And Jessie will be at the rink tomorrow morning to watch you skate.”

“I will?!”

Tori turns her attention to me. “You’re the lead, remember?”

“Yes,” I say, nodding professionally.

Jordan rolls down the leg of his training pants, gets off the table and shakes Tori’s hand, thanking her. Then he turns and extends his hand to me.

“See you tomorrow,” I say simply as our hands join briefly, but there’s a flutter deep in my belly from the feel of his skin. It’s an old instinct or habit, my body reminding me of how he used to make me feel. I ignore it completely.

“Sure. At the rink.” Jordan smirks, his blue eyes twinkling. “Just don’t head to the concession stand out of habit.”

He leaves the room. Tori is staring at me in complete confusion.

“What was that about a concession stand?” she asks.

“Why did you dump him on me?” I ignore her question completely. “I thought you wanted to work on him. I thought it was a dream come true.”

She shrugs and looks away as we head down the hall toward our office. “I confused him with a different player.”

“You thought he was someone else?”

“Yeah. I, uh, always confuse Jordan Garrison with Gregory Grant. I like Grant, not Garrison,” she mutters. I try not to judge her, but I would never confuse Jordan with the less skilled, much older, fourth-line forward. “Besides, I really do have to let you lead a case.”

I just nod because I don’t know what else to do. I think there’s more to why Tori suddenly doesn’t want to work with Jordan, but if there is she doesn’t want to tell me. She changes the subject to our next patient, Mr. Howard, who is recovering from a broken hip, and how grumpy he tends to be.

As she rants, I let out a small sigh in relief that I survived the first session with Jordan. And then I wonder how I’m going to do this all over again tomorrow.

I
feel like shit. And I’m in a foul mood.

I hate being home when the team is on the road. It’s not something I’ve had to deal with before because I’ve never been injured as seriously as I am now. Until now I’ve only had a pull or a strain and never missed more than a game at a time so I always traveled with the team. This—being left behind—fills me with a horrible sense of isolation and loneliness. That coupled with the weird emotional tug-of-war between anger and attraction that seeing Jessie causes is making me nuts.

Last night I sat at home and watched the game by myself. We’d won in OT. It was an exciting game, but that made it even more frustrating to not be a part of it. I did the stretches Tori and Jessie had assigned me, but that just made me think of Jessie. And that just made me more frustrated.

After four beers and Thai takeout for dinner, I lay awake and went over and over every moment of my time with her that day. Everything had been tense and awkward, not to mention frustrating. I was regretting the whole thing—but then she had to go and touch me.

She was very professional about it. My head knew that, but my heart…all my heart knew was that Jessie—
my
Jessie, the girl who had owned me for my entire life—was touching me again.

So, I’d tossed and turned all night because every time I closed my eyes, I had dreams about her. Or maybe flashbacks was a better way to describe it. When I first dozed off around midnight, I dreamed about the first time I ever saw Jessie.

My third-grade teacher, Mrs. Howlett, was at the front of the class waiting impatiently for us all to get seated. I pulled off my new winter coat—which was Devin’s old one—and hung it at the back of the class. As I sat in my seat I glanced toward the front of the class again and that’s when I saw her for the first time. Her hair was longer than any girl in class—all the way down her back, right to her bum. It was this color I’d never seen before: brown but with a glow to it. I remember thinking it would be like if you took strands of my brother Cole’s orange hair and mixed it in with strands of my friend Luc’s brown hair. She had a white satin headband in it. Mrs. Howlett clapped once and cleared her throat. “Everyone, we have a new student who just moved here from California. This is Jessica Caplan.”

Without looking up from the linoleum floor, the little girl from California announced, “I prefer Jessie, please.”

Mrs. Howlett nodded swiftly like she didn’t really care what this Jessie kid preferred and told her to take a seat next to me because that seat had been vacant since my best friend, Luc Richard, had moved to Quebec with his mom. I did not want a girl sitting next to me. At that point in life I believed girls were annoying. She didn’t even look at me—or anyone—when she took her seat, and I found that weird. Most girls stared at everyone and talked to everyone. All the time.

Mrs. Howlett told us to take out our history books and, realizing she didn’t have a book yet, I slid mine over so it was over the crack where both our desks met. She finally looked up and I was shocked by her eyes. They’re green. I’d never seen eyes quite that color before. A pretty light green color. And I was a little weirded out that I just thought anything about a girl was pretty. But they were also sad. She looked like Devin did last summer when he came back from hockey camp in Massachusetts and Dad told him his hamster, Thor, had died. It was that sad look that actually made me talk to her. Not tease, but talk.

“Do you watch hockey?” I whispered, asking her about the NHL because I had no idea what else to say.

It was the first time I’d ever asked a girl about hockey. I fully expected her to stare blankly. When she did, then I wouldn’t feel so bad about ignoring her and her sad eyes.

“I used to watch the Sacramento Storm when I lived in California. My dad played for them once.”

I blinked. “That is so cool!”

She smiled at my reaction but turned her sad eyes back to the textbook. I decided right then and there I’d be friends with a girl.

I’d woken with a start, and my brain had automatically continued down memory lane—without my permission. I thought about how my mother had reacted when I told her about the new girl in school—the tears in her eyes when she realized it was Jennifer Caplan’s daughter. She told me Jessie’s mom had been her best friend when she was in high school. I remember all the times that first year my mom invited the girls over and how weird it was at first to have girls in the house. My mom had actually pulled out her old dolls and Barbies from when she was a kid and kept them in the corner of the den for the girls to play with—next to our Hot Wheels and Legos. I had sort of dreaded having them over—especially when Dad insisted we share the backyard skating rink with them. Callie and Rose hadn’t wanted to skate but Jessie did, and she volunteered to be goalie so my brothers and I could practice shooting. That’s when I started to invite her over instead of waiting for my mom to do it.

When I fell asleep again, around three in the morning, I dreamed of her as a teenager. Of the way her hair got wavier and her hips curvier and her breasts fuller. Of the kind, patient way she would walk me through our English homework when I just wasn’t getting it. I never saw the deeper, profound meaning in the books we were forced to read, but Jessie always did. She was a straight-A student, and the only reason I barely pulled off Bs was because of her unofficial tutoring. When I woke up at six from a dream where I relived the way it felt to finally touch her—really touch her, be inside her with no barrier for the first time in my life—I gave up on sleep altogether.

Now, already at the arena because I couldn’t stand to be alone with my thoughts anymore, I finish lacing my skates and pull a practice jersey on. My cell phone starts buzzing beside me on the bench and I stare down at it menacingly.

Cole.

That’s the second brother to call this morning. Devin had called earlier. And just like Devin’s call, Cole’s would go unanswered. I pick it up, hit the ignore button and carry it, along with my gloves, from the dressing room to the rink. Coach wants me to avoid deep conditioning until they know how the ankle will respond, but, with the frustrating night I’ve had, I need to feel useful. Skating full force across the ice a few hundred times and getting that puck to the net will accomplish that. I have to do it.

I grab a couple pucks and toss them out on the ice, then I grab my stick and glide away from the boards.

“Don’t even think about it, Forty-four.” Her voice echoes through the empty arena.

“Fuck,” I mutter, and chop my stick against the ice. “You’re not supposed to be here for another hour.”

She’s smiling triumphantly. “And if I didn’t know you so well I wouldn’t be.”

“Jessie, it’s just a couple pucks in the net,” I start to rationalize.

“I know,” she says with genuine sympathy. “But I have my orders and I have to follow them.”

I sigh and toss the stick over the boards. She walks to the bench and calmly picks it up, propping it against the boards.

“So what am I supposed to do? Skate in circles like a five-year-old?” I know I sound like a spoiled child on the verge of a tantrum.

“Yes. Do you want me to get you a chair to push around for balance?” I glare at her and she stares right back, a bemused smile on her full, perfect lips.

As I do my painfully slow laps, I watch her. She’s wearing yoga pants and a black long-sleeved running shirt. I can’t help but ogle her body. I’d spent the last few years searching for a body shaped as perfectly as hers and hadn’t been able to find it. I told myself it was because I’d been a horny, oversexed teenager and her body really hadn’t been as uniquely amazing as I’d remembered.

But now I realize I was right all along. Her breasts are not large but work with her tiny frame, forming the perfect arc under her form-fitting top. She has just the right amount of curve to her hip and the roundest, tightest ass I have ever seen—even now after I have seen a lot of asses.

I feel my dick twitch. Traitor.

She pulls herself up and sits on the boards, her legs dangling over the ice.

“Jordan! I want you to pick up some speed and come around the corner. I wanna know if there’s any discomfort.”

I do what she asks.

“I feel nothing,” I call out.

She nods, pleased. “All the way to the other side of the ice. Go to the net full force and hit the brakes.”

I follow instructions. Snow flies off my blades. I remember the copious amounts of snow jobs I used to give her when my brothers and I conned her into playing goalie for us on our backyard rink. I smile at the memory.

“You’re smiling so I guess that means it feels good,” she calls out.

I skate by her at mock speed. “Yeah…it feels good.”

“Relax there, superstar,” she calls after me cautiously. “Lack of pain isn’t the only factor here.”

I fly by the net at the other end and then stop as quick and hard as I can, then turn and start back toward her quickly again. She glances over her shoulder as I blur by and shouts, “Your phone is ringing!”

I glide to a stop at center ice and watch her jump off the boards to pick up my iPhone. She smiles at the call display.

“Let me guess, it’s Luc,” I call out.

“Yeah!” She smiles. It’s the first good, old-fashioned Jessie smile I’ve seen, and I’m amazed at how it still squeezes my heart.

“I’m not talking to him,” I announced, skating closer and gliding to a stop in front of her as she steps onto the ice.

“What? Why not?”

I look down at her as she stares up at me. My skates make me feel like a giant next to her. She seems ridiculously far away. I forgot that they did that. She tries to hand me the phone, but I shake my head and skate backward. She rolls her eyes and grabs the front of my jersey, stopping my escape.

“Jordan.” She says my name pointedly like she used to when she was annoyed with me when we were kids. “Why aren’t you talking to Luc?”

“Because of you,” I admit.

Her green eyes blink and her hand lets go of my shirt. “Me?”

I shrug, feeling a little self-conscious suddenly. “I know my brothers and Luc knew you were here, in Seattle, and they didn’t say a word.”

Her pretty lips tighten into a line and she shakes her head. “Are you a six-year-old, or what?”

“Admit it,” I urge harshly. “They knew, didn’t they?”

“Yes. They knew.” Jessie says this quietly as she stares at my phone, which has finally stopped ringing.

I let out an angry puff of air and fold my arms across my chest. “Yeah. Well, if they can’t be bothered to tell me important shit like that, then I can’t be bothered to waste my time talking to them.”

She steps forward and glares at me. “I hate to break this to you, buddy, but they didn’t tell you because I explicitly said I didn’t want you to know.”

“But I should’ve been told,” I argue. “And they’re my relatives.”

“Why? It’s not like you missed me,” she snaps. As I open my mouth to speak, she raises her hand and cuts me off. “And don’t say you regret sleeping with me again. There is only so much my ego can take.”

“I never said I regretted sleeping with you. God! I meant I regret hurting you afterward!” I bellow in frustration.

I skate closer to her again. She turns her face away from me and stares at my phone still in her hands. When she looks back up, I see a hard look in her eyes.

“I’m here for work,” she tells me firmly. “This isn’t the time or the place for this.”

“So, have dinner with me tonight.”

She looks at me like I have lost my mind. “No.”

“Okay, have a drink with me.”

“No.”

“Coffee?”

“No.”

“So, how are we going to talk about this?” I ask, feeling desperate.

“We’re not, Jordan,” she says quietly, but there’s conviction in her voice. “I’m glad you regret it. It means there is still a little bit of that guy who was my best friend left in there somewhere. But the fact is…it’s been years, Jordy. Years. And…”

“And that’s why I’m so mad at everyone,” I interrupt, taking the phone from her hand. My fingers purposefully graze her wrist and palm. “Because if they had just told me you were right here…”

“It wouldn’t have made a difference,” she states, all businesslike and closed off. “Let’s get the skate off and see how your ankle is doing.”

I want to say something. I want to keep talking, but she turns and marches that perky butt off the ice and through the tunnel to the Winterhawks’ empty locker room.

I follow her and when we reach the locker room, I walk over to my designated space and pull off my jersey because it’s a little damp with sweat. I’m not shirtless, I’m still wearing the spandex Under Armour shirt, but Jessie turns a little pink as she looks at me. It makes me want to smile. I sit on the bench under my nameplate and bend forward to unlace my skate.

After I pull my foot free and yank off my sock, Jessie crouches in front of me. Her reddish brown hair creates a curtain around her face, so I can’t see what she’s doing. I lean back, close my eyes and concentrate on the feel of her tiny but strong fingers as they probe my muscles and explore the mobility in my joints.

“You know, what’s really got them freaked out is how angry this incision still looks,” Jessie says softly.

My eyes flutter open and I see her gazing up at me. She pulls a jar out of her bag and opens it. Inside is a weird-looking greenish paste. I raise my eyebrows skeptically.

“It’s a mixture of cucumber, tea tree oil, lemon juice and Indian gooseberry,” she tells me as she scoops a little onto her finger and rubs it onto my scar. “It’ll calm the skin and tissue around the scar and help it heal.”

I say nothing, just concentrate on her hand sliding across my leg, wishing it would move upward. Jessie always had the best hands. She used to rub my shoulders and neck after practices if I was stiff and do this weird hand massage thing that would feel so fucking good. At seventeen she liked to practice methods from a reflexology book Callie had gotten her for her birthday and I was her willing guinea pig.

“I miss your massages,” I can’t help but mumble.