The Season: Rush (Austin Arrows #1) (2 page)

2

Kingston

Friday, October 7
th

Backing up, I barely tap the crossbar, then move forward, bending at the waist, my breathing even, eyes focused.

My left leg pad feels a little off, but I don’t have time to adjust it, so I push the thought away.

Staring straight ahead, I watch as the center comes racing toward me. He’s handling the puck like a pro—probably because he is one—shifting side to side, gaining speed as he barrels down on me.

Pressing my knees together, I lock my blades in the ice, preparing to block the shot with my body. My left glove is up, my right curled low around my stick as I wait patiently, counting down the seconds before he reaches me. I know his moves; he likes to come in high, so I’m expecting that in the back of my mind. He retreats, which is certainly
not
what I’m anticipating. My mind races with how I’m going to stop this. He gears up again, rears back… What I see to be a slap shot quickly morphs into a wrist shot as he moves closer, just as I originally thought. I shift my stance, lower my glove an inch, and catch the puck in the air.

Boo-yah! Take that!

“Nice save, Rush,” Spencer Kaufman, the Austin Arrows first line center, as well as the team’s captain for the fourth straight year, huffs as he stops directly in front of me, spraying me with ice.

“You’re getting a little predictable there,” I tell him honestly.

Spencer frowns, but I know how his mind works. Now that it’s out there, he’ll be working on paying attention to the shots he takes. That and coming up with a way to bust my balls with his next one.

“Let’s do it again,” he grumbles, nodding toward the puck in my glove.

I toss it up in the air, watching as it drops to the ice before Spencer taps it with his stick and heads in the other direction.

While he gets in position, I ditch my glove, grab the water-filled Gatorade bottle sitting on the net, spray some in the direction of my mouth, then toss it back down and get into position again.

The sun wasn’t even up when I stepped into the locker room this morning and then hit the ice for some one-on-one time with Spencer. Although, technically, I don’t have to be at the rink until Monday morning, I decided I’d get in a little extra ice time today. Because we’ve got the brass heading our way next week, which will ultimately throw off every damn thing on the schedule, I figured it probably wouldn’t hurt.

Exactly one week from today, we have the first official game of the season, which explains the endless array of shit on my mind. Because of that and the other crap I’ve been dealing with, I’m finding it difficult to focus. Yet I made it through training camp in one piece, which is a good thing.

Truth is, the mere fact that I’m here this morning at all is a godsend. Since my physical qualities certainly surpass my mental ones, I made it through training camp without issue. I watched player after player being cut from the roster while I held my breath, expecting to be next although my contract secures me on the team—not necessarily between the pipes—for two more years.

My mediocre ass was in net for three of the seven preseason games, and I proved my lack of concentration by winning only one. Coach put in our backup goalie for the other four games, and he blew them all. Let’s just say, it’s not a good indicator of what the year might bring.

However, I did manage to secure my spot in the net once again, so there is that.

I wish I could say that it’s due to my unwavering God-given talent, but I know it’s solely due to the fact that Phoenix Pierce—the team’s owner—actually thinks I’m a fairly decent guy—which I am. Granted, with a .903 save percentage—the lowest of my career—my stats from last year suck big, hairy donkey dicks, and there are a dozen other players within the league who could easily take my place.

Hell, sometimes I wonder how I haven’t been sent back down after my shitty performance last season. During one of the last games before the season ended, I was yanked from goal after giving up three in the first seven minutes—
the
absolute worst of my career—followed by a fight I instigated.

In my defense, I had to deal with some major bullshit last year.

Nevertheless, I haven’t spent the last eighteen years of my life busting my ass in the NHL just to be knocked down or forced into retirement. I’m one of the lucky ones. I’ve sustained a few injuries during my career, sure, but nothing major. Even at thirty-six, my body’s in prime physical condition, and I’m not ready to give up yet.

Okay, maybe not
prime
—there are some unusual pops and creaks from time to time—but I damn sure have no intention of letting those stop me.

I wish I could say the same for my mental state.

“Hey, Optimus!”

I glance over at the sound of a voice being projected loud and far.

Coach is standing at the open doors, hands cupped around his mouth as though he’s trying to bounce his voice off mountains. I peer over at Spencer, a.k.a. Optimus (yes, just like the fictional Transformer character), but he’s focused on the puck.

I try to get Spencer’s attention by standing up straight. He doesn’t notice. When he lines up a shot and gets ready to take it, I point in the direction of the open doors. Nope. No go, either. Spencer takes the shot, and I drop into position, managing to deflect it back behind the net with my body. It’s pure instinct on my part not to let a puck into the net.

“Son of a bitch,” Spencer growls when he passes by me. “Damn sure not looking forward to
this
right now.”

I don’t know what
this
is, but that doesn’t stop me from grinning, more than thankful that I’m not even eligible to be the captain or an alternate, due to the fact that I’m a goaltender.

Following Spencer with my eyes, I watch as he slowly glides over to where Coach is standing. I can’t help but wonder what they’re discussing because Coach is trying to look casual—one shoulder resting on the wall, arms crossed over his lean chest—and not doing a good job of it. Instead, he looks constipated.

Rather than interrupt, I lay my stick over the top of the net, pull off my gloves, and push up my mask before grabbing my water bottle. I don’t pretend not to be listening in. Inquiring minds want to know. I’m not shy. I don’t give a shit if they notice me, either. Being that we’re only a few days away from the regular season kicking off, there’s no telling what’s taking place behind closed doors.

Coach leans in and talks to Spencer. I watch, being full-on nosy. Less than a minute later, Spencer is heading back my way.

“’Sup?” I ask, hoping like hell my buddy will fill me in. Otherwise I’ll spend the whole fucking day trying to figure it out on my own.

“Phoenix is on his way in. Coach said they want to talk to me before everyone gets here on Monday.”

“Bro, I do
not
want to be in your skates right about now.”

“Yeah, thanks. I’ve gotta shower and meet him in Coach’s office.”

I nod, not knowing what to say.

Whatever they want can’t be good. Although I can tell he’s as curious as I am, I know Spencer didn’t bother asking what they want to chat about because it doesn’t matter. He’s been summoned.

“Good luck with that,” I call to him as he saunters off the ice, heading toward the locker room.

Spencer flips me off over his head.

I can’t help but laugh.

I get the feeling it’s going to be a long day.

If not for me, then definitely for Spencer.

Ellie

“Bianca! Come on!”

Good night, Nurse!
Even as the saying pops into my head, I can see my brother rolling his eyes and telling me to get a new phrase because that one’s getting on his nerves.

It is what it is.

But seriously, what on earth could possibly be taking Bianca so long? It’s not like my twelve-year-old daughter is putting on makeup or anything. She’s in seventh grade, for Pete’s sake.

How hard is it to roll out of bed, pull on some clothes and shoes, grab her backpack, and come downstairs? Until this week, I thought the answer was, “It’s not.” In fact, that’s typically a pretty simple feat for my kid.

Today, not so much.

I toss back what’s left of my cold coffee before heading to the bottom of the stairs once again.

“Bianca! The bus’ll be here in two minutes!”

I pace the entryway anxiously, peering out the narrow window that runs parallel to the front door and then up to the top of the stairs. Back, forth. Back, forth. Window, stairs. Window, stairs.

Nope, no Bianca.

I make one more pass as though that’s going to make my daughter magically appear. I even squint—because, you know, squinting
always
makes people appear faster.

Nope, still nothing.

“Shit.” I grab the rail and put my foot on the bottom step. “Bianca! Come on, girl. Bus! One minute!”
Or less.

When I’ve counted to ten and she doesn’t appear, I have to wonder if she’s gone back to sleep.

I insert a significant amount of impatience into my voice this time. “
Bianca!
”

One, two, three, four—

“Can you take me to school?”

Well, at least she’s awake.

“Why?” It’s not that I have a problem with taking her to school, but this is the third time this week that I’ve had to, which means she’s missed the bus more often than not. That’s very unlike her.

“I’m finishing my homework.”

I sigh. “Why didn’t you do it last night?” I yell back.

No answer.

This would’ve been a whole lot easier if I’d simply gone up there, but that would’ve required me to tackle those sixteen steps and … well, I don’t have enough energy to do that unless I’m required to stanch blood flow or administer CPR or … something equally important. Luckily, I’ve never encountered either of those when it comes to my kid. Knock on wood.

Knowing Bianca’s reason for procrastinating doesn’t matter, I head to my bedroom to change out of the pajamas I’d put on a short while ago. I pull on a pair of thin leggings and an oversized sweater, then slide my feet back into my slippers and return only to hear the bus passing the house. Since there isn’t much time before we have to leave, and I know my kid will be starving by lunch, I grab a granola bar and one of the small bottles of chocolate milk from the fridge. If I leave it up to my daughter, she’ll snatch a bag of chips and a Mountain Dew—certainly not the breakfast of champions.

After I peek at the clock and pour what’s left in the coffee carafe into my mug, I glance around the kitchen. The dishes from last night’s dinner are still in the sink, which isn’t surprising. If I open the trash can, I’m sure I’ll find that it hasn’t been taken out, either. Bianca and I share those chores most of the time, but last night, before I went back to work, she promised me she would get them done.

Sometimes, I don’t know what to do with that kid. If she weren’t so freaking awesome, I might be tempted to throttle her.

“Okay. I’m ready,” Bianca huffs, storming into the kitchen.

I turn around to take in the sight of my daughter for the first time this morning.

What the…?

With my coffee mug halfway to my lips, I stop and stare.

My kid is only twelve—twelve and a half if you ask her—yet sometime in the last year, she got the crazy notion that she was all grown up. In many ways, she is, I won’t lie. A lot of that has to do with the fact that I’m a single mom and her father has never been in the picture. During a wild and crazy girls’ night in Vegas on my twenty-first birthday, I kind of had a one-night fling with a hot guy I met in the sports book at one of the casinos we visited. Truth is, aside from agreeing to meet up at a club on the strip, we didn’t do a whole lot of talking, and we definitely didn’t share many details about ourselves—other than our first names—which was probably due to the copious amounts of alcohol we’d consumed.

Needless to say, one thing led to another and … well, as you can probably figure out by now, what happens in Vegas doesn’t always stay in Vegas.

So, after a few hours of sweaty naked time, apparently, the condom broke. And that’s how I found myself single and pregnant at twenty-one. The first thing I learned during my pregnancy—after, of course, finding out that morning sickness is, in fact, a real thing—was that there are a lot of men named James in the world. I mean, a lot.

It’s safe to say my skills as a private investigator suck, so I’ve never found him. I’ve done my best to explain to Bianca what happened because I believe in being brutally honest. It might not paint me in the most favorable light, but that’s okay. I accept my mistakes, and above all else, I don’t have any regrets. After all, that one fuzzy night brought me the greatest thing I could ever hope for—my daughter.

The fact that he’s not in the picture is okay because Bianca and I … we make a pretty good team. Sometimes I feel guilty, though—to both him and to her. I hate that they’ve never met, but honest to God, I don’t know how to fix that, so I’ve learned to live with it. Before my parents died five years ago, I had their complete support, which was a blessing when she was little. And since then, my older brother, Spencer, and his best friend, Kingston, have been great male role models in her life. I consider us lucky in that regard.

“Here.” I thrust her breakfast toward her, ignoring the fact that there is a neon pink streak in her hair that wasn’t there at dinner last night. Now, I’m no Nancy Drew, but I’m pretty sure that’s the reason she didn’t get her homework done.

“Thanks.”

I decide not to give her too much crap for a couple of reasons. One, it’s too damn early and no kid is going to retain a lecture when their brain is still fuzzy from sleep. And two, my brain is too fuzzy to come up with a decent lecture. So, I let it go as we hop into my car and head to school.

“Do you think we can bring Gabby to a hockey game soon?” Bianca asks, her eyes never turning my direction.

“Probably.”

My brother is the captain of the Austin Arrows, and since the day he signed with them years and years ago, I’ve managed to rarely miss a home game. For the most part, Bianca always goes with me unless she’s spending the night with her best friend.

“Why?” I ask. “Does Gabby want to go?” Gabby has never shown much interest in hockey before, although she has attended a couple of games with us.

“Yeah. She said it’d be cool.”

I can’t help but wonder if this has anything to do with my daughter’s most recent crush on the Arrows’ new backup goalie. Last year, I’m pretty sure her crush was on Colton Seguine, the cocky defenseman, but I could be wrong. Those infatuations have changed so frequently as of late.

I can understand the allure, because I happen to have a crush on one of the players myself, and he just so happens to be my brother’s best friend to boot. However, I’ve managed to keep that to myself over the years, and I intend to take it to the grave.

“I’ll call her mom and see what she says. Maybe in a couple of weeks?”

“Cool.” Again, Bianca doesn’t look at me when she speaks.

“You got everything?” I ask, although it’s too late at this point because we’re only a block from the school.

“Of course.”

I realize why my daughter isn’t looking at me. I think she believes she has successfully hidden her pink hair, probably because I haven’t said anything. I don’t know why she would think I’d be able to overlook something so glaringly obvious, but I decide to let it go. There will be plenty of time when I pick her up to question her new hair color. For now, I sympathize with the fact that she has to go to school and spend the next eight hours trying to stay awake.

Unable to find anything more to say, I allow Bianca to turn up the radio for the next thirty seconds as I pull in behind the other parents also dropping their kids off. Despite the music, the lack of conversation is almost deafening, but I somehow manage to hold my tongue. As soon as I’m stopped in front of the school, Bianca flings the door open, grabs her bag, and hops out.

“Hey!” I call after her.

She bends down and peeks into the car.

“I love you.”

Bianca smiles sweetly. “I love you, too, Mommy.”

“Oh, and we’ll be talking about your hair when I pick you up.”

In a flash, her smile disappears, as well as her face when she stands up and closes the door. I watch as she hurries toward the building, not once looking back to wave like she normally does. I can’t help but chuckle. I love that kid with my whole heart. I have a feeling her teenage years are going to test my patience, but I think every parent feels that way.

However, I don’t have time to think about that now, because I need to get home and go to sleep. While Bianca spends her day learning, I get to spend my day snoozing. That way, in only eight short hours from now, I can get up and start my day—or rather
night
—all over again. After all, I own the Penalty Box, the most popular sports bar in all of Central Texas.

At three fifty-three, I’m once again in front of the school, only this time I’ve slept, showered, downed another cup of coffee, and I’m dressed for work. I won’t go in for another couple of hours, but I prefer to be proactive.

I watch as kids begin spilling out of the school, scattering in all directions. Some go toward the line of buses, others to the cars parked in an endless stream at the parent pickup, and some starting on their walk home.

The second my daughter steps outside, I see her. She’s chattering away with her best friend, using her hands in the same animated fashion she seems to do everything. There’s a wide smile on her face, and I notice she touches the pink strand in her hair, apparently proud of it. And yes, it looks cute on her. Doesn’t mean I don’t plan to talk to her about it. I’ve never been the overly overprotective sort, so the fact that Bianca didn’t ask before she did it hurts me a little. We’ve always been close, and I don’t want to lose that with her.

It takes her a little longer than normal to get to the car, and I think that’s because she’s worried I’m going to get on to her. I’m certainly planning to have a chat—what kind of mom would I be if I didn’t?—but I’m not going to turn it into a bitch session. She doesn’t need that, nor do I.

When Bianca finally gets in the car, I smile at her. “How was your day?”

“Good.” Her tone is a little clipped, perhaps defensive, so I give her a moment to get settled while I pull out of the parking lot and head toward the house.

“You have any homework?”

“Yep.”

Definitely defensive.

I peer over at her. “So, you wanna tell me about the pink hair?”

“Everyone’s doing it,” she says quickly.

I wonder how long it took her to come up with that as her first response. Hopefully not long, because she could’ve done
so
much better.

“Well, that’s nice, but you’re not
everyone
, so I’d like to know why
you
did it.”

Bianca stares out the window. “Because I wanted to.”

“Did Gabby color her hair?” I know she didn’t because I looked when they came out of the school.

“No. Her mom wouldn’t let her.”

Well, at least Gabby asked her mother.

“Why didn’t you ask me first?” It’s the only answer I really care about.

“Because you would’ve said no.”

I chuckle. I can’t help it. “You think so?”

I think back to when Bianca was eight. She wanted her ears pierced. I didn’t have a problem with it, so I took her and got them done. At nine, she insisted on a pair of boots with a slight heel. I didn’t have a problem with those, either, so I bought them for her for Christmas. When she was ten, she insisted she wanted to wear a bikini. I was a little more hesitant about that, but I finally caved. The kid can be really persuasive. We found a cute one that wasn’t ridiculously revealing. Then when she was eleven, she wanted her cartilage pierced. Since I have mine done, I decided that was okay for her, too.

When she turned twelve, her choice of clothing changed drastically. Gone was the young-girl clothes and on to the pieces that were a little more adult. Tighter jeans, tank tops, training bra, that sort of thing. I went with it, trusting my daughter to make the right choices for her. She convinced me to get her hair cut. The long, dark locks disappeared and a short, cute bob took their place.

All of those times, she talked to me, told me what she wanted, asked permission even. So, I guess I’m having a difficult time with the pink hair more so because it came out of the blue and there was no conversation beforehand.

Bianca doesn’t say anything for the rest of the drive. I can tell as soon as I pull into the driveway that she’s preparing to bolt. Before she can leave me in her dust, I stop her with a hand on her arm.