by Sarina Bowen
Yet if Coach Karl had his way, he’d be on the next plane to Michigan.
When Leo took a break to raise his agent on the phone, the man confirmed that Coach Karl could send him back to the minors at his whim. “They have to honor the financial parts of your contract,” he said, “so you’ll make the big bucks for two years, no matter what. But they don’t have to keep you in Brooklyn. They can stash you in the minors.”
“That’s the worst that can happen?” he asked.
“Pretty much,” the agent hedged. “I mean, if the new coach really hates your guts, he could prevent you from being traded to another team that wants you. But that would be both expensive and extreme.”
Jesus. “Good to know,” he grumbled.
After that uplifting conversation, and his hour in the HR office, Becca brought him a shiny box. “Here,” she said. “Everyone on the team gets a party favor.” He lifted the lid to find a large, sleek, nearly weightless titanium phone. At least he assumed it was a phone. “I’m going to port your number onto the Katt Phone . . .” She covered her mouth. “Whoops. That’s our nickname for them. The real name is the T-5000. Anyway—you’ll carry this for as long as you’re a member of the team.”
“Okay.” If only he knew how long that would be.
“The big app on the front page will always know everything about your schedule—where to be, and when. When you’re traveling, we push local weather and traffic information to you, as well as cab company numbers and restaurants. The floorplan of every hotel where you’ll stay. Your room number. Everything.”
“Got it,” Leo said, fingering the device’s cool edge. Talking on this thing would be like holding a large slice of bread up to the side of his face. But that was a small price to pay to join the team.
“There’s a narrow light strip all around the phone that changes color when it wants your attention,” Becca continued. “You’ll see. If the edges of the phone glow yellow, there’s an update you need to see. If it glows red, there’s an emergency, or an important change of plans.”
“Groovy.”
“And one more tip?” Becca offered. “When you ask the phone a question, if you say Nate’s name first, you’ll get a priority hyper-connection. So don’t just say, ‘What time is the jet leaving?’ Say, ‘Nate, what time is the jet leaving?’”
“Got it.”
“That feature will even swap you onto another cell phone network if you don’t have enough bars. It’s awesome. If a bit egotistical.” She whispered this last bit, and Leo grinned. “Well.” She clapped her hands once. “Let’s get you to the players’ lounge.”
She led him past a big open room which was set up for a press conference—with a table at one end and rows of folding chairs lined up all the way to the back of the room. Beyond that, she opened another door to reveal a large lounge area, with sofas and a pool table. It was a gorgeous, comfortable room, and it was full of hockey players wearing suits and purple ties—the team color for the Brooklyn Bruisers.
Several heads turned in his direction, and Leo was confronted with the reality that this should have been a really exciting moment for him—meeting his new NHL teammates. But Coach Karl had robbed him of that joy. In order to become a true member of this team, it would be an uphill battle against all of Karl’s objections.
He didn’t know if it was possible, but he’d die trying.
And hey, he comforted himself, scanning the guys in this room, at least if Karl succeeds at tossing your ass by the end of the day, you’ll never have to wear a purple tie.
“Gentlemen,” Becca said, clapping her hands. A couple of conversations stopped, heads turning in their direction. “This is Leo Trevi, a forward, and Mr. Kattenberger’s newest trade.”
There was a murmured chorus of “yo” and “welcome.”
“Hey, man.” A player waved from the sofa, and Leo recognized him as the team’s current captain, Patrick O’Doul. At thirty-two years old, he’d been scoring for this team long before Nate bought it and brought it to Brooklyn. They’d had a difficult couple of seasons, but it wasn’t O’Doul’s fault.
“Hey,” Leo said. “Glad to be here.” He wanted to be a member of this team so fucking bad. But walking into this room wasn’t a moment of victory—it was more like the preparation for battle. Knowing that didn’t make Leo feel like the friendliest guy in the world.
“He doesn’t have a locker yet,” Becca said. “Will you do any rearranging? Or shall we give him the, um, open spot?”
O’Doul transferred a toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other, gazing up at Leo with his hands at the back of his head. Maybe he affected an easy disposition, but Leo could still see him sizing up the new guy, looking for weakness. “Put ’im in the open spot,” he said finally.
Until that moment, Leo hadn’t properly appreciated the fact that getting a crack at the NHL was like being the recipient of a donor organ—someone else had to suffer to give him his big break. Hopefully he wouldn’t be offering up a lung to some other soul before the day was out.
“The publicist will arrive shortly to brief everyone on the press conference,” Becca said. “Until then, make yourself at home.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it.”
“So where you from?” O’Doul asked lazily.
“Here. Grew up in Huntington on the North Shore. Been watching this team forever. When I was five is the first time my dad got season tickets to the . . .”
O’Doul held up a hand to silence him. “Don’t say it. Kattenberger doesn’t allow anyone to speak the old franchise name.”
“Sorry?”
“Inside this building, you can only call us the Bruisers.” O’Doul winked. “See? I can say it easily now. Took me a year to break the habit. I mean—Kattenberger is a bit of a whack job on this particular point. It’s like a Voldemort thing. The Team That Shall Not Be Named. But since the boss man paid his left nut for the franchise and changed the name, he can do it his way. If you want to avoid his wrath, you never say that old name.”
“Um, thanks?”
The captain had an evil grin. “I know it’s weird. I still have all the old pennants in a box somewhere. If Kattenberger knew, he’d probably send one of his ninja minions to my apartment to have ’em incinerated. Where else you play hockey?”
“Drafted by Detroit. Sent down to Muskegon’s AHL team for two seasons. Harkness College before that.”
O’Doul’s expression chilled. “Aw, an Ivy League boy. That’s cute.”
Somebody has a chip on his shoulder. Looking for a change of topic, Leo nodded at O’Doul’s purple rep stripes. “Did the owner choose the new color, too?”
O’Doul tugged on his tie. “You betcha. Him and a bunch of million dollar marketing gurus. We call it indigo, ’cause that sounds better than purple.”
Leo laughed. “Thanks for the tip.”
“Stick with me, kid. Might want to grab yourself a bottle of water. If you’re the new guy, they might make you say a few words at the press conference. Publicist will let you know. Though maybe they won’t get around to it, because the whole coach thing is a pretty big story.”
Ugh. “No kidding.”
“The last guy got fired—what—a year and a half ago, now? Kattenberger had to do it. The guy was a good coach, but you don’t trash-talk the new owner like that. Then an interim coach got cancer. So now it’s on to Worthington. He’s another Long Island guy. Could be worse, right?”
No, actually. It could not be worse, even if the coach was his dead aunt Maria Theresa. “Where did you say that water was?”
He pointed to the corner. “Espresso machine is over there, too, if that’s your thing.”
“Thanks.” Leo made his way over to the corner, stopping every few feet as the guys reached out to shake his hand.
“Thanks,” he said a half dozen times. “Great to be here.” Bu
t he probably wasn’t all that convincing. Wait until they watched a snarling Coach Karl ship his ass back to Michigan. That would be a fun moment. They’d all be wondering what the hell he did to piss off Coach.
Leo would be wondering, too.
Once upon a time, he and Coach Worthington were tight. Karl had been a college coach then, but he’d done some development work with Leo’s high school team. The man had taught him a lot, and had always had time for Leo.
At the same time, Leo was dating his daughter, Georgia. There are some dads who hate their little girl’s boyfriend on principle. But Coach Karl hadn’t seemed like that sort of dad. And anyway, Leo had treated Georgia like a queen until the day she’d broken his heart. When Leo looked back on high school, loving Georgia was actually the one thing in his life he knew he’d done right. Maybe he wasn’t as good a big brother to his siblings as he should have been. And maybe he was a pain in the ass to his teachers. But Leo had been really good to Georgia Worthington, from the moment he asked her to the homecoming dance their sophomore year until the day of high school graduation, when she cut him loose.
It wasn’t quite as simple as puppy love running its course, though. A few months before graduation, something terrible had happened to Georgia, and Leo wasn’t around to stop it. The last part of their senior year, they’d both suffered. And sometime during those dark days, Coach Worthington stopped approving of Leo. At the time, Leo had been too worried about Georgia to wonder much about her father’s change of heart. His disapproval meant nothing to Leo—there’d been only Georgia and her pain. He’d stuck by her side, loyal to the very end.
Goddamn it, he was good to her. Then she’d pushed him away.
And now Leo was standing in front of a glass refrigerator full to the top with water and Gatorade, his fists clenched, upset all over again by the anguish he’d tried to put aside for the last six years.
“Just open ’er up and take one,” a voice said beside him. “Anytime you need.”
“Thanks,” he said gruffly. He realized he’d been staring at the row of bottles as if they’d provide the secrets of the universe. He yanked open the door and snagged a bottle of water.
“I’m Silas Kelly,” the guy beside him said, thrusting out a meaty hand. “Backup goalie.”
Leo shook. “Good to meet you. How long you been a Bruiser?” God, that sounded ridiculous.
Silas grinned. “This is my rookie year. Spent some time in Ontario on an ECHL team. Got traded in September.”
“Cool.”
“I’ve played four games. Hoping the new coach is a fan so I can get off the bench a little more often.”
The backup goalie job wasn’t an easy one. “I hear you,” Leo said. “Gotta say, if Coach Karl likes you, that’ll make one of us.”
He laughed, and it was big and loud. “Really? You two have history?”
“We have a little.” Even if I’m not quite sure what it is.
“How’d you get called up, then?”
Leo shook his head. “No clue.”
The door to the room banged open. “Gentlemen,” said a female voice.
He turned toward the doorway, his fingers freezing midtwist on the cap of the water bottle as he stared at the girl in the doorway. No—scratch that. At the woman in the doorway. His chest seized, because Jesus Christ. Georgia was even more beautiful than she had been six years ago.
She addressed the team. He thought so, anyway. But he didn’t hear a word she said, because he was too busy cataloging everything that was familiar about her. Adulthood had thinned her face a little, revealing cheekbones so shapely that they might have starred on the cover of a magazine. His ex had always been a pretty girl, but now she was stunning. Her blond hair had darkened somewhat, but it was still shot through with golden streaks. He knew exactly how silky it would feel under his hand if he brushed it away from her face.
There were unfamiliar parts to this picture, too—her stern expression, for one. He’d always hoped that Georgia had gone on to find her smile again, even if he wasn’t the lucky recipient. But he didn’t see any evidence of smiling now. And she was all dressed up in a suit and filmy blouse. And heels. His Georgia never wore stilts like that. They made her legs look a mile long. They were killer. But they weren’t her.
“. . . We’ll begin in fifteen minutes. Coach Worthington will thank Mr. Kattenberger for the opportunity to lead the team, and he’ll say a few words about how excited he is to work with all of you. All most of you have to do is sit up straight and clap. Any questions?”
His brain was still playing catch-up. If Georgia was talking about the press conference, she must work for the team. An assistant? A publicist?
O’Doul raised his hand, a goofy smile on his face.
“What is it, captain?” Georgia asked with an edge of impatience in her voice.
“Is it a coincidence that our new coach has the same last name as you?”
“Yes and no,” she said, eyes on her clipboard. “It is a coincidence that we both work for the same team. But we have the same name because Coach Worthington is my father.”
O’Doul grinned. “Thanks for clearing that up, babe. Is he pretty, too?”
Her expression darkened. “You can decide for yourself, Mr. O’Doul,” she said coolly. “And you’ll have a good view, because I need you sitting on the dais up front. After Coach Worthington gives his remarks, you’ll say a few words of welcome. I’ve drafted something for you here.” She flipped to another page on her clipboard and extracted a sheet of paper, handing it to him. She actually had to lean down a bit, because her shoes made her so much taller than usual.
Leo was openly staring now, but he couldn’t help it. She looked both the same and different. Her legs, always shapely from playing tennis all her life, looked ten miles long in those heels. But there was something about her that was . . . harder. She seemed more brittle than he remembered.
She hadn’t looked at him yet, either. Did she even know he was here?
“Do I have to say this exactly as it’s written?” O’Doul asked, skimming the page.
“No, as long as you sound warm and articulate.”
“Just like I am every day.” He chuckled. “Fine. What else?”
“One more thing.” She cleared her throat and shifted her weight. “I need you to welcome a new player after you welcome your coach. Georgia dropped her eyes to the page in front of her again. As if she needed notes to get Leo’s name right. “Mr. Leonardo Trevi, rookie forward, formerly of the Muskegon Muskrats. Traded from Detroit to Brooklyn for a second round draft pick this spring.”
“Got it,” O’Doul said.
Leo saw Georgia gather herself together. She took a deep breath and looked straight at him, as if she’d known exactly where he was the whole time. They locked eyes for a nanosecond before she blinked and broke off their staring contest. “Why aren’t you wearing a purple tie?” she demanded.
After six years, that’s what she wanted to say first? Her terseness took Leo by surprise, delaying his answer by a beat. “Sorry. Didn’t own one. Muskrats don’t wear purple ties.” He smiled at her, hoping to put her at ease. I know this is weird, Gigi. But we can survive it.
But, damn it, her face shut down even more. “Someone trade with him,” she snapped, looking down at the watch on her smooth wrist. And, hell, he knew that watch. He’d bought it for her with nearly all his savings. It had been a graduation present. He’d stood in Saks Fifth Avenue for a long time trying to figure out which was the most beautiful. He’d been so desperate to make her smile that spring. He would have done anything. Given her anything.
It hadn’t worked.
“Two minutes,” Georgia said, her voice gruff. “I want you to file into the press conference in exactly two minutes. Your seats are reserved in the two front rows. Do not take any questions on your way in. We’ll start the conference the momen
t you’re seated.” Then she turned around and strode out of the room in those unlikely shoes.
“Dibs on giving the rookie my purple tie!” Silas yelled. “I called it.”
Leo watched Georgia disappear. And then he took off his perfectly good green silk tie and took Silas’s ugly one.
THREE
As Georgia left the lounge, the words she’d said to Leo echoed through her head. Why aren’t you wearing a purple tie? God, was it cocktail hour yet? She’d actually snapped at him.
But she’d been caught off guard. As in her guard was on the G train to Queens as soon as she’d gotten a proper look at that chiseled jaw and those big dark eyes, with lashes so thick that there was practically a breeze whenever he blinked.
Now she’d have to take Taylor Swift’s advice and shake it off, though. There was a press conference to throw, and it didn’t matter if her knees were quaking. She walked straight into the press room to find fifty reporters shifting in their seats, hoping that Georgia would get the show on the road so they could file before lunchtime.
Checking her watch one more time, she took up a stealthy position on the side wall, out of sight yet near enough to the dais so that she could put out any fires or provide any necessary information. Everything was in place except for the only thing that mattered—all that was needed now were the team, the coach, and the owner.
Luckily, Nate Kattenberger appeared in the doorway. On his way to the front, he stopped for a moment in front of her. “Good crowd, Number Three. Well done.”
The unexpected praise from a self-made billionaire made her stomach flutter. “Thank you!”
He moved on, stepping onto the raised platform and rounding the table to the center, taking the power seat and smirking at the reporters. Seriously, she needed to work on this man’s RSF. Resting Smug Face. It wouldn’t win him any points with either the media or his players.
Coach Karl was the next man to enter the room, and when he did, all the journalists leaned forward in their chairs. Then they all reached for their phones and began tweeting or texting or whatever it was journalists did first when they were in possession of today’s latest bit of sports gossip. Karl Worthington is the new coach of the Brooklyn Bruisers. Their forefingers began hammering out the scoop as quickly as possible. In two minutes this would be old news, so they had to get it out fast.