Page 8

Chapter Eight

"I have a suggestion for next year’s fundraising calendar. The Renegades. In gray sweatpants. I think I’m onto something. What do you think?" Penni’s Puckleberry Tea

Novy

The feel of a tomato squishing beneath my fingers jarred me away from staring at the sleeping man on the couch. What in the everloving hell had I gotten myself into? Sharing space with him for the next hour, much less several weeks ... I couldn’t fathom surviving.

I jerked my fingers from the crushed tomato, knocked against a can of Mandarin oranges and the bottle of grapefruit juice, sending both crashing to the floor. I winced, darting a look toward the living room. Sure enough, he stirred, sitting up and stretching his arms over his head, showcasing every ridge and curve of delectable muscle.

I stopped breathing.

He followed that move by crossing one arm over his chest and twisting, which turned him in my direction. Before he could catch me staring, I ducked down to pick up the fallen groceries. My fingers fumbled over the Mandarin oranges, and instead of grabbing it, I sent the stupid can rolling. It rolled right past the end of the island.

Where it lodged against one bare masculine foot.

I knelt on my heels, eyes on the can, and scraped my fingers through my hair. When I couldn’t drag the moment out any longer, I looked up.

And up.

Past the pale gray towel wrapped low around his hips. Past the chiseled abs on full display like some sort of luxurious cologne ad mocking me with this perfect male specimen. Past the defined pecs with their perfect shape and feathering of chest hair. Slower over the thick column of his neck, the sharp jut of his jaw, until I stared up, up, up into his dark eyes. I blew out a slow breath. Prayed he didn’t notice. And said, “Hey.”

Boh nodded, his gaze darting between my eyes, over the counters and the groceries, before returning to land on me. “What’s going on?”

Seemed pretty obvious to me, but I didn’t much fancy the idea of showcasing my clumsiness. I pointed to the can as though he wouldn’t notice it against his impossibly manly toes. “My Mandarins are making a run for it.”

He grunted, dropped into a one-legged squat with his cast that split his towel and left a thick thigh on display. He picked up the can and stood again, his movements as fluid as a predator stalking his prey.

I shoved up to my feet and pulled the rest of my groceries out of the canvas bags. He stood there, not helping, not leaving.

I moved to the fridge, yanking the door open harder than necessary. “Do you have any particular way you organize your food?”

I shifted the water bottles and slid one of the veggie drawers open. Empty. Perfect.

When he didn’t answer, I straightened my shoulders and looked up. His attention was on me, his expression a cross between confused and annoyed. At my questioning look, he shook his head. “Is that a thing? Fridge organization?”

He plunked the can of oranges on the counter and moved to the other side of the island. Boh was a tall man, a couple inches over six feet. His size turned the towel into a joke. Or maybe the joke was on me. Tied around that taut, sculpted stomach, one little knot hiding all the wonders of the world. The stupid little strip of cloth taunted me, but the distance, the barrier between us, let me take in a deep breath for the first time since I’d returned from my shopping trip.

“Yeah,” I finally answered. “It is a thing. People actually make videos on their fridge organization and post them online. Popular videos. Some have good ideas, too.” I shrugged, leaning down to stuff the cabbage and spinach in the drawer with fingers that trembled. “Some are just a little more OCD than I can handle.”

“Until Brightside, my days were filled with training ten hours a day. Team meetings. Skills coaching. PR for the organization. Shit like that.” He pointed to his casted foot out of view behind the island. “This cast is the result of my attempt at a social life. Ne , I do not have a fridge organization method.”

“Boy, grumpy much? Don’t think I see the connection between a busy lifestyle and fridge organization, but okay! I’ll put things where I want to put them, then, and not worry that I’m disrupting your routine.”

He laughed, loud and harsh and without even a hint of humor. “Not disrupt my routine? Your presence alone disrupts my routine. I’m pretty sure anything you do in the fridge will be nothing in comparison.”

“Cool beans.” I wedged a carton of oat milk into the door compartment with more force than necessary. Breathe, Novy. Goals. Remember your goals. “Then we’ll be just fine. When you add your groceries, we can divvy up the territory. As it stands now, you have water… and water.” I spoke quietly as I slotted in the last of my groceries before turning back to face him.

The faintest hint of a smile ticked up the corner of his mouth and changed everything about his face. The severe line of his jaw relaxed and the tension around his eyes melted, leaving him looking softer, warmer. But the sight of all the bare flesh of his chest and shoulders and abs for days had me curling my fingers into the palm of my hand.

“Are you laughing at me?”

“I’m laughing at ‘fridge organization’,” he said through his smirk.

“I’m a registered dietician. It comes with the job title. A huge part of my work is food selection. So having the right things in the right spots makes my day easier. Plus, I have a social media channel where I sometimes document how I categorize certain parts of my fridge.”

“Categorize,” he repeated with a throaty chuckle. He leaned a hip against the island and crossed his arms over his chest, tucking his hands under his arms and putting his well-developed biceps on full display.

While my instinct was to let my gaze dip down to take every inch of him in, I dug my fingers deeper into my palm and forced an exaggerated eye roll instead. I fussed with tucking the last of my groceries away until I could trust myself not to ogle the annoying man.

I folded my lips in, then pushed out the question I’d wanted to know since undertaking this crazy guardian scheme. “Since you’re awake and in a good mood, maybe now’s the time to fill me in on your situation?”

He tilted his head back a little, his shoulders firming up. “My situation?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Your injury. About this Designated Medical Guardian deal. Is this normal? Are all players monitored so closely? Am I supposed to be making you any special meals for your condition? Because I wouldn’t mind. I did a ton of research already for Scout, but I don’t know if your brain injury is similar—”

“No.” His entire body pulled taut, every muscle revealed and delineated in sculpted masculine beauty, but even that evocative display fell into the background against the fire of emotion burning in his eyes.

A warning bell sounded in my mind. “No? That’s all you got?”

“That’s all you’re gonna get. We’re not besties hanging out. I haven’t hired you to cook or anything else. You don’t need to know about my injury, my situation, my anything. We are sharing the same space, but this is temporary. Don’t make it more than it is.”

“Okay, okay, calm yourself.” I spoke with more humor than I felt. Inside, I fought to steady my breathing, to reply like a professional with an irrational patient. Because Scout and the girls were counting on me. We needed Fernbrook Center for practices, at least until we could find something more permanent and I could escape from the angry man across from me.

“Our agreement says I have to take your GM’s calls and stay here until you’re cleared to play. And if I leave early? I lose the facility and you end up back in Brightside, right?”

He grunted and I didn’t bother to hide my grin. He could be as grumpy as he wanted to be, but he’d better remember that he needed me as much as I needed him.

“I get it. No more, no less.” I smoothed my hand over the countertop. “Question, though.” He arched a dark brow and I took the motion as a go ahead. “No heart-to-hearts, got it. No worries, I’m good with that. But while I’m here, I’d like to make the best of the situation, which in this case would be testing some recipes for Scout and filming the process for my channel.”

“Filming?” If he’d started to relax, my words jolted him straight upright again.

“I have a nutrition channel. I mentioned it before, if you’ll recall. But you probably weren’t listening seeing as you seem to have pretty selective hearing—”

“Are you trying to piss me off, or does it just come naturally? You’re not filming me.”

“I film healthy food content, Boh. I’m not a groupie, remember? Unless you turn into a bag of chia seeds, I’m not interested.”

Big words considering the raw sex appeal the man exuded. But words were the only defense I had.

“So,” I continued. “I’m good to use your kitchen to film as long as you’re not in it?”

He dropped his arms and let out a heavy rush of air. “No filming.”

My stomach churned and my fingers trembled. I’d put myself through college, which meant student loans. I paid those loans with my influencer income. No filming meant no posts which meant no income.

He turned away then, moving down the hall. Before he disappeared, I called out. “Which room’s mine?”

“The one I’m not in.”

The sound of a door slamming added the unspoken exclamation mark to his words.

Okay, then.

Nothing would stop me from posting my videos. I’d find a way around his arrogant decree.

Scout, I reminded myself. Scout and Berry and Kitty and all the girls I’d made into my family. The sport I’d come to love. Plenty of reasons to overlook the grouchiest roommate to ever walk the Earth.

A few minutes later, I’d hauled my assorted luggage and equipment into the spare bedroom and stashed my clothes in the boring black dresser. The guest bedroom had the same decor as the rest of the apartment. Lots of black and glass and boring nothingness. When did black and chrome become the cliched bachelor color scheme? Though I had a feeling someone could decorate his place in rainbows and unicorns and Boh wouldn’t notice. The man had one thing on his mind—hockey—and no room for anything else.

I’d been to a couple of games with Scout. I’d hunker down in my seat, drink draft beer and nod enthusiastically as she explained each player’s position and stats and background. She’d explain how one player had just come up from the AHL, looking to earn his place with the big boys. How another player got sent down for arguing with the coaching staff about his minutes on ice. How yet another player went viral last year for his evocative warm-up routine during the playoffs.

She explained, I nodded, took another swig of my draft, and promptly turned my attention back to the player wearing the number nineteen.

I enjoyed watching hockey. It reminded me a lot of derby, to be honest. Fast-paced and physical and intense. But I wasn’t playing and I’d never been a good fan. I liked doing . Not watching.

Though, I could watch Boh play any day of the week. I remembered seeing him at the last Pendleton picnic I attended and at some Christmas fair Scout dragged me to, as well. He wasn’t the sort to go unnoticed. If his dominating height and physique weren't enough, he moved with the cocky grace of a well-trained athlete. A walking seduction.

His ferocity amplified on the ice. Fluid power wrapped around an indomitable will to win. I recognized the switch, was fascinated by it.

By nature, I tended to get along with people even if that meant putting aside my own preferences, if it meant we all reached the end goal faster. It’s how I’d always dealt with my parents growing up, my professors and fellow students during school, and even now, my bosses at the assisted living facility. But when I pulled on my derby gear and took to the track, a different Novy emerged. She was strong, relentless, fearless, and I loved her. In derby, I could be someone other than the woman who didn’t like rocking the boat.

On the ice, Boh played domineering, in your face hockey. He spent a good amount of time in the penalty box. All that passion inevitably led to a short fuse, too. A volatile temper.

But then, with his physical condition and the stifling situation with Brightside, he had a steady hand at discipline, too. No one achieved a body like his without working hard. Or jumped through the crazy hoops his team pushed at him. Designated Medical Guardian, a made up position if I’d ever heard one.

Boh was full of mixed signals. Like a puzzle that I needed a special decoder ring to figure out. Or a mood ring to warn me when he might flip from chuckling to growling.

I slid my tablet out of my bag and curled my feet underneath me in the chair beside the window filling one wall. Not quite twilight, but the sun hung low in the sky.

Curiosity had me consulting Uncle Google about Bohdan Zacha. His Renegades profile came up first. Forward, left winger, to be specific. His eighth year in the NHL, having come up and earned his spot as a fledgling twenty year old. Born in the Czech Republic.

His team roster photo was horrible. A narrow-eyed stare straight at the camera, dark hair shaggy over his forehead, his lips soft, but unsmiling.

I delved into YouTube, pulled up some highlight footage of him scoring. He scored a lot. He shared the top line with the team captain, Theo Fournier, and Shep Landon. The commentators loved him. And he looked really good in the blue and silver uniform. Strong. Formidable. A force to be reckoned with.

I scrolled through more videos until I landed on one that seemed to be a fan cam. Someone narrated the footage in a noisy bar, the view jostling right and left, but persistently aimed at Boh where he stood with several other men. From the size of all of them, more Renegades.

And one woman amongst them. A woman in a skin-tight, metallic silver dress sparkled in the moody bar light as she shifted within the circle of hockey players.

The unknown fan wielding the camera phone called her by name, Aubrey Canfield. I smashed the button to turn the volume up a little, eyeing my bedroom door. I’d die if he caught me looking at videos of him alone in my room.

But this fan sure had opinions. And all the tea. Long-time girlfriend of Trent Beckett, the man explained. Beckett stepped up and took over the left wing when Zacha missed games during the season due to a concussion after a bad hit into the boards.

The fan spit the last out, his pissy opinion loud and clear even if he didn’t spend the next five minutes with his cell phone aimed right at Boh, the woman and Beckett as he ranted in the background about Beckett not being fit to fill Boh’s skates.

“Holy shit.”

The exclamation came from the video narrator as he filmed the players. Boh had his hand on the woman’s ass, had her hauled up against his chest as he kissed the long-time girlfriend of a teammate in the middle of a bar.

My heart pounded, my brain frozen as the video ended and another by the same creator began. He had a still photo of Boh kissing the woman, and beside it the score of the last playoff game. A loss, the Renegades eliminated from contention.

The same bitter voice narrated. “You want a reason for a shitty end to a record-breaking season? This is it. This fucking snapshot tells us all we need to know. The night Zacha fucked with team morale, got in the car with a drunk Breining behind the wheel and wrecked his fancy ass car. Zacha out to injury. Breining out to suspension. These two asshats are the reason the Renegades lost their chance at the Stanley Cup.”