Page 1

Chapter One

Cam

The sliding glass doors of the terminal open to a wall of heat, and I stagger back a step. Friends and even management of my new team warned me Austin was hot. However, they’d failed to divulge the blanketing of humid oven-like temperatures or the resulting total body sweat. Even the points of my elbows were damp.

Sheesh.

Dragging my suitcase and backpack, I scan for rideshares, delighted when signs point me into the shade of the short-term parking garage. The heat snakes in behind me, rising from the floor of the concrete structure.

Not wanting to complain to a local, I silently settle into the back of the rideshare. The driver might be a hockey fan, and an expansion team and its players need only positive PR. The city skyline zooms past on my left as we zip up the highway to my new rented home. How does anyone live here? More importantly, how do they keep the ice solid?

It isn’t as though hockey is new to Austin. I like to think of it as the city upgrading. Team owners Greg Donovan and his sisters won the bid for this expansion NHL team by offering financial support for Dallas’s AHL team, the Texas Ice Spurs, to relocate to Oklahoma City.

We’ll play in a whole new compound in the northeastern corner of the city, which is supposed to be finished within a week.

Hopping out at the rental, I zap the driver a tip and wave thanks before wresting my bags up the walk. The new Tornadoes organization created an online community for the incoming players, connecting us with a few handpicked realtors and leasing agents to help us find living spaces.

A woman pops out the front door and skips down the front walkway with a smile so wide her perfectly veneered teeth shine in the sunlight. Us hockey players know a thing or two about restorative dental work. I recognize her as my leasing agent from her thumbnail profile online.

Oh boy. A ready-made puck bunny before our inaugural season even starts. The signs are all there. The few people I met face to face and on Zoom during the draft and signing process all dressed pretty casually. This woman is in a tight white top with a red lace bra peeking out from the deep vee which leaves nothing to the imagination. And despite the heat, she has heavy makeup with her long hair worn down. I cringe at her fitted skirt and stiletto heels. She’s going to twist an ankle on the uneven concrete path that is broken up with tree roots.

She stumbles and I leap forward to catch her as I roll my eyes. Her sigh at my hand on her arm sounds happy rather than the normal reaction of embarrassed.

“Mr. Hill? I’m Lisa. Welcome to Austin.”

“Cam. Thanks.” I’d told her I preferred to use the lockbox and familiarize myself with the house on my own. As I hadn’t given her my flight information, I have to wonder if she’s been staking out the place all day, probably after she checked my roster photo and contract, all of which are public information. At least the air conditioning will be running full steam.

We step inside the mid-twentieth century bungalow. As always, everything seems smaller in person.

Sure, that may be because I’m 6’3” and weigh 210 pounds, but leasing agents are experts with photographing places to look their best.

She’s walking around the space waving her arms and exclaiming about the quaintness and extra touches I could add like colorful throw pillows. Know your audience, bunny.

At least the furniture looks clean and isn’t too miniature for me and my roommate, Jack Landry. Given my modest salary in the AHL these past two years and college before that, I hadn’t been in a position to invest in furniture I’d want for the long term, so I searched for furnished rentals. I’m one step closer to not needing that though, thanks to following the plan I set for myself in college—NHL, multi-year, multi-million-dollar contract, meet the right woman, get married. Figure out a post-NHL source of income as needed and then kids timed to retirement from hockey so I’ll never be the unsupportive workaholic father mine was.

Jack will arrive in a few days with his dog. Why he’d get a dog when he’ll be on the road more than he’s home, I don’t know. But he’s had two years in the NHL already as a defenseman with the Las Vegas Desert Kings, so he can afford the vet bills, food, and pet sitter fees. Because of the dog, he’ll have the master at the back of the house with its own door to the backyard.

We’re both on a one-year contract with the Tornadoes. He’s supporting his family financially, and I save every penny I can. My mother had to hide money for my hockey gear from my father, and when she died just before my last year of high school, my coach had to step in. My father was more focused on providing food and a roof over our head to be willing to “waste” money on after-school activities. He regularly told me to focus on learning “marketable skills” rather than playing games, and never acknowledged my hockey scholarship or my placement in the draft, or even my entry level contract with the league as proof hockey could be more than a game. My scholarship didn’t cover more than the essentials, so for a while I was always hungry and always worried about money. Now, I’m determined never to feel that way again.

Austin rent rates are way higher than Peoria where my team played. So I posted in the team forum that I was looking for a housemate. When Jack responded and we chatted online, we found we both like company but some private space. And Jack wanted a house with a yard for the dog, which sounded appealing. When we chose this house, we decided to keep the smallest middle bedroom as a computer room and privacy buffer so I’m in the third bedroom. That means my bathroom will be the one shared with our teammates when they’re over, but I don’t care. My priority was negotiating a lower portion of the rent.

I roll my suitcase to my bedroom and bunny, aka Lisa, says, “Your stuff was delivered the other day, and I asked the guys to go ahead and set up your bed.”

Ick. The team had arranged movers for all of us, and I’d asked her to be on hand for the delivery of the few boxes and bed that encompassed all my worldly belongings. Meanwhile, I couch surfed with a friend for the last week to avoid the cost of a hotel. I draw the line at renting a bed, for obvious reasons, so I’m not thrilled the movers were handling it.

I step into the doorway and stop, turning my head to glare at her.

She flaps. The air fluctuates against my shirt. “What is it? Do you not like the placement? I wasn’t sure how else it would fit.”

Which is exactly the problem. A lot of rental places don’t have the room for a king bed. So despite my size, I own a queen and sleep diagonal. Based on the measurements of the room and those damned realtor-style photos online, my queen bed, bedside table, and a tallboy dresser should have fit just fine. I mean, I have a plain wood frame which doesn’t add more than a few inches of depth to the bed.

But there’s about a foot between the end of the bed and the opposite wall. And barely a foot of space on the far side between it and the wall with a window.

In front of the bed there is maybe a three-by-five area with the dresser and bedside table almost touching corners as they sit at a right angle to one another. I’ll never be able to do my goalie stretches in this room, that’s for sure. Also, while it’s unlikely, if I wanted to hook up—not with you, bunny—I’d be embarrassed to bring them here.

“Isn’t it cozy?” Lisa asks.

“No. It’s cramped.” I turn to her, my mouth a flat line and my finger pointing to my bed. “The listing said the room was ten by fourteen. That bed is five by eight. Clearly the room dimensions were false.”

She flaps again, elbows at her sides, forearms and wrists moving wildly. “Really? Are you sure? Is that a king?”

“No.” I fold my arms and of course her gaze goes to the bulge of my biceps against my ribs. That’s the only bulge she’ll be seeing. I’m pissed. “It’s a queen. Shall we walk it off, or do you have a measuring tape? This won’t do.”

“But-but-you signed—”

“The lessor signed off on the specs they provided. And that’s what we agreed to rent.”

“Um.” Her eyes were wide at the possible loss of a placement fee. She whipped out her phone and held up a finger, stepping back into the hall. “Let me see what I can do.”

As she whispers furtively into her cell, I test the space. Holding my arms out at shoulder height, I have less than ten inches on either side. Given that my wingspan is seventy-seven inches, five inches wider than the goal I tend, this room is nine feet wide.

Lisa reappears in the doorway. “I remember now. When the owner added central air conditioning a few years ago, he had to bring the walls in between this room and the garage for ductwork. The measurements must not have been changed in the listing. But I’ve talked with my office and we’re able to reduce your rent by a hundred dollars a month.”

It’s a good thing I’m not claustrophobic and can see through her bullshit. But with a savings of $1200 a year, I can splurge on a hotel room if I don’t want to bring someone back here, or they can damn well take me to their house. I nod. “I need that in writing by day’s end.”

I’m pretty even keeled most of the time. But having experienced her bait and switch, doe-eyed flappy act, I choose to err on the side of sounding less flexible.

“Shall I show you the backyard?”

“No, thank you. You mentioned there’s a Google doc with the basic directions for pool care and a weekly service?”

She nods.

“And the movers brought my car?”

“Yes, it’s in the garage, and your keys are on the kitchen table.”

“Then we’ll call with any other questions.” I head for the front door to show her out. She dawdles for a minute, but I haven’t left room for excuses, holding the door for her and giving her hand a brusque shake. I don’t wait to see how she navigates the walkway, closing the door firmly the minute her tightly-clad ass clears it.

Strolling back down the short hall to the kitchen, I take it in. Functional, with more space than my bedroom. I go out the kitchen door and the heat smacks me again. I step back inside and peruse the backyard and the small pool from the door’s window. Now that I’ve felt the temperature, the splurge on a house with a pool feels justified.

And assuming I stay on the roster for at least ten games without being sent down, my salary will be more than thirteen times what it was these past two years in the AHL. Which would be a big enough goal. But I really want the starting goalie position, and given the youth of this team and my stats from Peoria, I think I have a shot.

I return to my bedroom and take one step in, throwing myself on the bed and twisting to land on my back. Well, that’s expeditious, I guess.

Sitting up, I grab my backpack off the top of my suitcase, barely stretching to do so. I fish out my laptop and pull up the pic of the Wi-Fi login information on my phone that I’d snapped from the welcome information on the kitchen table.

I need to unpack sheets, find a grocery store, a yoga studio and a coffee shop, not necessarily in that order. But my most urgent need is a pair of shorts and fresh t-shirt. The jeans I wore on the plane may never be worn again in this town, given the heat.

Being careful to avoid anything with hockey-related emblems on it, I change. I heard that college sports and the soccer team are bigger draws here than hockey, but I’d prefer to get the lay of the land before outing myself as part of the new team in town.

Research and the drive from the airport have taught me that coffee houses fight breweries for dominance in this town. At three p.m. in August, it’s 103F and the sidewalks are shimmering. A beer would go down too quickly, and I want that starting goalie position more than anything. Iced coffee it is, then. I open my laptop and locate what I hope will be my local coffee shop.

* * * *

Walking the six blocks is torture. I’m practically wading through the air as I hit the café door, and I’m sweating like I just finished a five-mile run. I step in and sigh in relief at the blast of air conditioning. It’s surprisingly busy for mid-afternoon, with more than half the tables occupied by solitary tattooed twenty-somethings, with a few scattered polo-shirted corporate types on the periphery. Most people have at least one part of their head shaved and wear earbuds as they tap their laptop keyboard in time to their overcaffeinated leg bounces. So this is working remotely in Austin. I just hope they all like hockey.

Iced coffee in hand, I head home. A dance instructor and studio are next on my agenda. My mom and I would watch the reality TV dance competitions together before she died. Then I read a news article about my hockey idol, retired for five years at that point, competing in one of those shows where various celebrities were paired with professional dancers. I was drawn by the fluidity and beauty of the movements and the dance styles. They mimic hockey in intricacies that an uneducated eye might not see, the partnership—or teamwork—required, and the speed and agility of it all, which make me a better athlete.

Conveniently, Indiana University had ballroom dance as an elective, and I became hooked. After I exhausted the university’s offerings, I negotiated private lessons from one of the instructors. It stressed me out financially, but I craved it as a connection to my mom and excused it as less than most of my peers spent on beer. Even better, once I hit the AHL, I found out I could deduct it as a job-related expense.

I’ll need someone with time in the morning and some flexibility to their schedule if I want to continue lessons during the season. Almost as important, I hate dancing with petite women, and so many dancers are tiny. The stretch between their height and mine makes hand placement, stride length, and even some turns awkward. Some men like smaller partners for the sake of the lifts, but I’m fit enough that isn’t a concern.

Back at the bungalow, I notice that the covered patio has a ceiling fan. After trying three switches, I finally find the correct one on the wall and grab a lounge chair to sit and check that the Wi-Fi stretches this far out. I settle in with my laptop.

Skimming the web search for ballroom dance classes in Austin, I pass the top listings of national studios achieved by paid placements. Come Dancing is listed on the bottom of the second page, with an address near mine.

Their About Us page tells me it’s a year old, and gives me a headshot of the owner, Maria Garcia. They have a social dance hour scheduled for tomorrow morning, but Maria isn’t listed as the instructor. Someone named Christina is, and the studio’s site doesn’t include a photo or bio for her.

I call.

“Come Dancing, this is Maria. How may I help you jig?”

Catchy. “Hi. I’ve had social-style ballroom lessons for about six years, and I’m looking for private instruction. I’m over six feet tall, so I’d prefer a taller—female—instructor please.” Never hurts to specify.

“Great! We’re happy to help. We’ll need to evaluate your skill and you’ll of course want to check us out…” After outlining the rules of the studio, she takes my name and directs me to come by the studio tomorrow.

* * * *

In the morning, I plug my phone into my car and follow GPS to a single storefront in the middle of an L-shaped strip mall. Only the check-in area is visible from the sidewalk which means the studio must be behind it. I’d wanted to observe the social hour with the instructor who would be evaluating me, but the endless strip malls in Texas are challenging, and it had taken me longer to find than I’d expected, so I’ll only get to watch for a few minutes.

Stepping in, I find an empty desk and vestibule. To the left there are cubbies for people’s street shoes and belongings, and a hanging area for…what? Jackets? It’s already 85F at nine a.m., and I cannot fathom ever wanting to wear a coat again. I scribble my name on the sign-in sheet as the big band music coming through the open studio door winds to a close.

A woman’s voice announces a change of style to the cha cha.

I cross the lobby to the bench provided and set my bag down. My dance shoes, each encased in its own velvet bag to protect their soles, replace the slides on my feet. I tuck my gym bag and sandals into an empty spot in the wall cubbies before I step through the doorway. The sounds of dancers’ feet on a wood floor under the music are as familiar as the scrape of skates on ice, and I smile in anticipation.

In the next moment, my mouth goes dry. I swallow.

In the front of the room, a woman in a leotard and dancer’s wrap skirt is demonstrating a pivot to a pair of dancers. She’s my perfect…everything. I’d guess she is five-nine or -ten, wearing dance shoes with straps across the inset and a two-inch heel that would bring her to nose height on me. Her chestnut hair is in a high ponytail that trails to her shoulder blades in thick waves. She’s lean but not whip thin like many dancers, with a luscious curve of hips under her skirt and breasts that would be a handful even for my size hands.

What would her ass feel like when I hold her for a lift? Dammit, I know better than to lust after an instructor. The dance world has strict no-fraternization rules, and while Maria didn’t mention that yesterday on the phone, it was on their website, and likely the reason Christina’s last name isn’t listed.

I take one step farther into the room, and her gaze meets mine as her voice trails off.