Page 11

Chapter Eleven

Cam

I hear Jack in the kitchen making dinner—for King. For himself, he’ll order something and go pick it up while we still can. Both of us can fly under the radar right now, but if our team gets the fans Greg Donovan hopes to, and depending on how well each of us does, our mobility could become more limited. Austin’s only other professional sports team is soccer, and I don’t know anyone in that club yet, but I suspect it’ll be a bit before either they or we have to worry about crowd control.

I duck into the hall bathroom to check my hair again and Jack pokes his head out of the kitchen and catches me.

“Dude, I thought you said this was a meeting with Christina Donovan?”

“Yeah. I want to put my best foot forward with an owner. So sue me.”

“Or else you’re hoping to bang her. I don’t think an owner will care about your hair.” He arches a brow.

I don’t take the bait, in part because he’s right.

He shrugs. “Not that I’d blame you. Go get ’er.”

He’s such a manwhore. And a bad influence on the other young, single guys. I debate the over/under of when I’ll cross paths with some puck bunny of his in the kitchen.

I call a rideshare to take me to dinner. Despite its crazy name, Salty Sow seems like a cool place with a fantastic food and drinks menu. If only I could have gotten her there during the off season so I could enjoy more of the menu. But the last three days of training camp have earned me a cheat meal to some extent. The driver tells me he ate there once and loved it. He drops me at the door and I thank him. He was a cool dude and I tap on my app to give him a generous tip.

Christina comes in a minute after me, in a pretty print dress that shows off her toned shoulders, arms, and those fantastic dancer’s legs. She looks as gorgeous in this as she did in her fancy dress for the ball and her dance clothes.

I hope my golf shirt and neatest pair of khakis are dressy enough. Austin may be casual but Christina Donovan appears not to be, and I am here for it. I want to take her dancing in a club, show her off on a red carpet, or spend a night in cuddling on the couch. I stifle an urge to check my hair again. To make any of those wishes come true, I first have to make this date—ok, dinner—a success.

She sees me and hurries over. “Sorry, the parking lot here is tiny. I hope you found a spot.”

“I ordered a ride. I might splurge and have a drink, although we’re back to practice tomorrow morning.”

She replies, “I imagine the extended training camp was rough, and pre-season starts soon. I was just as careful when I danced competitively.”

I’d never given much thought to professional dancing, but any competitive sport requires a similar level of discipline. Yet another thing we have in common. “Will you attend the games?”

“Absolutely. I watched my brother play in college and loved it. Then I traveled for dance and didn’t have the time, so I’m looking forward to refreshing my knowledge and passion for the game.”

My heart thumps. She’s gorgeous, a dancer, and loves hockey. Three key things I require in a girlfriend and potential wife. But crap, my goal here is to shine this last year on my entry-level contract and earn a multi-million, multiple year contract with a team. My assumption was always that whoever I met would make less than me and be willing to move. And that is without the whole can’t-date-an-owner rule. I need to avoid being sent down this year more than I need to continue dating her, despite how well this first evening is going.

We negotiate our order to share appetizers and a couple entrees she recommends I try. She orders a glass of red wine, but I decide to stick with the bottled Mexican seltzer water available everywhere in Austin.

“Before we talk dance, tell me a bit more about yourself. Didn’t your brother say in one of his welcome speeches that the family’s been here twenty years?” I genuinely want to get to know this fascinating woman.

“We moved when I was a kid. I went to UT and stayed here because I help with the family businesses.” Her posture is dance perfect, shoulders back and spine straight, but when she reaches for her glass of wine, her breasts jiggle under her dress.

Damn. She’s not wearing a bra. But my interest in learning more about her is genuine and I refocus on the conversation.

“How did you end up working at the studio?”

She shakes her head. “I’m helping Maria get started for her first six months.”

“Ah. So what do you do otherwise? Your sister is heading the Foundation, right?”

“Yes. Do you remember your comp package including financial advice?”

“Yes. That’s very cool. I mean, I save pretty well on my own, but I suspect a lot of players need it.”

“That’s me. I’m a CFA, and I manage the family’s investment portfolio.”

“Oh.” That’s impressive and even a little intimidating. It also adds another layer to my attraction. Nothing is sexier than a smart woman.

After the server brings our appetizers and drinks, she asks, “Why do you believe you save better than most players, if you don’t mind me asking?”

I laugh, thinking of the Honda Civic I bought used with seventy thousand miles on it. “If you saw my car, you’d understand. You realize I share a rental house with Jack Landry, right?”

“No, I didn’t.” She purses her lips, a small furrow between her brows, as though she’d like to ask a question but doesn’t want to pry.

“I’m not quite ready to count on the NHL salary until I get a multi-year deal.” I shrug. “Besides, my mother struggled to find money for me to play hockey. Later, my scholarship at Indiana didn’t cover living expenses, so I have loans. I don’t want to ever have to worry about money again, and if I play hard these early years, I can avoid that.”

“Was she a single parent, then?”

My mouth twists and I nearly deflect like I always do when my old man comes up, but there is something about the way she asks that has me answering. She’s leaning toward me and her voice has gone softer. Like she genuinely cares to know. “No. My father didn’t see the point of wasting money on a ‘game.’” I do air quotes. “He worked long hours just to put a roof over our heads and food on the table. My mom worked too, but she managed to hide the funds for my hockey gear and dues.”

“What about when you got the scholarship?”

I shrug. “It wasn’t like he had planned to pay for my college anyway. He’d wanted me to go get a job, but bottom line, he didn’t care as long as I was out of the house. My mom died the year before and I couch surfed at friends’ while the coach helped me find sponsors. My old man wanted a clean slate. He started all over again after I left by marrying someone new within a year.”

I’m shocked at myself. I never share this much, even with girls I’m dating. Then again, they don’t ask. They’re all about hockey and where I want to play and how much I’ll make. Christina is different. Older and more mature.

Her mouth drops open at my revelation, then she shakes her head. “That’s terrible, Cam.”

“Yeah, well, I’m over it.” Mostly. Other than a mild obsession about his new family. I’d still prefer a subject change. “So, this dance…?”

She takes the hint. “Saylet will want more than one. We might as well plan for that.”

Our entrees arrive. As we eat, we discuss dance styles and possible routines we can prepare.

Damn, she’s tempting. She’s got her shit together, she’s smart and compassionate, and she’s downright gorgeous. There’s no way I can risk my career by dating management, much less an owner, but if anyone could tempt me, it would be her.

* * * *

Jack swings into the living room where I’m lounging on the couch surfing Instagram, King dozing at my feet. Thankfully, Buzz had only needed to crash for a few days until his furniture arrived so our living room is back to its former dubious rental glory.

“Yo, Prancer. What’rya up to?” He slings himself into a chair. King lifts his head at his father’s voice, but doesn’t move.

“Just chilling. Why?” I’d been scrolling through my stepmother’s feed, although since I’ve never met her, I’m not sure it makes sense to call her that. She posts tons of pictures of my stepsister and half-brother. I’m kinda surprised she never locked down her profile, but it works for me. My half-brother plays hockey and I was trying to determine if my dickhead dad is there to watch him play, unlike me. He’s not in the pictures, but now I can’t decide if that’s better or worse. I never want a child to be ignored like I was, but my heart twists thinking I was the issue.

“How about we do a spur-of-the-moment backyard barbeque and invite the team?”

“Jack, there are fifty people on the team right now, until they announce the roster.”

“Yeah, but I bet not all of them can make it on short notice, and we have the backyard and the pool.”

I knew this would happen when we found this house. I might as well get used to it now. “Fine, but you’re getting the food.”

“Cool—you get the beer.”

“Hell, no. Have them bring beer. Not all of us are on NHL contract pay yet.”

“Oh, yeah. Good point.”

He pulls up a local grocery store on his phone. “OK, whadda we need?” I toss my phone on the coffee table and he glances over at it and adds, “Wait, who are they?”

I glance down. I’d left my phone open to Instagram. They’re strangers to me, no need to explain. I’d had enough verbal diarrhea last night. “No one. It just came up on my feed.”

“Ah. Ok, burgers?”

“Chicken. Some of us are trying to eat healthy.”

“Let’s do both.”

Ah, the joys of making close to a million a year. But even then, I wouldn’t spend my hard-earned money on fifty guys, half of whom are headed to the minor league team within a week. I shrug to myself. It’s generous of Jack, and it’s not my money, so I’ll sit back and enjoy it. Or man the grill and enjoy it, whatever.

The guys roll in within two hours, bringing beer as promised. We got iced tea, although not that syrupy sweet tea everyone seems to drink down here. It’s almost pre-season, after all.

Coleslaw is as close to salad as we get, but there’s a ton of fresh fruit, both whole and cut, and we’d both brought high-end blenders. Someone will likely commandeer one for margaritas, but every athlete has their own smoothie recipe and ours run at least once a day. So that fruit will get used.

I throw chicken and burgers on the grill. At least I managed to talk him out of the processed meat that is hot dogs, as I was not about to deal with those farts in the locker room tomorrow. Jack sets out the various sides and condiments in the kitchen. There’s a corn and black bean salad which looks delicious and vaguely healthy, so he did listen to me regarding the food.

After two rounds at the grill, Drew volunteers to take over and I accept gratefully. Grabbing a flavored seltzer water after making sure it isn’t one of the hard seltzers that are like an invasive species taking over the beer section in stores, I throw myself down on a lounger in the shade.

“Prancer, come in the pool!” One of the twenty guys in the small blue kidney calls.

“Give me a few.” I have no desire to be in that tight a crowd. I’ll go take a cold shower to cool down if need be.

Du Près perches sideways on the chaise next to me. “Heard you’re expected to whirl and twirl again at the holiday shindig.”

It never ceases to amaze me that people see women as gossipers. They have nothing on a hockey team. “What the hell? How’d you hear that?”

“So it’s true. I was at the bar getting a drink between your performances and two women were talking behind me. One said she’d never seen Christina dance like that before. When the other asked about competitions, she said those are stilted and formal, and this was free and fun, and Christina had never flowed so smoothly or looked so happy.” He watches me closely as he adds, “As I turned to go, I saw the speaker was Amy Donovan.”

Christina’s younger sister. Who we both knew would have seen plenty of her performances. A thrill shoots through me—she had fun with me. I play it off. “Yeah, social dancing has a lot less restrictions, which is how I talked her into a couple easy lifts.”

“Hmm.”

I frown. “What?”

“So you aren’t thinking of hitting that?”

“Shut the fuck up, du Près. We have a no fraternization policy. No one should be thinking that.” Geez, first Jack and now Mattie. Hockey players really are players.

“When has that ever stopped a hockey player?” he says, confirming my thought.

“Are the guys talking about her? Who do I have to kill?”

“Nah,” he says, the American slang sounding strange with his French accent. He laughs. “Just testing. Everyone should get their starting role on merit.”

I groan. He has a point. If I’m chosen as the starting goalie, I wouldn’t want anyone to assume it was because I was sleeping with an owner. Something I should have thought of before committing to the encore show. “I’m not breaking any rules. I need a big contract, so I need to keep my nose clean and my save percentage up and show them what I can do these next few months.”

But damn, I’d like to hit that. Beyond that, the more I learn about her the more fascinated I am. And putting my hands on her for dancing and lifts for the next couple months is going to be hell if I can’t get her naked, despite the fact that we can’t be more to each other.