Page 14

Chapter

Fourteen

André

André dropped onto the bench and rapped his stick on the boards. Three minutes left and they were up three to one on Pucks Deep.

“Sent one buzzing past the tower, eh?” Sean clapped him on the shoulders as their water boy for the night, Sean’s fourteen-year-old nephew, held out his bottle and gave him a squirt.

“You see Bowen nail Wheatfill?”

Sean laughed. “Hell, yes. Mashed potatoes. He’s going to be pissed.” The glee on his face was contagious. This wasn’t the tourney for the cup, but it was one of three leading up to it. This one was the only one on the Snowball’s home ice, and they wanted it. Hard. The free month of Timmies and bonus checks for the winners didn’t hurt either.

Country launched himself over the boards, and Sean exploded onto the ice. Two minutes left. The puck snapped up from Wheatfill’s stick, and Sean slapped it to the ice with his glove, then sprinted down the boards. He dropped the puck back to Mike who sent it to Brett at centre.

This was a possession game now, and Pucks Deep knew it. Chubbs came flying, and Brett offloaded to Darcy. He sent it left to Tyler, and Wheatfill lowered his shoulder, stabbing for a touch. He got it.

Jordan exploded past centre, wrapping the puck behind the net to Chubbs, then took up residence at Boyd’s four o’clock. Before André could shout at Mike to guard the back door, he was moving, but not fast enough. The biscuit flew, but before it hit tape, Mike kicked out a skate fast enough to slice a watermelon. The puck ricocheted past the blue line where Brett picked it up, hustling his ass through the neutral zone.

The bench and the Snowball’s fans in the crowd roared their approval. Because Brett and Tyler were badass, they didn’t play soft. Brett flipped momentum, catching his outside edge like frigging Kerrigan and stretched to send the puck wide. Bowen flicked it topshelf. It nicked Matty’s shoulder pad and rolled to the ice next to the post, but before Matty could smother it, Sean swooped in, threading the defenders like dental floss and snapping the puck home. He flew forward, sending the net skidding, but the siren was already blaring.

“HOLY SHIT, Thompson!” André yelled as he, Country, and the others poured out over the boards, slamming into their guys in front of the penalty box.

Sean couldn’t keep the shit-eating grin off his face as his head wobbled with helmet rubs. They skated back to the bench, still laughing and chirping as Sean snapped them back into focus. “Just over a minute left. Get after it.”

They held Pucks Deep and won the game four to one, undefeated in the tourney. Alex Beaty brought out the handheld mic and presented the teams with first and second place medals along with their certificates. Checks would come later since the Elite League would never waste paper printing two sets of checks beforehand.

The energy was palpable as they made their way through the tunnel to the locker room. Beer was already being passed around by the time André removed his helmet. He grabbed one, popped it open and chugged, then crushed the can and finished stripping. He couldn’t hear himself think with all the echoing voices, but that was just how he liked it.

André pulled out his bluetooth speaker and started “Shake That Ass,” a team favourite. Damn it, he wanted a cigarette, but Nora in administration had ripped him a new one when she got a whiff after the game two weeks ago. Plus . . . there was a part of him that hesitated. Grace didn’t like kissing smokers.

Not that it mattered. She didn’t seem too interested in kissing him at all, but something about leaving the option open made his ribs tighten.

André grabbed his towel and feigned grinding with Country on his way to the showers. He closed his eyes and let the warm water course over him, washing away the sweat and blood from the game. Somehow he must’ve split his eyebrow, based on the blood streaked on the inside of his helmet. He pressed his fingers to the area. Didn’t seem to be bleeding anymore at the moment.

André washed his hair and rinsed, then frowned as the music stopped abruptly. “Mike, did you sit on my phone again?” he shouted. No response. The locker room had gone silent. He turned off the water.

“Uh, André, you should?—”

“I can’t hear you!” He burst out of the shower stall, grabbing his towel as he stalked forward, his feet slapping on the tile. He froze as he rounded the corner.

Grace. She stood in the middle of the locker room, staring at him standing in front of her. Bare ass naked.

Country swallowed hard, his towel clutched over his crotch. “I was saying you should dry off and cover up.”

André didn’t drop his eyes. Grace’s expression was cold, but she couldn’t hide the blush rising to her cheeks. What the hell was this all about? She was annoyed, he wasn’t stupid enough to miss that, but if her plan was to come into his inner sanctum and chap his ass, he wasn’t going to make any special accommodations.

“Evening, Grace.” André lifted the towel and rubbed it over his hair, then started drying off his neck and shoulders, thinking of anything other than the fact that Grace’s hair was pulled up into a tight ponytail and that she wore another silk blouse under her blazer. The guys would never let him live down a hard-on under these circumstances, even just a semi.

“I’ve been trying to find you,” she snapped. “Do you ever go home?”

André worked to hide his surprise. She knew where he lived? Did her blouse have those tiny straps? “Not on tournament weekends.”

Grace pursed her lips. “Well, that would’ve been good to know.”

Half the guys hurried into the showers and the other half migrated behind the middle set of lockers, changing like they were about to miss the cut off for half-priced beers at One Place.

André lazily dried his torso, trying not to laugh as Grace did her damndest to keep her eyes north of the border. He took a step closer before wrapping the towel around his waist. The breath Grace released was visible.

He walked past her to his locker at the other end of the bench. “I might be a minute if you want?—”

“No. I’ll wait.”

A chorus of disembodied "Ooooohhh shit" rippled through the room. André rolled his eyes.

Sean, who had been unwrapping the tape from his shin pads, stood up and clapped André on the back. “Good luck, bud.” At least he had pants on.

André shrugged him off, glancing to the side to find Country, but the bench was empty. He must’ve disappeared behind the wall with the others. A nervous flutter hit the back of his ribs. He hadn’t done anything wrong, but he also hadn’t exactly told Country he’d gone over to Grace’s unannounced. He may have led his friend to believe he was invited, which, if Grace’s unannounced appearance had anything to do with that night, wouldn’t go well for him.

Thankfully, she didn’t say anything. André dropped his towel, giving her full view of his backside as he reached for his boxer briefs. “Did you see the game?”

Grace scoffed. “That’s not why I’m here.”

“That’s not an answer.” André pulled on his boxers and turned.

Her eyes flashed. “I saw part of it.”

“You didn’t want to storm down to the bench? We could’ve had whatever conversation you want to have there.”

She crossed her arms over her chest, looking unimpressed. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”

André frowned and pulled his T-shirt over his head. “Tell you what?”

Grace glanced around. The other guys were still filtering through. She gave him a look that said, If you don’t know the answer to that, I’m not telling you until we’re alone.

André shrugged, ignoring the slam of his heart against the back of his ribs. What could he have possibly kept from Grace that she’d be this pissed about? He wracked his brain, but the lack of obvious answers rankled. They’d just won the Tom Hart tourney, and now he had to sit here and listen to this while everyone else walked to the pub? What about his cigarette in the parking lot?

One by one, the guys grabbed their stuff and filed out. André finished dressing and packed up his gear. The smell of sweat and cedar soap clung to the air, mingling with the faintest trace of Gatorade and damp hockey tape. Laughter and shouts sounded faintly from the tunnel.

When he turned, the room was empty. Just him and Grace.

“You knew.” Her voice was low.

His stomach dropped, but his mouth quipped, “You’re going to have to narrow that down for me.”

She didn’t smile. Didn’t flinch. “You came to my house, and I told you I was trying to contact the therapist on this case, and it was your sister? Really?” Grace threw out her hands, and her blazer split, revealing her slightly untucked blouse and the line of her pants along her hips.

Focus. His sister? That’s what this was about? André cleared his throat. “Ah, no. I did not know.” He stepped toward her. “I found out when I saw her name flicking across your phone screen. Maybe I should be pissed that you didn’t tell me.”

Grace’s jaw dropped. “How the hell was I supposed to know that Elodie Shaw was your sister?”

“I told you my sister was a therapist.”

She laughed out loud. “I couldn’t tell what was true in that conversation! And even if I had believed you, am I supposed to assume any therapist I talk to is related to you?” She screwed up her face. “You know what? It doesn’t even matter when you found out because you’ve known all week and you didn’t say a damn word!”

“You want to drop mitts? Fine, let’s drop mitts.” Andre took a step toward her.

“Yes. Please. Let’s talk in terms your jock brain will understand.”

Andre gave a sardonic laugh. “I didn’t know why she was calling you. For all I knew, you two were bosom buddies.”

“I don’t have bosom buddies.”

“Gee, I wonder why!”

“Mm. Nice.” Grace glared at him and stalked forward, planting her hands on her hips and staring up at him. “Why didn’t you tell me when you found out she was working with Amey?”

He wet his lips, remembering the phone call he’d had with Elodie in his driveway that night. “Because she was pissed I was asking her about a patient.”

“Well, yeah.”

“So now you’re mad that I was trying to get information?”

“It’s not really your place?—”

“Not my place? Country’s one of my best friends, and he’s about to lose his little girl. I find out my sister is working with the birth mother, and it’s not my place to ask her about it?”

Grace snapped her mouth closed. She thought for a minute and lowered her voice. “It would’ve been more helpful if you told me since there are legal pathways?—”

“As previously mentioned, you told me those weren’t working. Elodie can be a stubborn shit.”

“Must run in the family.”

André dragged a hand through his still-damp hair. “You know what? Throw your little tantrum. I wasn’t going to blindside you when there was nothing to tell.”

Grace’s jaw clenched. “It would be nice to not find out information you should know as the lawyer working on this case at brunch. From the woman you’re supposed to be advocating for.”

He nodded once. “Hm. So that’s what this is about? You’re pissed because you looked like an idiot in front of Jenna?”

Grace growled in frustration. “I thought—” She balled her hands into fists. "I trusted you!"

The words landed like a puck to the chest. André blinked, waiting for his lungs to inflate. “You think I’m messing with you?”

“Oh, I don’t know, André. Between the half-naked flirting and the taco bribery, it’s a little hard to tell what your motivations are.”

That got his blood pumping. “First of all, I gave you an out in my truck, and I’ve been completely honest with you, in case you’ve forgotten. But the tacos weren’t about me trying to sleep with you. I’m just as worried about Jenna, Country, and Hope as you are, and—for the record—I was worried about you, too. You walk around wound so tight, I’m waiting for you to snap, and if you don’t think I’m capable of losing sleep over this, then?—”

“Don’t twist my words.”

“You should be used to it, no?” André breathed like he’d just finished a shift on the ice.

Grace’s eyes hardened. “Wow. You know what, André? You’re exactly who I thought you were.” She spun on her heel.

“And you’re scared shitless,” he snapped. She froze and turned back. “You’re scared. And you don’t know what to do, so you came here to take it out on me because it’s easier to blame someone than admit you have zero control in this situation?—”

She threw up a hand and started to turn away from him again, but André grabbed her elbow. Grace whirled and shoved him. Hard. He stumbled, his hand tightening over her arm, dragging her with him.

André hit the lockers with a metallic crash, his knees nearly buckling as the bench slammed into the tops of his calves. Grace landed against his chest with a gasp, and then?—

He didn’t know who moved first, but suddenly her mouth was on his, her hands moving over his chest, his neck. André wrapped her ponytail around his hand, tugging so he didn’t have to reach so far.

This kiss wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet. It was teeth and tongue, fury and frustration, rough hands, and, damn, if it wasn’t perfect.

André groaned, dragging her hard against him, her curves molding to the planes of his body as her fingers tangled in his hair. He spun her, backing her into the lockers with a thud, her breath punching out in a gasp.

She tasted like toothpaste and lip gloss. Her skin was warm under his hands, her blouse as silky as it looked, her thighs pressing into his as she angled against him.

Grace moaned into his mouth and clawed at his shoulders. Her lips broke away just enough for her to pant, “This doesn’t change anything.”

He kissed her jaw, the pulsing line of her throat, and murmured against her skin, “Keep telling yourself that.”

She yanked his head back by the hair and glared at him, breathless. “André?—”

He kissed her again, wild and wrecked, like she was the only thing that had ever shut him up, shut him down, shut him off.

Grace’s hands fisted the collar of his shirt, dragging him down to her mouth like she had no control left, no carefully measured words, no accusations. Just heat and breath and fury.

“You don’t taste like nicotine,” she murmured. “I thought you would.”

“You thought about this?”

She pushed against his chest, but he only pressed her harder into the lockers, reaching under her thighs and hoisting her up to rest on his hips. She curled her legs around his waist. “Maybe.” Her nails scraped the back of his neck, and he nearly lost it.

He fought with the hem of her blouse, his fingers trembling as he finally met warm skin. She was softer than whatever silky fabric she wore. He bit down lightly on her lower lip, and she sucked in a breath, her body bucking against him. He wondered if Nora from admin would have a problem with him taking Grace right there on the benches.

Grace’s hands fumbled with the tie on his joggers, then froze at the sound of a door slamming open.

“Hey, have you seen my—oh damn.”

Grace dropped her legs, pushing away from him and skittering to the side. André turned to find Brett standing in his coat and toque at the end of the row of lockers.

André tried to catch his breath. “Seen what, bud?” His heart thundered in his chest, blood roaring in his ears, and he was two seconds away from launching Brett into the wall.

Brett’s throat bobbed. He motioned to the bench, then stalked forward and picked up his roll of hockey tape. He started to retreat, his eyes wide, but Grace peeled away from the lockers like she’d been burned. She didn’t meet André’s eyes as she straightened her blazer and strode toward the door. “I have to go.”

“Grace—”

“No.” She shook her head, already rounding the locker bank.

And then she was gone. There was a bang of the door and the echo of her boots as her footsteps faded down the hall.

André stood there, chest heaving, lips tingling, hands still shaking.

Brett’s nostrils flared as André turned a murderous glare on his friend. “How the hell was I supposed to know you were still here?”

“Because I hadn’t walked up the damn stairs,” André growled. Brett looked between him and the door, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Don’t laugh, bud. You’re going to make it up to me.” André grabbed his hockey bag off the bench.

“Yeah?”

He punched Brett in the shoulder a little harder than necessary. “You’re going to help me quit smoking.”