Page 15

Chapter 15

Olli

So, if you want to come in . . .

I blast the heat in the truck as I watch Nat and Avery stagger into the two-story townhouse. I wonder what his home looks like . . . a bachelor pad? But he’s got a daughter. Sydney. A teenage daughter.

Did not see that one coming.

It weirdly doesn’t surprise me, after that initial blindsided shock. And watching him and Avery—who is not his kid—is entirely endearing.

Should I have gone inside?

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to follow him in like a lost little puppy or a hopeful, star-struck lover. But I know better. He’s a distraction—one that clearly has a lot of emotional and physical baggage hanging around.

And distractions, I’ve learned, aren’t worth the risk. Not when my career hangs on such a precarious thread, where even the smallest deviations could pull that thread just a little too tight . . .

He has a whole other life, far, far removed from hockey—and hockey is my world. I want it so much more than I want friendship, more than I want to drink, laugh, water the seeds of an impossible crush.

Which is exactly why I’m driving away now, leaving that silly blip of imagination behind .

The pale street lights glint off the ice frosted over the road, sometimes as sparkling dust and sometimes in dangerous black sheets nearly invisible to the unwary eye.

This city feels like hockey. From its belching factories to its time-worn homes perpetually buried in a fluffy white powder. It’s cold, icy, stark. Unforgiving.

Just like the game.

Like the Ice Out.

I think about hockey all the way home. As I lie down in bed, I picture the ice, white and open before me. The sharp bite of cold intermingling with the soft stench of moldering gear—

Green eyes swim before my mind’s eye, erasing the white. Soft. Worried. Laughing. Serious. How very many emotions I saw written in those eyes tonight, how much subtle softness on a such hard man as he cared for his daughter’s boyfriend.

I wonder if he ever wanted anything more from hockey, if it was his dream. With talent like I saw at the Ice Out, he must have, once upon a time—

Jesus, Olli. Go to sleep.

But how the hell is sleep supposed to work when my brain’s constantly churning out thoughts, then obsessively cycling over and over the most compelling ones?

Was I a total fool walking Avery to my truck? What about in the car ride back to Nat’s—how many awkward things did I say? Or when I refused to go inside, was that awkward?

Crap.

This is why I can’t let him distract me. Because my stupid brain will do this all freaking night. All morning. All day, if I let it. Because I’ll spend my life wondering what I’ve said and done wrong to make him not want me—when the reality is, it probably has nothing to do with me—

Stop. It. Olli .

I sleep like crap, but still, I’m up long before the sun’s poked its nose over the crest of the city. Back in the truck, in the dark and cold of five a.m. Navigating ice-slicked streets through a maze of white and grey that glints silver in the soft city light.

I pull into the tiny public rink on the west side of town. Several cars already sit in the spots near the door, and I can’t help but grin. I’m not the only one who feels the pull of the ice, the call of the game. Not in this town.

Day River is a world of ice and snow—and its residents are all creatures of the same composition.

Ice and snow, hockey in our hearts.

No wonder the Ice Out calls to so many.

Still smiling, I hop out of the truck and lift my bag from the bed. Honestly, I shouldn’t be skating drop-in hockey—or any non-team-sanctioned event. But here I am.

Whatever. I don’t tell anybody who I am, maybe nobody asks, maybe we all just shut our mouths and skate and I play half speed and we all have fun and go home.

A guy can hope, amiright?

I shoulder my bag and head towards the rink. Another dude’s headed the same way, a bag over his shoulder, stick in hand. I open my mouth to call out a mumbled greeting, maybe throw a brief intro his way—

Two more figures fall into line behind him—one slightly smaller and one much smaller, female. All of them wearing backwards baseball caps.

Holy Moses.

I know who they are. Who he is.

“ Nat ?” I come to a dead standstill, because how the Moses is this guy always everywhere I’m trying to be? I go get a salad at a bar—boom. I start a new job—thar he be. I go party my socks off—whadda you know.

And now—

“Olli?” Nat’s brows lift towards the backwards brim of his hat, his green eyes rounded with surprise. My name escapes the O of his lips on a white-cloud puff of breath. “How . . . don’t you have practice today?”

“Not till afternoon.” I shrug, resume my pace towards the doors. It’s cold out here. “Hey, Syd. Avery. Dude, how are you up this early? You were puking like five hours ago.”

“I was puking like twenty minutes ago.” He grins. “But I’m not missing hockey.”

“Me neither,” Syd agrees.

“Good man.” I tilt two fingers against my forehead in a salute. Nat slides ahead to pull open the door, and I wave Syd and Avery in ahead of me. “After you.”

Syd takes the lead, Avery behind. Which gives me a brief window of opportunity to lean in close to Nat.

“Wait, do you skate things that aren’t”—I drop my voice to a stage whisper—“the Ice Out?”

“Sometimes.” He waves me through the door ahead of him—aww what a gentleman! “I think my being here is less weird than you being here.”

“Well . . . okay.” I slide past him into the rink. “Probably. But still. It’s five in the damn morning.”

“So? You’re here.”

“I have ADHD. And anxiety. Sleep is a pipe dream. Why are you here?” I let my gaze trail ahead towards where Syd and Avery are already halfway down the hall. “With the entourage, no less.”

He rolls his eyes. “I’m as surprised as you that they actually made it. Normally, my kid would be asleep until noon on a Saturday.”

“Which is why you’d be here.”

“Yep. Only chance I get to skate.” He ticks off items on his fingers. “It’s Saturday, so my kid will be asleep until noon . . . Dingoes don’t have morning practice, so no work . . . and I don’t have any active repo jobs.”

We pause beside the notification board on the wall opposite the door to check locker room assignments.

“Wow, they actually listed the ladies’ locker room!” Syd jabs a finger at the board. “You know how exciting that is? ”

“Gotta be Bobby,” Nat says. “I’ve yelled at him enough for not having a girls’ room for you.”

“Bobby’s terrified of you.” Syd laughs, and she and Avery scurry off down the hall. Nat and I follow, a few feet behind.

And naturally, I talk. “Repo, like repossession, right? Like . . . picking up cars after people stop making payments?”

“Yeah.” He winces, then turns down the locker room hall. “I don’t love it, trust me. But I’ve been doing it since just after high school, so my buddy and I are trying to get our own business going.”

“Oh. Nice.” Another surprising thing to add to Nat’s repertoire of things I wouldn’t have expected from the backwards-hat guy at the bar. “You know, I think the knuckle tats and scabs would make for a great repo guy.”

He huffs out a light laugh. “Yeah, I guess so. I’m not usually trying to intimidate people, though.”

He pushes into the locker room, and the conversation dies off as we slide into the warmth. There’s already a small crowd gathered, most of them older guys. One or two seem to be in the thirty-something range, and there’s a surprising two that might even be younger.

Avery, however, is definitely the youngest. He sits a little ways off, by himself, his bag opened to spill its innards across the rubber flooring.

“Yo, Taylor!” someone calls, setting off a chorus of greetings. Clearly, everyone’s in favor of Nat’s presence.

I lift a hand as I follow Nat into the back, where Avery’s seated. “I’m Olli. New guy in town, just looking for a place to skate.”

Another chorus of greetings, plus a few names tossed in. Won’t remember those.

“Syd here too?” one of the younger guys asks as Nat throws his bag down next to Avery’s. I drop mine beside his. Great, I’m gonna have to get changed sitting directly next to him, force myself not to look at any of that delicious ink or muscle.

Nat’s shoulders go taut, but his voice is completely casual when he replies. “She’s here, yeah. ”

On the bench, Avery sits up straighter than a fence post.

“Don’t worry, kid.” I lean past Nat to talk to Avery. “Pretty sure Old Knuckle Tats here is not letting any of these hooligans get within ten feet of that girl without explicit written permission and an armed chaperone.”

Avery snorts, relaxes visibly. Nat looks down at his feet, and I bite back a grin when he mutters, “Damn straight.”

“So. Where you from, Olli?” The guy on my other side—older, bearded, literally wearing nothing but his jock shorts—leans in so I get a nice whiff of coffee breath.

“Miami.” I kick off my shoes, slide out of my jeans. Force myself to keep my gaze between my clothes and the older guy next to me. “Maine before that.”

Somehow, most of my awareness is still focused on the fact that Nat’s undressing too.

“Oh, so you’re a hockey kid.” The guy throws an elbow into my arm. “You can be on my team.”

“Hell yeah, man.” I flash him a classic Olli grin—and then I make the mistake of turning towards Nat.

I nearly choke on my own damn spit because my sweet, sweet baby Jesus. The man’s removing his shirt—we are changing —and I swear God commissioned Michelangelo for this build.

The man is a sculpture of perfection—every muscle, every line, every honed edge. Perfect. The curve of deltoids and biceps, the hills and valleys of his abdomen, the hard planes of his pecs.

And the ink . . .

I tear my gaze away, hoping against hope that my eternity of staring was actually just a short moment. The last thing I need is to be caught ogling some inked-up coworker like I haven’t been laid in a month.

I’m not one for swearing, but shit.

“New kid’s from Maine,” dude next to me is saying, and I try—I try so hard—to concentrate on those words.

But Nat bends over to pull off his shoes and socks, and I realize just in time that his pants are going to come off next and make myself very busy with taking off my own shirt. Who knew that required so much effort?

“Oh, where in Maine?” someone’s asking, and I force myself to locate the source as Nat shimmies his shorts up. I do not need to know if he wears underwear underneath, or what kind.

“Orono.” My voice comes out in a pathetic squeak. “University of Maine.”

“You play for them?”

“Guess we’ll find out, eh?” But I swipe out a set of blue and white socks—ironically, U Maine has the same colors as the Dingoes.

Beside me, Nat’s already half dressed—pants, socks, one foot in his skate. He leans over to tug on his laces, giving me a glorious view of a beautiful set of bat wings stretched across his shoulder blades.

Not that I’m looking.

I shove my own damn foot into my own damn skate and focus . It’s the only way I’m ever gonna get through this damned locker room dress. My fingers fumble on the laces, but I race through the rest.

I yank on an old white jersey and head for the door.

Outside, I practice my deep breaths, made all the more deep and calming by the cold icy air, by the faint tang of pad and glove sweat. This is my place, my home, my comfort. My therapy away from Dr. Huxton.

This is calm. This is peace.

Someone hops onto the ice behind me, and I know without turning it’s him. Just like I know he’s also wearing a white jersey.

“Think we’ll be as good out here as we were making out against the wall of that bar?” I ask as he skates up beside me. Because I have absolutely no willpower or sense of self-preservation.

“Nah.” He cocks a grin in my direction, and I swear my damned heart stops right in its tracks. “I think we’ll be better.”

And he skates off, leaving me with my stupid jaw hanging open .

He’s right, though. ’Cause me and him?

We’re something else on this ice.

Nat volunteers to play defense, and I stay forward, but it doesn’t stop us from finding an instant and uncanny synergy. We zing passes back and forth. Nat finds me from the point, I drop pucks to him for one-timers. Both of us set our linemates up for goal after goal.

Even long-time teammates Syd and Avery struggle to keep up—though they’re both extremely good players. If it weren’t for the long black ponytail and small stature, I’d peg Syd for one of the guys.

And Avery, when he’s not puking over a trash can, is absolutely unreal.

Skates, hands, passes. Shots. Play read. Just . . . nasty.

“Kid’s going places.” On the bench beside me, Nat squirts water over his face. We watch Avery dangle three old dudes before popping the puck onto Syd’s tape.

“So’s Syd,” I reply as she lifts the pass neatly up over the goalie’s left shoulder, right into the net. She and Avery collide in a hug, grinning.

“Try telling her that,” sighs Nat, but we’re back out on the ice before I can respond. Out doing our thing, like we were born to skate together.

I know without looking where he is. Where he’s gonna be. I haven’t even watched the guy play more than that brief stint at the Ice Out, but it’s like my aura’s tuned to his. Like I’ve developed some kind of Natty sixth sense, you know, like when you’re hyperaware of someone’s presence at all times, even when you can’t see them.

Dunno.

Doesn’t matter.

We’re fire on this ice.

Of course, our teammates love it, and the other team hates it.

“Taylor, go put on a dark jersey!” one of the men barks, half grinning, half irritated. “It’s not even fun playing against you guys.”

“No way, man,” says one of our teammates as he circles away from the net, celebrating his most recent one-timer courtesy of Nat Taylor. “It’s way too fun playing with them. ”

We’re making them all look like superstars.

“Maybe you learn to skate faster, eh Jones?” Nat grins back, and the guy who told him to put on a dark jersey flashes him a playful finger. “Bennett keeps trying to pass to you, but you’re too slow.”

“Fuck yourself, Tay.”

“Tell you what.” Nat’s grin never fades. “I’ll put on dark and skate with Syd. Avery can go light with Olli.”

There’s a barrage of muttering over that, but in the end, Nat and Avery trade jerseys.

So then I’m teamed up with the Teenage Wonderboy against the Taylor father-daughter duo. And damn, is it a showdown.

It’s probably the most fun I’ve ever had on the ice.

Nat and Syd have amazing synergy; they sling passes back and forth across the ice like they’ve probably done it for years. Adorable, really.

Until Avery and I find our groove.

“You’re making me look good, Av,” I say as he pops a neat one-timer into the net. He gets the goal, I get the assist, the other team gets to groan and blame Nat and Syd, which is kinda like icing on that beautiful proverbial cake.

Avery grins at me. “This is insane, dude.”

It’s less insane when Nat and Syd retaliate with a father-daughter rebound goal that makes me and Avery look like chumps.

“I swear you’re all trying to kill me,” one of the old guys groans. “This is the hardest I’ve ever skated in my life.”

The four of us just smile. And keep right on doing what we’re doing. Syd slams Avery up against the boards, grinning with every single one of her teeth.

She’s kind of a teeny badass.

Nat nudges an elbow into my ribs, so next play I deke around him like he’s standing still—drawing taunting oooh s from both Avery and Syd. He gives them both the middle finger.

And then scores a goal unassisted.

Don’t laugh at Daddy .

Too soon, the skate draws to a close and we’re back in the locker room to change. I’m sweating, a little breathless, never sated but at least calmer than I was last night or earlier this morning. Nothing about me is ever truly still . But I get pretty close after a good skate.

Until the conversation starts.

“So, you going next week?”

“Nah, man, you know I’m clean.” The guy grins to let everyone know he’s joking. “Just kidding. I got money on Ninety-Four.”

Man, even the drop-in dudes are into the Ice Out, huh? It really does have the entire town in a chokehold. Placing bets, driving the locker room chatter . . .

“Ninety-Four’s a chump.”

“I got money on Number Forty-Seven making it three rounds—”

“Nah, four.”

Nat actually joins in. “Sixty-Eight’s pretty good, though—”

“No way, man, Forty-Seven got him beat .”

“Even I know Forty-Seven’s better.” Avery leans forward to chime in. “And I never been to the Ice Out.”

“Like fuck you haven’t . . .”

“Better not have . . .”

We’re all driven to darkness in this place.

Maybe that’s what makes me turn towards the guy next to me and ask, “What the hell is everyone talking about?”

“Oh man.” The target of my inquiry is a mid-thirties Asian dude with a sweat-slicked pseudo mullet. “The Ice Out. It’s amazing. If you haven’t been . . . man, you gotta.”

“Is it like . . . Dingoes?” I ask, even though I know perfectly well it’s not.

“Hell no. Dingoes are yesterday. Nobody goes to their games anymore.”

Don’t I know it. But still, I gotta know, from the mouth of the people , right? “Why not? ”

He shrugs, and his eyes slip slightly out of focus, like he’s considering. “’Cause it’s not our game anymore. Nobody cares about a bunch of pretty Cali boys who come in for half a season and move on. You know? The Ice Out is us .”

I don’t know what to make of that, so I throw my clothes into my bag and practically run for the showers. Takes me a matter of minutes to lather some soap, rinse, and wrap a towel around myself.

Before I can leave the shower area, Nat appears—shirtless, naturally, a towel draped around his waist. And I simply cannot help the way my eyes drift down that beautiful bare torso, dragging over each curve of muscle.

But my God, seriously. The man is goddamn gorgeous.

And maybe that’s what makes my big stupid brain decide to say big stupid things. “Well, this is cozy. Not going to be awkward at all, now that we’ve swapped spit, nursed a puking teen, discussed my embarrassing poetry habits—crap, I was the one to bring it up, oh my God . . .”

“Hey, you said it, not me.” But the corner of his mouth flicks upwards in amusement. Is he ignoring my blatant eye-fucking or does he legit not see it?

And maybe that’s what makes me keep going. Or I legitimately do not have an off button and my stupid mouth is bigger than my stupid brain. “As long as you don’t try to kiss me—oh, wait. No, I’d like that.”

He rolls his eyes, but he clearly knows I’m teasing; the smile still curls up the corner of his mouth. “I promise to keep my hands and spit to myself.”

“So relieving.” I open my mouth for another joke, but he beats me to the punchline.

“Look.” He drags a hand through his sweat-slicked hair. “I meant to thank you for last night—”

“Nah, it was nothing.” I tug my towel self-consciously, and his eyes follow my hands to the knot around my waist .

Straight Boy totally looks at my abs, or maybe it's the light trail of dark hair leading under the towel—and then jerks his gaze to somewhere around my right ear. “Well, it helped us out a lot.”

“Seriously, it was nothing.” I smother a grin, check over his shoulder to make sure Avery’s still engaged in the Ice Out chatter. “But I didn’t peg you for the daddy I’d like to eff type.”

“Oh, my God.” Is he blushing? I can’t tell; his skin’s a shade too dark and the lighting’s not great.

“I’m just kidding ,” I say, totally not entirely kidding at all. “But seriously, it’s kind of adorable.”

He tilts his head back. “Nothing about me is adorable.”

Well, no, when I’m staring at the long, tattooed column of his throat, adorable is not the word that comes to mind.

“Adorable,” I proclaim anyway, just to be an ass. Then I hold out a hand to the showers. “Go forth and conquer.”

His brows shoot up, and the hint of a smile returns to his face. “That is the absolute strangest ‘go take a shower’ substitute I’ve ever heard.”

“Keeps things interesting.” I shoot him a neat little wink because I’m an idiot. “Actually, conquering kinda sounds like a euphemism, so maybe don’t do that here, or do, I don’t know—I’m gonna stop talking now.”

And I leave him at the door and return to my bag to get dressed.

I must be slow changing though, ’cause I’m still pulling my pants on when he plops onto the bench next to me. And of course, my big stupid mouth does not stay shut.

“Can I ask you something?” I ask, keeping my voice quiet as Avery heads for the showers.

Nat goes still. “Sure.”

“Is Syd the reason you don’t play?”

“No.” Nat shakes his head with surprising vehemence. “I fucked up my hockey future all on my own.”

I want so desperately to know more, but I am also a coward. “It’s very obvious you love her a lot. ”

“She’s my everything.” He stands, and I lean forward to snatch a shoe off the ground. ’Cause he’s about to drop his towel to pull on his pants, and I’m definitely not gonna look.

The title of that book is Things I Don’t Need to Know About Nat Taylor. Chapter One : The Size of His—

“She’s your everything,” I find myself saying, and I’m not sure where the words come from. “And she’s the reason you’re torn between the hockey world and the repo business?”

His head whips towards me, eyes round and wide as silver dollars—but you know, in green. A beat of silence follows, then, “How do you do that shit?”

“What shit?” I tug a shirt over my head, follow it up with a University of Miami hoodie. The green’s lovely with my skin tone.

“The one where you see through me like I’m completely transparent.”

I can’t help the grin that unfurls across my face. “Aw, aren’t we just so cute, finishing each other’s sandwiches and everything.”

“I mean it. How’d you know that?”

“You got a kid who I’m guessing is starting to think about college or trade school or whatever, so . . . money. And since working for the man never pays crap, you’re starting your own biz.”

One of his brows lifts in a neat arch. Impressed? “Not too shabby, Florida.”

“Oh, I ain’t done.” I hold up my hand, start ticking off items on my fingers. “Repoing makes the most financial sense, yet you’re still playing Zamboni driver at the Dingoes’ failing rink. Plus, you’re an Ice Out star. You’re stuck in the hockey world, aren’t you?”

“And you’re a little scary.”

I shrug, and for some reason choose this moment to ask, “Are you related to Jesse Taylor?”

Nat freezes. He’s halfway through pulling a navy hoodie over his head, and he freezes solid as ice. Only for an instant, a heartbeat, and then he’s dragging his head through the sweatshirt. “He’s my brother. ”

“Your brother who’s an NHL superstar.” I yank the zipper of my bag closed. “Who the Dingoes have never recovered from losing.”

There’s a lot of unspoken stuff there —can’t imagine the mental fuckery of living in that shadow. Having that kind of pressure on you could break anybody.

No wonder he considers himself a fuck-up.

“Yeah, basically.” Nat does stand, shouldering his bag in the same motion. “But now I guess it’s your team.”

“Indeed.” I wince. Speaking of pressure. “No biggie.”

“If anybody can do it, it’s you.” It’s not his words that surprise me, but the vehemence behind them—like he believes them. “I didn’t know what to think when you first showed up, but honestly, I think you’ve got a shot.”

My brows shoot upwards. Can’t imagine what my expression looks like. “What?”

“I think you’ve got something nobody’s had for a long time.”

He leaves me on the bench with my mouth hanging open.

Again.

Why is he always leaving me like that?