Page 11 of My Pucking Enemy (The Milwaukee Frost #4)

Wren

I walk into work on the second day of November and see something I haven’t before.

Luca McKenzie in the meeting room for our strategy session, smiling at me when I come through the door. I pause, glance over my shoulder to see if someone’s behind me—Sloane, maybe. But there’s nobody.

Which means Luca is smiling at me.

“Good morning,” he says, watching me as I walk in and take my seat. Yesterday, he sat and talked to my grandma for an hour, chatting with her about Milwaukee, about growing up out west and missing the mountains.

Was that all it took? Talking to Gran had convinced him I’m not the Antichrist? If I’d known that, I would have dragged him to Oak Park Retirement Home months ago.

“Good morning,” I return, trying to keep my eyes from skipping to where his t-shirt hugs his biceps, his broad chest, his tanned skin against the white of the fabric.

When I look to his face instead, it’s not much better, my eyes dragging on the spattering of freckles over his nose and cheeks.

The charming, handsome boyishness of his brown eyes and easy eyebrows.

“I’ve been thinking,” Luca says, leaning forward and flashing me a broad smile I’ve only seen directed toward others before. Being the recipient of it feels like stepping into the warmth of the sun on a chilly day.

“About the whole ‘switching up the lines’ thing,” he says, “And while we’re going to be moving Chen, I think we also shift O’Brien, too.”

My eyebrows raise. “To take over from Petrov?”

“Big guy won’t admit it,” Luca says, crossing his arms. “But he’s getting tired, run down. I think we save him a bit, make sure he’s on the ice at his most explosive. And I think moving O’Brien up will act two-fold. One: motivate him to play better, and two—”

“—put even more pressure on Chen,” I finish, nodding as I say it and feeling the strange rush of collaboration with Luca. “Chen will see that a younger player has been moved up, and it wasn’t him. It’ll push him to play even better.”

“That’s what I think—do you? You don’t think it will de-motivate him?”

I tap my pen on the table. “Not with his particular psyche. O’Brien gets moved down, and Chen goes up? Yeah, he doesn’t get it, gets dejected. But moving them like this, O’Brien up and Chen down—they’ll both react by playing harder.”

“While we’re on the topic of O’Brien,” Luca says, grabbing the remote and clicking on the screen to our left. “Let’s talk about his brother.”

His twin, specifically, who’s also a professional hockey player on the Seattle Kraken. The next team in our lineup.

I nod and pull out my notes. “Yeah, let me tell you what I have.”

For the next hour, Luca and I talk about the O’Briens. We talk about the upcoming game, the likelihood of the other O’Brien resigning, whether or not he might come here, and what the dynamic might look like if he does.

We talk about the next three games, the Wild’s tough defense, the Panthers’ tough defense and how to break it. Weak points on the Oilers’ lineup, and how we can break through them. I show him my notes and he shows me his.

Sixty minutes go by of a strange, harmonious energy. Us, building off one another. Plenty of Yes, and or I don’t know about that or No, and here’s why I think that. No accusations of being pig-headed, over-confident, or reaching.

By the time the meeting is nearing its end, and it’s time for Luca to leave for training, I feel out of breath.

Exhilarated, like at the end of a hike looking over a gorgeous landscape.

What it used to feel like in the car with my dad, speeding away from the site as we heard the faint, muted sound of sirens in the distance.

A euphoria of accomplishment, paired with the joy of more to come in the future.

“I’m telling you,” I laugh, my marker squeaking across the white board as I trace the path I’m positive the Kraken’s O’Brien will take if pressed a certain way.

“This is his fall back—his safety attack. He’ll go this way, and if you get Maverick pressing up on him, then Blackwood waiting for the scoop, you can take the puck from him every time.

Until the Kraken wise up and take his line off the ice. ”

“No, look.” Luca shakes his head, points to the video on the wall. “See how he’s leaning like that? When he does that—” he steps forward, plucks the marker from my hand “—that means he’s going to…”

His arm flexes as he reaches up to mark a new path on the white board, and my eyes dip to the place where his shirt rides up, exposing a strip of tanned skin just above his waist band.

Christ, am I a teenager? It’s just a stomach. Just a toned, muscled stomach, connected to a large, smiling man whose warmth I can feel radiating from him. Damn fast metabolism, I’m sure. Part of me wants to ask how much he eats every day to keep up with the constant exercise.

“Excuse me,” I laugh, reaching forward and trying to take the marker back. “I can’t believe you just took that—”

But while I’m trying to grab for it, I accidentally send a streak of blue over his white shirt, and he looks down at it like he’s been shot, raising his head to meet my eyes dramatically, that golden hair falling over his forehead.

“Wren Beaumont,” he says, and I hate the way the sound of my name on his lips makes me shiver. “I can’t believe you would stoop so low, just because you know I’m right—”

“It was an accident!” I protest, but he’s already uncapped a different marker and swiped it just over my wrist, despite my attempt to step back from him.

I’m not sure what has happened to deliver this Luca to me today. The one who wants to collaborate, who’s joking with me, smiling and running his hand through his hair, wielding his marker like it’s a sword, and we’re in fencing practice.

“Well,” a voice comes from the door to the room, and I jump, surprised at myself for not realizing Uncle Vic had stuck his head into the room.

His eyes dart between me and Luca, and he purses his lips, making his mustache pop.

“This isn’t what I meant when I said to get along, but if acting like middle schoolers makes you better at your jobs, then so be it. ”

“We’re not—” Luca starts.

“Just wait until there’s chewing gum in your hair, Vic,” I say, pointing the marker at him. He rolls his eyes and leaves, letting the door shut behind him.

“I can’t believe you talk to him like that,” Luca says, and I realize he doesn’t know his coach is my uncle. But I’m not about to tell him now—not after we’ve only just started getting along.

Instead, I just shrug, watching as Luca gathers up his things. “What can I say? It’s all about confidence.”

“Yeah, sure,” he laughs, and when he has his notes under his arm, he says, “see you next week, right?”

What is going on in my body right now? My palms sweat, and I resist the urge to rub them along my pants. “Right.”

***

“Wren! You made it! Happy Friendsgiving!” Ruby meets me in the foyer, hugging so tightly that I have to be careful with the bottle in my hands.

This time—unlike at Sloane’s Halloween party—Luca doesn’t look at me like I’m a fox in the hen house. Instead, he turns and nods, raising his beer to me from across the way as Ruby pulls me into a hug.

“I did—thank you for inviting me.” I lift the bottle of wine in my hands, push it into hers. A quick Google search will tell you that there’s no wine on this earth I could buy that Ruby Romano couldn’t buy herself. So I went for something more unique.

“What is—did you make this yourself?” her eyes widen, and she looks up at me.

“A few months ago,” I admit, cheeks going hot when some of the others glance over, curious about her reaction.

This was back when I needed something to do before coming to Milwaukee.

Something to keep my hands busy so they didn’t do something that would violate my parole.

“I took a wine-making class, and it just finished aging. So, I thought I’d bring it as a gift. ”

“Wren—no, please, that’s so special! We can’t take it.”

“In all honesty, it’s probably wretched,” I laugh, waving my hand like a fly is in front of me. “Taking it off my hands would be a kindness.”

Ruby shakes her head, holds the wine in her hand like it’s something precious. “You’re too funny. Seriously, thank you—we’ll get it chilled and do a little taste test later.”

The moment she steps aside, Maverick appears, hugging me and thanking me for coming. “Homemade wine?” he says, raising an eyebrow. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to poach my wife.”

“If I could,” I joke, “I would.”

A filthy rich, gorgeous partner would solve a lot of my problems. Although, if my dad found out about it, I’d have to worry about his constant attempts to get some of that money. Or the inference from him that it was the only reason for the marriage.

“Whatever you’re thinking, Ms. Strategy,” Maverick warns, “just know that we already have a kid together. She’s mine.”

That makes me laugh, then Maverick is disappearing into the crowd again, and I’m stuck in that awkward limbo of the person who’s just come in the door. That is, until I see Sloane’s arm waving from across the room, ushering me over.

“Come on,” she says, gesturing to her brother across the table. “Mandy is a no-show, so we need another to play.”

It’s a pool table. I clear my throat, open my mouth to tell them that it probably wouldn’t be fair for me to compete, but in the next second, Luca is at my side.

Pressing a pool cue into my hand, he says, “Let me guess, you’re some sort of pool expert, aren’t you?” His mouth is close enough to my ear that it makes a shiver run the length of my spine.

I glance at him, and the expression on my face must be all he needs.

“Great,” he says under his breath. “Don’t tell them.”

“What happened to being Mr. Honest?” I ask, quirking an eyebrow.

In the weeks since that first good strategy meeting, they’ve only gotten better and better. On a few occasions, I’ve let some of my colors show. Like the time we got locked out of the meeting room, and I picked the door open, Luca watching me with interest the entire time.

But the difference is that he’d just breezed past me inside, getting right down to business without focusing on it. Or making obvious comments about what the lock-picking would mean.

More and more we’re able to build on one another’s ideas, adjusting our strategies accordingly. Luca comes in with the intimate knowledge of hockey, and I supply my observations of the players, teams, atmospheres, and arenas.

Uncle Vic eyes us suspiciously each time he finds us laughing together, or in a heated debate about a player, or another team’s strategy. When he’d mentioned Luca and me, our sudden camaraderie to me, I just asked him if he wanted us to go back to not liking one another.

Sometimes though, Luca still jumps to not believing me on things.

Like last week, when he had been incredulous after I said the Canuck’s coach was cheating on his wife.

Maybe I’d been a little abrasive with the delivery—my phone was vibrating incessantly in my pocket, no matter how many times I was sure I’d set it to silent, and it was a constant dampener on my mood.

“No way.” He’d crossed his arms, leaned back in his chair, shaking his head in that obstinate way I’d come to recognize. “I know that guy—typical Canadian. Nicest guy you’ve ever met. And totally devoted to her. There’s just no way on this one, Beaumont. You’re wrong.”

“There are a few things you fail to realize,” I’d countered, using the voice I knew he hated. “First, that the coach might be different around you. Men act differently around other men.”

“Oh, now you’re an expert on men.”

“If that’s what you want to call it. And the second thing is that nice guys can still cheat on their wives. In fact, sometimes outward kindness is a front for internal misalignment. Which is part of the reason I’m calling adultery.”

Luca shook his head. The affair was in the news the next day—not only was he cheating on his wife, but he was doing it with a friend of their daughter’s.

“That is freaky, Wren,” Luca had said, shaking his head in amazement, showing me the headline on his phone. “We should have bet on it,”

I’d only barely kept myself from telling him that I was not allowed to bet on things anymore.

Now, goosebumps erupt over my skin when Luca leans past me to grab a cue, his hand braced against the table.

I can smell his cologne, something heady and surely expensive.

He lowers his voice so Sloane and Callum can’t hear him, “Those two are far too cheeky about being the best at things. You should see them on a dance floor. It will be nice to beat them.”

My cheeks warm at his confidence in my skills despite never seeing me play. The quiet, companionable feeling of us being on a team, going against someone else instead of each other.

“Alright,” I whisper back, “but you owe me a latte Monday morning.”

“Done.”

It’s an instant answer, and something about makes my heart beat strangely, sending a tremor along my veins.

Thirty minutes later, we’ve smoked his sister and best friend, and Sloane is rolling her eyes at our celebrations, a smile tugging at her lips when she says, “Oh god—so smug. The two of you deserve each other.”

And for some reason, the sound of that isn’t quite so bad.