Page 2 of Unrivaled Love (D.C. Renegades #2)

Bryson

Iconic Like Brandi Chastain

"Do you think the players are watching us?" I ask Aiden, our rock solid goaltender, as we wave to the crowd at the soccer match.

"Do you watch the coverage between the periods?" He asks instead of answering my question. He does that.

"You're not helping," I tell him before I pivot and wave to the other side of the stadium. I run my hand along my hair to make sure it’s still perfectly styled just in case she’s watching. Then I turn to Crosby on my other side and try again. "Do you think the players are watching us?"

"I don't." He says. I twist my body fully in his direction to glare at him because I was hoping my boys would build me up here. An hour ago he noticed the additional effort I made today. He told me I put together a snazzy outfit.

His word, not mine.

Today is a special day and I wasn’t taking any chances. The Universe wouldn’t put Jo Hamilton and I in the same stadium for no reason.

She has to know my team is here. She'll at least wave to me if she sees me. Right?

Sure, I haven’t seen Jo Hamilton, in real life, for seven years, but you don’t just forget the person you grew up with. And, furthermore, you never stop being in love with your first love. At least a little bit. Right?

When her name was confirmed on the roster for tonight's game, I bought a suite.

Then when our team got pulled into the halftime show by the PR powers that be, who have filled our calendars with appearances almost every day since we brought home The Cup, I gave the suite to our families, hers and mine, because we've been friends and neighbors our entire lives.

I linger towards the back of the line as our team gets escorted off the field.

Am I hoping she comes out of the tunnel early for her re-warm up?

Yep.

Do I know for a fact she is always the last one out of the tunnel?

Affirmative.

Does that fact play into my decision to try and linger on the field as long as possible?

Also, yes.

I'm falling into the hopeless simp category here but as far as I can tell she has completely forgotten I exist.

And I have done anything but.

For seven years I've followed her career from afar. At first, I texted and called her trying to get back onside. I even sent a fucking postcard from Boston, my first NHL city, after I got called up in college but, nothing.

Radio silence.

Crickets.

Wooshing void noise.

I see her family at the holidays when I'm able to sneak home between games. And there’s always the time at the vacation house in the summer but Jo is mid-season then. Her parents came out to D.C. to celebrate the Stanley Cup win with mine for crying out loud.

We used to be inseparable. Wherever Bry Guy went, Josie Posie would follow. And vice versa.

And yet, this is the closest I’ve been to her, physically, in years.

It’s still way too far .

I try to shake off my disappointment of this missed connection as the boys and I settle into the suite which is a few over from the one I reserved.

I skip the buffet, pining for a long lost love kills the appetite apparently, and sit in the front row of seats so I can get a good view of the second half.

Jo starts at left forward. Same as me. And it's the position she's played since she first entered the club leagues as a pre-teen. I was skating on the travel hockey teams too but when we were both home we were honing our skills together.

She'd take shot after shot at the goal in the park behind our houses. I'd take shot after shot against the tennis court fence. The thwacks of the ball and rattles of rubber meeting iron were the soundtrack of our friendship.

"So you follow the team pretty closely?" Duncan Paisley, my teammate and first line defensemen, asks as he sits down next to me. "Any reason?"

"I, ugh, know one of the players." I haven't told the guys about Jo because, what's to tell? She was my childhood best friend and then… well… nothing. One incredible, life changing, experience followed by a terrible one since she bailed on me that same night and hasn’t spoken to me since.

"Yeah? That's awesome. Which one?"

"Jo Hamilton."

"Seriously? She's hot, man! How well do you know her?" I try not to visibly bristle at Duncan calling Josie hot. Don’t get me wrong, she is. She’s a knockout.

Fuck, I would do beautiful, filthy things to her if I got the chance.

Again. But the idea of another man experiencing the lusty shade of green in her eyes as she climaxes makes my blood simmer.

"Our families are close."

Even if we aren’t speaking to each other, that remains true.

"Think you can introduce me?" He asks and this time I frown at the gleam in his eyes. I mean, I can’t actually set them up because she’s been giving me the silent treatment for nearly a decade. And if she wasn’t icing me out I would make her mine .

But then again, maybe Jo would want a man like Duncan. Maybe that’s why she bailed. I just don’t do it for her.

He's tall, for one. He's got the square jaw and dark hair thing going on. He certainly has plenty of experience when it comes to romantic entanglements.

And I might not have racked up a roster like Duncan but I would devote every cell of my being to making sure Jo was reaching new heights in my bed.

But, that’s not for me to think about. I honestly don't know what kind of men she dates. She’s not in my life but I want her to be. Even if that means as friends.

Woof.

That’s a lie.

I don’t love the sound of that at all.

"Mmhmm." I agree noncommittally. My chest burns with bile as I hum.

The last thing I want is to be “just friends” with Jo Hamilton.

I’m saved from any further discussion as the second half starts. The US keeps possession but has to bring it back into their defensive end a few times because they're unable to stage an attack.

The same thing happens in hockey. Sometimes I have to hold things behind our own net to allow for a line change, waiting for the guys to get into position before bringing it out.

Starting from the back allows me to take advantage of all 125 feet to build up speed so I am a blur to the opposing team as I carry it across our blue line.

The burn in my thighs as I reach my peak speed is glorious pain.

My muscles fire as I fly out of my seat to cheer as the US finally gets a break. A Venezuelan player gets caught too far back and with a well timed kick up from the midfielder to Jo, she's off.

Her long legs move fluidly with the ball on the tips of her toes as she moves into position. She slows for a hairsbreadth and it's enough to throw her defender off balance. In hockey we call it a deke, and if you do it well it can be a wicked advantage.

Jo pounces and cuts closer to center, drawing the goalie out.

Atta girl.

I hold my breath as I see the shot unfold in real time. She launches it and it skates low before spinning up. The goalkeeper doesn't anticipate the backspin so her arm is too low and the ball sails over her shoulder.

It's in the back of the net and Jo rushes over to the corner not far from our seats. She pulls at the bottom of her jersey and the USA on the front pulls taut. Jo is probably dying to rip off her shirt like Brandi Chastain but she’s smart and wouldn’t compromise herself with the automatic yellow card.

She had a poster of that iconic image from the ‘99 World Cup on her wall growing up.

Brandi was fit and Jo teased me I had a crush on her.

I can admit Brandi was something to look at but I was studying the image to help me picture Jo with her shirt off.

Sports bra or not, I was grateful for whatever I could get.

But then Jo lifts the bottom of her shirt to wipe her forehead of the sweat and the world around me fades away.

I'm staring at the bare stomach of the girl I've been in love with since I could identify the feeling. I haven’t seen that much skin from her since the last time I saw her. My brain flashes with memories of her under and over me and how fucking soft her freckled skin was under my palms.

Sweat breaks out along my spine and my hands get clammy.

A clap on my shoulder rips me from my sordid trip down memory lane. I swallow the lump in my throat before cheering with my friends.

I glance back down at the field as she rights her jersey and looks up towards the family suite. We’re fifty yards from each other but I lean a little to my left hoping I can sneak into her line of sight. Begging the forces of The Universe to nudge her emerald eyes in my direction .

Instead I watch as she smiles, hugs her teammates, and returns to position for the kick off.