Page 41 of Heartless As Puck

Something unpleasant surged through me. That wasn’t acceptable.

“Excuse me.” I stalked away, twisting around people and bumping into them when I had to, in order to get to Jane. The closer I got, the easier it was to see that the guy bothering her was drunk. He was swaying slightly, and when he spoke, it was in that gusty way where you just knew his breath must stink of beer or spirits.

I’d nearly reached them when Jane turned to accept two drinks from the bartender, neatly digging her elbow into the man’s side as she did. He gave an “ooph” and stumbled away, clearing enough space for her to step away from the bar and head back toward the team.

She came up short at the sight of me. “What are you doing? I said I’d get the drinks.”

“I was on a rescue mission,” I said, more doubt than I’d like in my voice because she clearly hadn’t needed rescuing.

She pursed her lips. “I see. I appreciate your good intentions, but I don’t need you to rescue me.”

No, I was beginning to see that, and much as this new side to her that I was discovering continued to confuse me, I couldn’t deny that she intrigued me too.

And that was dangerous.

If I allowed my attraction to her to grow deeper, I’d only end up distracted from hockey and heartsick when I couldn’t give her the time and attention she wanted. I only had so much of myself to go around, and I had no desire to be told I wasn’t enough. Not by the team, and definitely not by her.

THIRTEEN

AUSTIN

I was standing on one leg to stretch my quad when my cell phone rang, startlingly loud in the silence, and I jolted in surprise and had to stumble to catch myself before I tipped off balance.

Who the hell was calling so early on a Sunday morning?

I looked out the window as if to confirm that it was, in fact, still early. The sun was up, but the light outside was low and filtered through heavy gray clouds.

I leaned over to check the caller ID. It was an unknown number. I debated letting it go to voicemail but decided that if whoever it was had made the effort to get my number rather than go through my usual points of contact—Gus and Jane—then it was probably important enough for me to answer.

I slipped my foot out of the resistance band and hung the band over a railing along the wall, then mopped the sweat off my forehead with an exercise towel as I connected the call.

“Is this Austin Harris?” a male voice asked. It was oddly familiar, but I couldn’t quite place it.

“Yes.” I wasn’t going to give him any more than that until I knew who I was dealing with.

“Great, this is Stephen Robertson.”

“Oh?” My gut flipped over. Why was the team manager calling me early on a Sunday morning? “It’s nice to hear from you, Mr. Robertson.”

He laughed. “Please, call me Stephen.”

“Okay, Stephen. How can I help you?”

“Are you free this morning to come into the office for a meeting?”

I checked the time on my wristwatch. It was a little after eight. I didn’t have any plans for the day other than reviewing game footage from yesterday and working the kinks out of my sore muscles.

“I can.”

I hated how nervous I sounded and inwardly cursed myself for letting my anxiety show. Then I cursed myself again for letting myself buy into Dad’s narrative that a good player kept their emotions under wraps. Unfortunately, after eighteen years of conditioning, it was hard to break old habits despite being free from his control for more than a decade.

“Excellent. Is ten o’clock too soon?” Stephen asked.

“That depends.” I patted the damp hair at the nape of my neck with the towel to take the moisture out of it. “Do I need to bring my agent?”

If this was going to be something bad, I’d need my support system with me.

“If I were you, I wouldn’t bother,” he said, with what sounded like a grin in his voice. “But you’re welcome to invite him if you’d like to.”