Page 45 of He Has Pluck

“If going for his dream to be a hockey player was more important to dad than her, and that’s what ruined their marriage—hell, ruined our family—then I’m going to make damn sure that I don’t do that to someone else. I’ll never get serious and make false promises and ruin someone’s life.” She stares at me speculatively like she’s considering my words, but it’s hard to tell if she’s going to kiss me or toss a loaded barb at me to shred everything I’ve just said.

“Noble of you to protect us poor women from your callous disregard,” she says. “What makes you think your mom cared that much? Maybe she’s been better off without your dad.”

“No. Mom’s had a sadness about her ever since I can remember, and I know dad is the reason. She loved him like he was the center of her universe. Problem was, he loved hockey like it was the center of his universe. And still, she didn’t stop me from going after for my dream of playing NHL hockey, from following in my dad’s footsteps. But she did warn me about not promising a girl something I can’t give.” I snort. “Her life and our broken family was enough warning.”

“Nice story.” She turns away, a flicker of something in her eyes. “You should make a movie. Call it, Another tragic love story: so what else is new?”

“You. You’re new.” I stop myself from going on, from telling her I’ve never experienced anything like her, like us, in my life, that my feelings for her are new to me and fucking scary because I have no idea what they mean.

“You’re new, new guy,” she says. “Enough revelation shit.” She turns away.

“Don’t act so tough, Juliette.” I nuzzle her neck and whisper, “I know your soft spots.”

“Mmmm. I love how you whisper in my ear, how your voice sends shocks of vibrations through me.” Her voice is breathy, and her words are devastating to my cool, to my brain function.

We make love. I can’t think of it as sex because it’s different, long and sweet. Different enough in a way that I don’t recognize as I fall into the oblivion of sleep.

* * *

I don’t wake up right away when the alarm goes off, but she wakes me. I’m grateful that she has my back, and I rush to make it to the rink on time. She shows up in her car right behind me. We exchange a glance, and I go inside first, but the idea that I can’t claim her, that we need to hide our…whatever this is—our fling—doesn’t feel so much like we’re being private because it’s no one’s business. It’s starting to feel like we’re guilty of something—and I don’t mean breaking some professional code or rule kind of guilt—and that’s all wrong. Because she doesn’t deserve to be a dirty secret I’m keeping.

And the last thing I want to be to her is a dirty secret she needs to keep.

* * *

I kill it at practice all week, and by Friday I’m flying high. Tomorrow is our first playoff game, a home game. The team is playing hot. At the end of practice, we file into the locker room, and I’m surprised at the stack of pizza boxes waiting for us, a deviation from our routine. Coach blows his whistle as I grab my towel and sit heavily on the bench, wiping sweat from my face.

“No team meeting or buffet tonight,” he says. “Spend a quiet night with your family and get a good night’s sleep. See Vicky Vorano or one of the strength and conditioning coaches if you need some work. Otherwise, go home and rest.”

Tony talks smack as he chews on a slice of pizza from the dozen boxes on the table. The equipment manager, Sam Bruno, brought them in for us. If I eat anything right now immediately after getting off the ice, I’ll puke. Give me an hour, and I’ll be ready to swallow a pizza whole.

Then I think about having the extra time to spend with Juliette and eating her whole. Or maybe taking her out to dinner, someplace off the grid, out of the way where no one will notice us or care. Like an actual date.

But, are we dating? Is she my girlfriend, or is this still a fling? Don’t even fucking think about it.

Problems might happen if I start overthinking my relationship with Juliette. Whatever the hell we have works because it doesn’t interfere with hockey. There’s no drama and nothing beyond the here and now. Because that’s all either of us can afford.

I nod in her direction as she films the pizza fest. The silent communication between us speaks volumes. I’ll be seeing her later.

I come out of the locker room with a big grin on my face. Some media types linger, and I say hello to the ones I recognize and answer a few questions. I genuinely feel ready for the playoffs like I can really contribute to the team, and it’s not just some bullshit answer to a reporter’s question.

When I’m finished, I turn to go to the garage and I stop short. It can’t be her. She sees me, and a bright smile pops onto her pretty face while dread sinks like a rock in my gut.

What the fuck is she doing here? I weave through the families and friends and reporters in the hallway to the last woman I expect to see here in Boston. Because there’s a reason I left Brenna Cheswick in Portsmouth.

As I reach her, she launches herself at me and throws her arms around me so that all I can do is hug her back.

Over the top of Brenna’s head, I see Juliette and Carlos come out of the locker room. Juliette stops dead. Carlos keeps moving straight for me, throws his camera up and asks, “Who’s this? Looks like quite the reunion.” I extricate myself from Brenna’s hug, trying to keep my cool and manage an appropriate smile.

“I’m Brenna, Jason’s girlfriend from back—”

“She’s a friend from Portsmouth.” I take a step away from her, but she hangs onto my arm, and there’s nothing I can do about it short of violently shaking free. Juliette comes up behind Carlos and taps his shoulder.

“I’ll take over here. You cover Rafe or O’Rourke.”

“How about Finnegan? He’s always worth a laugh.”

“Whatever,” she says to Carlos as she keeps her eyes on mine, her barely banked hostility sparking from her. I dart a glance at Carlos, and he gives me a smirk as he takes off. He knows better than to say a word.