1
Sterling
"Good to have you back, Sterling," Paul, one of the jacked security guards at the player entrance to Reaper Arena said as I made my way to the door. It had been a long year, but I was finally home.
"It's good to be back," I replied. "How are the kids?"
"Are you talking about my middle schoolers? Or that group of juvenile pranksters you like to call teammates?" He cocked his head to the side.
"That's them," I said, flashing a grin. With a wave, I disappeared into the arena.
God, I'd missed this place. Not that Bangor hadn't been awesome, but I was a Reaper through and through.
Before that expansion draft, I'd taken it for granted—being a part of a team I loved. Never again. I might not be able to control my future in its entirety, but as of last night, I had a five-year contract to play where I belonged, right here in Charleston, South Carolina.
"So the prodigal son returns," came a voice I knew all too well. Canon, one of the best forwards on the team, pushed off the wall across from the entrance to the locker room.
"I'm not sure I'd say prodigal," I responded with a shrug. "But I'm back."
An uncharacteristic smile broke across the guy's face, and he grabbed me into a quick hug with a less than subtle back slap before quickly releasing me.
I guess marriage could soften even the hardest of hard asses.
"Hey," a guy called out as he stuck his head through the locker room door. "Why the hell didn't I get a hug when I signed?"
The kid couldn't have been older than twenty-two, maybe twenty-three. He still had that slick shine that came standard with most rookie contracts and an undeserved ego.
"Because I don't fucking like you, Olson," Cannon snapped, folding his arms across his chest.
"For the last time, it's Thornton," the kid fired back.
"Still don't give a fuck.” Cannon lifted his eyebrows.
A bigger player pushed Thornton out of the way, his familiar face lighting up as he saw me. "I thought I heard your voice out here!" Briggs pulled me into a hug, half-dressed for the ice. If we weren't careful, the atmosphere would slip into mushy territory. Not that I gave a shit. My heart was full, and my feet were so light I couldn't imagine anything bringing me down today—I was home.
“Signed last night,” I said after the back slaps. “How many Reapers are here?” Gathering before preseason for a few pickup games was one of the things I’d missed in Maine. Hell, I’d missed all my friends here, including Briggs, and I hadn’t even known him as well as the others before I’d been caught up in the expansion draft.
“Enough to have some fun this afternoon,” he answered. “Where’s your gear?”
“In the car.” I motioned behind me. “I have to sign one last thing with Silas, and then I’ll grab it.” There was a part of me that expected this deal to fall through at any moment. “What were you doing out here in the hall, anyway?” I asked Cannon. “Waiting for my smiling face?”
He snorted. “Hardly.”
In what could only be fortuitous timing, the elevator doors opened down the hallway, and a tiny, waifish blonde stepped out, her eyes locking onto Cannon with a magnetism the two had always shared.
“Ahh, I see now.” I grinned. “Hey, Persephone!”
“Jansen!” She waved, her smile lighting up the space and even bringing one to Cannon’s face. The guy might have been a tatted-up giant, but damn if he wasn’t wrapped around his wife’s little finger.
After yet another hug welcoming me home, and a low growl that told me to keep my hands far, far above her waist, I stepped back, feeling better than ever.
“Are you headed up to Silas’s office?” she asked as Cannon tucked her against his side.
“Yep.” I nodded.
“Good. We just finished a meeting about the foundation, so I know he’s up there waiting. Have you moved back into the village yet? Did you get your old house? Want to come over for dinner this week?” She fired off each question before I had answered the previous one, which only made me smile. Persephone didn’t just run the Reapers’ charitable foundation, she was pretty much charity incarnate, always looking to put people at ease.
Cannon chuckled and pressed a kiss to the top of her head.
“I’m moving back tomorrow if the truck gets here with all my stuff on time, and no,” I finished softly scratching the back of my neck. Another aspect I’d missed about the Reapers was the housing development just outside Charleston that the team owned. Most of the players lived there, contributing to the family atmosphere that I hadn’t found in Maine. “Unfortunately, there were a couple of last-minute trades, and whoever signed his contract right before me got my old house.”
Persephone’s face fell. “Oh. Well, that’s okay. You’re still on the street, right?”
I nodded. “Right next door, actually. And yes, I’d love to come over for dinner.” My phone buzzed in my back pocket, and I quickly turned off the alarm. “That’s my five-minute warning. I’ll catch you guys out there.” I said my goodbyes and strode for the elevator. Asher Silas—the owner of the Reapers—had infinite patience for his players with the exception to a few small pet peeves. Being late was one of them.
I stepped into the elevator and hit the fifth floor. Silas’s office was at the highest level of the arena, far above the coaches and admin. Even the escalators that carried fans up to their seats couldn’t reach his domain.
“Hold the elevator, please!” Just as the elevator doors were closing, a slender hand reached through.
I stabbed the door open button and retreated to the back of the small space to make room for the woman who hurried in, her face hidden behind a veil of black hair. “Thank you,” she said quickly, turning to the panel, but halting her finger just above the fifth floor. “Oh, you’re going up, too, I see.” Her shoulders rose and fell quickly, and her posture was ramrod straight.
“Sure am.” I leaned back against the furthest wall and crossed one ankle over the other as the doors shut. A light, acoustic version of Tonight by Smashing Pumpkins drifted through the speakers as the doors closed and we began our ascent.
The markers above the door lit up with each floor we passed, and I kept my eyes glued to the little illuminated numbers and off the figure of the woman just ahead of me. Not that I hadn’t immediately noticed a delicately curved waist that led to an incredible pair of hips under a navy blue sheath-style dress, but I liked to think that noticing was above staring.
She adjusted the file folders in her arms, and I was noticing again as we passed the third floor. I tried to drag my attention back to the numbers, but those hips led to an ass that made my mouth water, and then mile-long legs that ended in the sexiest high heels I’d ever seen. The blue pumps—at least that’s what I thought they were called—had red soles and must have given her petite frame a five-inch boost.
How the fuck did women walk in those things?
The file she’d braced on her hip slipped, sending papers fluttering to the floor as the number four lit up, and I immediately dropped down to help her.