Desperate to stave of the tightening of her throat and telltale prick of tears, she dug her nails into her palm. Of course, that’s what it looked like. Mia Wallace, youngest winner of the Patty Kazmaier award, a family legacy of hockey greatness, girl-most-likely-to-play-anywhere-she-damn-well-pleased had given up her dream to go pro for what looked like no good reason at all. Now she was inching her way back by trying out for Team USA, but all anyone would see was a trust fund baby who didn’t need hockey like she needed her next breath.
“This is what I want and I’ll do whatever’s necessary to get it.” Too many people had tried to smash her dreams. She was taking charge and now it was her way or the highway.
A smile teased his lips. “That’s what I like to hear. I’ve always thought you have an amazing future ahead of you. Maybe we should talk about that over lunch soon.”
She swallowed, shocked at her unexpected success. “That would be great.”
He handed her his card. “Call me anytime.”
She rubbed her thumb across the embossed lettering. Tommy Gordon, Sports Agent, and his number. Not that it would have been hard to get, but a personal card delivery when she was looking semi-decent seemed much more meaningful. Surely, a sign.
“I’ll definitely be in touch. Thanks, Tommy.”
“You’re welcome. Listen, I need to chat with that guy. It was great catching up with you!”
He glided away in Italian loafers, leaving Mia—and her heart—floating on a puffy, romance-lifted cloud.
Cal Foreman wished this wedding would hurry up and die.
Though he’d been teammates with the groom, Levi Hunt, in college, he didn’t know him all that well. But it would have looked odd if he hadn’t shown his face. Traded four months ago, Cal had spent most of that time on the Rebels injury reserve with a rotator cuff injury. Now, with training camp starting in six weeks, he was fighting fit and ready to play. Hanging with the team socially was a good way to psyche himself up for the season to come.
But weddings. Suffering Christ, not his bag at all.
“Babe, get me some champagne, would you?” Tara squeezed his thigh and moved her hand north, a sure sign she’d had a little too much of the fermented grape already.
“Tara, there are children here.”
She frowned, then seemed to remember that frowning wasn’t good for her forehead. “People should leave kids at home. It completely changes the vibe.”
“I don’t mind kids.” He loved kids. He winked at the one who had been sneaking furtive looks his way for the last two hours. Lauren Yates, the twelve-year-old sister of Gunnar Bond’s date, Sadie, was a wicked fast hockey player who had recently put in a few weeks at the Rebels’ youth hockey camp. A video of her zig-zagging around boys twice her size was currently doing the rounds.
“Especially ones who get too many desserts for one person.” He leaned over and grabbed a mini lemon mousse from his tweener table mate.
“Hey!” Lauren said, eyes wide. “Get your own desserts.”
He swallowed the tiny pastry whole. “Doing you a favor. You won’t be able to skate if you eat too many of these.”
“They’ll have to roll you onto the ice,” she said with a cheeky grin.
“She’s right, babe.” Tara regarded him critically. “You’ll be in full training soon. Need to watch your weight.”
“I need 3000 calories a day so I don’t lose any muscle.” He patted his stomach, which admittedly might not have been as hard as he would’ve liked. He’d get there. Leaning in to Tara, he added in a tone not meant for children’s ears, “And anything extra can be easily worked off.”
Tara giggled before remembering that giggling wasn’t good for the tiny lines around her mouth. She pouted instead, which apparently was neutral.
Last night, she’d told him about all the various expressions that had a negative impact on her facial muscles and skin tone. Smiling, frowning, just being. Cal didn’t care—he liked a few laugh lines—but Tara didn’t, so he listened like a good boyfriend. Well, not boyfriend. They were dating. Casually.
It had started one night when he came in from Montreal to play the Rebels in Chicago back in February, just before his trade. They’d hit it off at a bar after the game, hit each other hard, and then hooked up again a few weeks ago after he’d moved to Chicago. He’d fallen into a regular thing with her without too much effort. Sometimes it was easier to go with the flow.
For the last five years he’d been going with the flow.
This move to Chicago was supposed to be his opportunity to focus on his career and by extension, his personal life, in a way that was purposeful. Yet the first thing he did was fall into bed with Tara. She was fun, sexy, easygoing, and for the most part, not much of a challenge.
Just thinking that pulled him up short.
It wasn’t that he didn’t want a challenge. More like he didn’t want to have to think too hard about why any woman he was with wanted him. Not conventionally handsome or a sparkling conversationalist, he did have one thing going for him: he was a nice person, usually top of the list whenever some wag wrote anything about good guys in the NHL. But he liked to think there was more to his success with women than not being a dick. Honesty was his watchword. He was always up front about the trajectory of any relationship, meaning it usually traveled a straight line on an even keel to a mutually-agreed uncoupling. Five or six dates max, built around his training and playing schedule.
This was his fourth date with Tara, and she had already dropped hints that she’d like them to be more serious. Something about meeting her family and setting aside an entire dresser for her stuff when he hadn’t intended to give her a single drawer.
The end was nigh, another one in the books. Fun while it lasted, but no woman would be depositing a spare toothbrush in Cal Foreman’s mug. Never again.
The back of his neck prickled and he turned to find the one person in the world who might cause a casual observer to doubt Cal’s reputation for niceness.
Tommy Fucking Gordon. He represented a few of the Rebels players, so Cal shouldn’t be surprised to see him. The man was perfectly entitled to occupy whatever spaces he wanted, but Cal didn’t have to breathe the same air.
Gordon gave the chin jerk of acknowledgment as if they were old teammates or army buddies. That decided it.
Cal touched Tara’s leg, thinking one more tangle in his sheets would be a nice way to end things. “How about we get out of here?”
“Sure.” But the word was barely out of her mouth when her attention was snagged elsewhere. “Oh, first I need in on that action!” She jumped up and raced to the front of the tent, where the bride was preparing for that age-old ritual: the tossing of the bouquet. Tara was eyeing the best spot for a catch, but first she looked over her shoulder and gave him a thumbs up. No smile, though, because … lines.
Lauren caught his eye and added in words and tone wiser than her years, “You’re in trouble there.”
Yes. Yes, he was.
2
Mia headed back toward her table, one eye on the floor so she wouldn’t trip—stupid heels—and another scanning for Tommy. She needed to do more research. Find out what he liked. His interests, hobbies, favorite books.