He mouthed her name, her somewhat unusual name, and snapped his gaze to her.
Here it comes.
“I thought I was imagining things, but you are familiar. I just couldn’t place you. Pepper Calhoun? Connor Calhoun’s sister?”
His expression yielded to darkness, likely recalling the last fifteen minutes and—there it is—the tabloid craziness of the last three months. Confusion reigned, veering on annoyance and probably two clicks away from anger.
“We had a no-hockey-talk rule, and now I’m thinking we shouldn’t have agreed to that.” His hand was still on her hip, superglued, as if determined to keep her on the spot until they sorted this out. Her heart rate was going bananas.
Before she could defend herself, he barked out a question. “Did you recognize me? Who am I kidding? Of course you did.”
“No. I mean, not at first, but when you spoke …” She added in a small, insignificant voice, “Yes.” Her tequila inspired bravery was fading fast.
“And you decided to keep that to yourself.” Fact, not query.
“You didn’t announce it, so I assumed you had your reasons.” They both had.
Oh, he did not enjoy that. No one likes to be reminded of their own lies, even ones of omission, and a cocky big shot like Bast Durand would always assume he could do no wrong. He took another long look at her, his mouth harsh, so unlike the man from moments ago and the amiable guy she recognized from press interviews.
A need to defend herself after months as the universe’s punchbag reared up, the last buzz of the tequila giving her a boost. “I never thought this was going anywhere.”
Ice-blue eyes cut through her, a skate blade eviscerating her organs. “Instead you thought you’d yank my chain and pretend you were someone you weren’t.”
“Hey, that’s not what happened. I’m not the only one who was enjoying the anonymity.”
His snort of disagreement put her back up. He had most definitely been enjoying it. One last surge of screw-you had her driving the point home. “How’s the retirement investments business going these days?”
He flinched before another emotion took hold. Disgust. “Heard you have a thing for pro-hockey players. Well, I’m not another guy whose career you can destroy.”
It wasn’t the first time she’d heard that accusation. But hearing Bast Durand, one of the nicest guys in the hockey biz, spew the party line struck a blow lower than she expected. Her shady past was going to follow her around forever.
“I thought we were having fun, but it’s best that it’s out in the open and we go our separate ways.”
“Exactly.” But for some reason, he remained still. His fingers hadn’t unfurled their possessive grip on her hip. Neither had his eyes averted from her face, as if locked in place by some supernatural force. “Is that what you want?”
That he was giving her a choice after his tantrum from a moment ago was baffling, to say the least. But there was this magnetic pull between them. It had scrambled her brain sufficiently enough for her to stick around longer than was safe, and apparently it was confusing the hell out of him, too.
He hated that he wanted her.
She wasn’t a fan either, but she sure as hell wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d snuck under her skin.
“Yeah, it is.”
His stare drilled into her, stripping her to the bone and removing all hope of salvaging this. After an age, he stood back, giving her room to leave.
Room she had no choice but to take.
5
July
News just in: Bastian Durand has signed with the Chicago Rebels after several months of rumors he would be headed to the city’s less successful hockey franchise. After his wrist surgery, Durand’s days with the Hawks were numbered, though his acquisition by the Rebels wasn’t always a sure thing. Most people are of the opinion that even an underdog outfit like the Rebels has its limits (or should have). But here they are throwing their chips in on a player who might never attain the dizzying heights of yore. Quite the gamble, but owner Harper Chase and GM Hale Fitzpatrick have never been ones to play the odds.
Curtis Deacon, Chicago Sun-Times
“Where should I put the inlagd sill?”
Erik Jorgenson held up a Tupperware container of something gray and slimy. Everyone in Theo Kershaw’s kitchen recoiled in unison.
“If you’ve brought fucking herring to my July 4 cookout, J-Dog, I’m going to kindly inform you of two things: the exit’s behind you and you can leave your lovely lady here.” Theo grinned at Casey, Erik’s girlfriend. “Hey, Higgins, can I get you a drink?”
“I’d love one of those lime and mint spritzer things Elle was raving about.”
“Coming up.”
“It’s best on rye toast,” Erik said, oblivious to his host’s distaste—or maybe this was the vibe. Indulge the weird Swede with the funny taste in potluck foods.
Curious, Bast took the container from the Rebels’ goalie and squinted through the plastic. It looked almost alive. “I’ll give this a shot later, but maybe let’s refrigerate it for now?”
Reid looked on indulgently. “Only a Rebel for three days and already the peacemaker.”
“Seriously, I want to try it. But I’ll start with a beer first.”
For the last few months as Bast’s path toward the Rebels had firmed up and his wrist healed (again), he had spent time playing poker and hanging with his brother’s teammates. All good guys, who were cool enough to welcome him into the fold. So while he might technically be a Rebel on paper for just three days, the roots stretched deeper than that.
Confirming this, Theo passed him a Blind Pig IPA, Bast’s favorite brand.
“Thanks, man.”
“No problem, Baby D. It’s good to have you on board. I can’t fucking wait for the season to start.” He turned to Reid. “Hey, Duracell, I’ve got La Croix for you, but if that’s too out there flavor-wise, we can also stretch to regular filtered H2O.”
Reid was well-known for his restrictive diet. “It’s the off-season. Even I take a break in the summer.” He grabbed an IPA instead.
“Heard you’re headed to Thailand in a couple of weeks after Foreman’s nuptials.” Gunnar Bond, one of the Rebels’ centers, weighed in. “That food’s kind of spicy. Sure you can handle it?”
“I’m always up for trying new things,” Reid said, completely straight-faced.
Bast wouldn’t have believed those words out of his brother’s mouth a year ago, but since Kennedy and Bucky entered his life, Reid was a changed man. Open, engaged, happier than he’d ever been.
“Trying new things?” Kennedy walked into the kitchen with Tara Becker, who was dating Fitz, the Rebels’ general manager. She placed an arm around Reid’s waist, her pink-streaked blond tresses barely rising above his brother’s pecs. “I can’t wait to see that.”
“Reid burning his mouth off with some Tom Yum Kung …” Erik offered.
“Sleeping in until, oh, 7 in the am,” Foreman said.
Kershaw finished with, “Wearing a banana hammock in Rebels colors,” which inspired plenty of guffaws.