Cold As Puck: A Cold Love Series Novel Page 2

  “Maybe next season.” I pressed my lips together before I said something unkind.

  “You are going to watch, aren’t you?” He paused with his hand on the brass doorknob. Across the street I could see the bodies huddled together in the Puck Pub. Somewhere inside, Lee had saved a barstool for me. She had badgered me for two days until I'd finally caved.

  “I am.” I nodded.

  “Go Dires.” He threw a slow wave as he stepped onto the sidewalk.

  I slumped on the counter once the door closed. The pencil fell from my messy bun, and my hair fell in waves on my shoulders. Maybe it was the sign I needed to give up on the rest of the day. I didn’t want to go to the pre-game gathering, but puck drop was only thirty minutes from now. No one else would be in to buy books the rest of the evening.

  My phone buzzed. It was Lee.

  Get over here. I’m going to have to sacrifice my firstborn to keep this seat for you.

  I laughed.

  Give me ten minutes, I answered, feeling every muscle clench and strain against the idea that I was actually going to watch game seven.

  Make it five, or you won’t have a place to sit.

  I groaned, shoving my phone into my pocket. Lee was bossy.

  On my way.

  I closed up the bookstore.

  * * *

  I didn’t know my mouth would go dry or that my stomach would seize up. It hadn’t felt this way since I watched Roman play in college or the minors. Four years to be exact since I’d had this experience. His anxiety was mine. His nervousness ran through my veins. His agony, my pain. I didn’t want it. I didn’t know how to escape it.

  Lee’s hand was on my shoulder. I knew it was there, but I didn’t feel anything. I couldn’t tear my eyes off the screen. Roman was in the goal. His massive body extended from one side to the other, using every square inch of equipment he could to cover the net.

  The game was tied 3-3. I gulped the cider in my hand when the ref blew the whistle. A fight had broken out on the glass. I thought Lee had maybe said something to me, but I hadn’t heard it. I watched Roman. I saw his knees swerve right to left, left to right. He was trying to stay focused.

  The Blue Whales pulled their goalie. This was it. Only twenty seconds left in the third period. The screams in the bar felt shrill enough to break glass. I swallowed hard. The game clock started, and the Whales skated toward Roman. Two of the Dires tangled around each other and smacked face-first on the ice. The defenders were gone. There were no teammates to block any shots. It was all on Roman’s shoulders. I stared in horror as the Whales descended on the goal.

  I wanted to look away. My neck was stiff and my body tense.

  Yekhov Alexi shot. The puck hit the side of the goal and bounced back. He walloped the rebound, and the puck squeezed between Roman’s ribcage and elbow and landed in the net.

  “Sophie?” Lee called me.

  I placed my empty glass on the table and slung my purse over my chest.

  “I-I have to go,” I stammered. It was all I could say.

  I walked out of the Puck Pub feeling as numb and as hopeless as the day I lost Roman.

  3

  Roman

  I splashed water on my face—cold, bone-chilling water. I was going to be sick again. I waited for my stomach to lunge violently. I gripped the sides of the sink. I had nothing left in my stomach other than a few airplane bottles of bourbon. Those wouldn’t last long. I had chugged one after another when I'd emptied out what I could find in the suite’s mini-bar.

  The water droplets clung to the spongey strands of my beard. I tugged on the end. Damn, it was fucking long. Playoff long. The kind of long that came from commitment and determination. It was supposed to be the beard of a man who had won the fucking Stanley Cup.

  I slammed my fist on the counter, rattling the glasses next to my shave kit.

  The room swayed, and I waited for the bourbon to come back up, but it didn’t. I stuck my hand in the shave kit.

  “Fuck.” I gritted my teeth when I saw the blood. The razor blade had sliced the tips of my first three fingers. I turned the shave kit upside down and dumped everything on the counter. Half the shit fell to the floor. Lids rolled off, and a bottle of cologne cracked. Drops of blood dotted the white tile around my bare feet.

  I yanked a pair of scissors from the kit and began cutting. Big chunks of thick, dark hair fell in the sink. I was still drunk. The faster I cut, the more the blood squeezed from my fingertips. I tossed the scissors and reached for the razor. I stumbled backward, almost falling into the wall. I shook my head. I wasn’t going to stop now. I waited for the room to settle down before I slathered on a fistful of shaving cream, coating the patchy mess that clung to my face.

  The water ran in the sink as I swept the razor in a path from my cheek to my neck. It wasn’t straight. But I couldn’t look at it another fucking minute.

  I threw the razor in the sink when I was finished and reached for a towel hanging on the wall. I pressed it to my face, patting at the smooth skin, then eyed the mess I’d made. Blood. Hair. Water. Empty bourbon bottles. I kicked one out of the way and turned off the light before staggering back to the king-size bed.

  “You okay?” a quiet voice purred in the dark.

  I wrapped the sheet over my chest. It was as cold as the iceplex in the suite. I found her warm body and tugged her toward me.

  “Don’t you want me to help you forget tonight?” Her hand snaked to my waist, and she began to tuck it inside my boxer briefs.

  I gripped her wrist and planted it on my hip. “Don’t do that,” I warned.

  “Isn’t that why I’m here?” There was disappointment in her voice. “You haven’t even tried to fu—”

  “Just go to sleep,” I growled. I laid my hand on top of hers. She nuzzled against my back, giving an extra press with her tits, rubbing them into my skin before finally giving up.

  The nameless girl didn’t smell like her. She didn’t feel like her. She didn’t say the same things she did. I was a fool for thinking I could pretend she was someone else. I couldn’t drink enough to convince myself Sophie was the one here tonight when my entire world had gone to hell. Fuck, I didn’t have a world anymore.

  What was it she had said the last time I saw her? She’d never watch me skate again. She’d never pull for my team. She’d never set foot on the same ice I did.

  I grabbed my side when the stabbing pain fired between my ribs. I was certain I had broken at least one, even though I wouldn’t let the team doc or trainer take a look after the game. Did it even matter? I deserved what I got. There would be a black and purple bruise to mark it in the morning.

  After the buzzer, I'd done my press. I'd grabbed my bag. Gotten out of the arena.

  I tried to close my eyes now, but the last thirty seconds of the game were on replay behind my eyelids.

  Out of nowhere, Legace and Stoor went down like dominoes. Huge bodies flew and then landed hard on the ice. Daggers of ice spit out from under the blades, ricocheting toward my face. The lights bounced off the skates. Sticks swung on my right and left. Too many to count. Too many to stop at once. I didn’t have to stop them all—only one.

  The scrape of metal on ice was as loud as the fans screaming and taunting in the arena. The ref blew the whistle to break up a fight on the glass. I had seconds to catch my staggered breath. I tried not to react to the pain that seared under my ribs. I knew then they were broken.

  The puck hit the ice, and suddenly Yekhov Alexi was on me. He shot. Missed. But the fucker got his own rebound. And then…

  I jumped off the bed, wincing when it became hard to breathe.

  The girl in the bed sat up. “Are you okay? What can I do, baby?”

  I shook my head, stepped away from her and closed the bathroom door behind me. I turned on the jacuzzi tub and slid my aching body inside while the water poured in. I didn’t want to think about anything for a while.

  4

  Sophie

  I moaned when my
alarm beeped at 6 a.m. There was a burning sensation creeping from my neck along my arm all the way to my fingers. I rolled slowly onto my back, trying to regain the circulation in my left side. I wiggled my wrist. It stung. I was surprised I had slept through the night.

  I stared at the ceiling. I still couldn’t believe it happened. Roman lost. He actually lost. I thought the memory of last night was mixed up with a dream or a nightmare. After that final shot, I walked across the street to my apartment over the shop. It was as if a fog had descended on the street outside Puck Pub.

  It was stupid to check my phone, but I couldn’t help it. I yanked it off the charger. The first alert that popped up was about the Stanley Cup. The Whales had won. Penny Hill’s golden boy wasn’t going to have a ticker tape parade or get the key to the town. The headline was followed by a surge of texts.

  Lee wanted to know if I was okay. My aunt asked if I had watched the game. My dad sent the same message. It was thoughtful, considering he was somewhere in the Middle East. He never had been a Roman Sorrow fan.

  I fought the way my stomach plunged at the thought of what Roman would experience when he saw the press coverage. I didn’t want to think about how he felt this morning. That wasn’t my job anymore. It hadn’t been for four years.

  I pushed myself out of bed before another anxious Roman feeling coursed through me. It was his loss, not mine. He was the one who had to deal with it. His overbearing body should be the one to feel the pools of regret. His frame was strong and athletic, wide in the shoulders and biceps. He was physically built to handle the impact of disappointment. But had he ever experienced remorse? Did he walk in shame over losing the biggest game of his career? Or did he blow it off like he had every other critical moment in his life? I thought I knew the answer.

  I dressed quickly and inserted my earbuds as I headed downstairs, through the back exit of my apartment and onto the sidewalk. The laces were tight on my bright pink running shoes. My strides were choppy when I began to jog. It was as if I couldn’t make my legs work together. I turned the music up, but my feet only hit the pavement harder, not smoother. Penny Hill was quiet. The only business that was open was Caf-Cup. I saw Joan behind the counter and waved as I ran past the wide glass window. It wouldn’t be long before she would be too busy with coffee orders to glance up.

  I usually found peace in the early-morning rhythms strumming through downtown, but today it wasn’t there. I pulled up short of the first neighborhood I reached. I didn’t want to run through the streets lined with picket fences and rose gardens. I pivoted suddenly, giving up on my morning run.

  For the entire route back to the apartment, I had to bite my lip or the inside of the cheek. The Roman Sorrow posters hung in darkened windows. The hardware shop. The barber. The insurance agent, Benny Cash. Every time a tear threatened to slip through my lashes, I bit harder. It was easier to lock my eyes on the cracks in the sidewalk, but every few feet my head would pop up to avoid a bench or a local worker. That’s when I’d see them. The ice-blue eyes.

  “Damn it,” I muttered, ducking into the alley next to the book shop. He was everywhere.

  Back home, I turned on the water to the shower, waiting for it to heat up while I studied my face in the mirror. If anyone asked why my eyes were red, I’d tell them it was allergies. I’d never admit I had fallen asleep crying about the Stanley Cup results.

  I walked into work armed with a large cup of coffee and began my morning routine, determined to drown out the aftermath of the game.

  Lee stuck her head in the front door. “Good morning. Thought I’d stop in on my way to work.”

  “Mmhm.” I tossed an empty cardboard box I had recently unpacked. “Billy won’t be looking for you?” I asked.

  She laughed. “He doesn’t even roll into the office until after ten.”

  “Must be nice to have such a lax boss,” I teased.

  “He only let me off early last night because he doesn’t have court this week. That and the game,” she added.

  “Right.” I ripped open the next cardboard box. I had to get the summer reading endcap assembled.

  Lee and I hadn't met until after college. I'd been working on business school applications at the library, and she had been studying to take the LSAT. Her parents owned a jewelry store two blocks from the Golden Page. Her aunt and uncle had recently opened a Korean restaurant in Penny Hill. She was a first-generation American as determined to prove to her parents she could wow them in law school as I was to prove my dad wrong about Roman.

  “So…” I knew exactly where she was headed with this line of questioning. “I don’t want to talk about the game. You were there.”

  “And so were you, until you weren’t. Everyone else stayed to cry in their beers. Everyone except you.”

  “I didn’t want to watch in the first place,” I argued as I handled a stack of hardcover novels with a beach scene on front. I’d have to group it with the women’s fiction table.

  “It would have drawn more attention if you didn’t watch than if you did. It was the right decision.”

  “That’s how you convinced me to go.” I eyed her. “It’s over. They lost. The town can go back to normal now.” I pressed my lips together. “And I don’t have to watch another hockey game.”

  “Until next season.” She plopped into one of the plush wing-backed chairs near the pop-up reading station. “Then what?”

  “Then nothing.” I paused. “Roman plays hockey. I live here. That’s it. There’s nothing. We’re done. We have been for a very long time.”

  “I guess you don’t have to worry about him showing up in Penny Hill now that he lost.”

  “That’s something positive.” I didn’t like how my throat tightened when I talked about him.

  “I wonder what he’ll do in the off season.”

  I shrugged. “Probably go on vacation with one of those supermodels like he usually does.”

  “Someone’s been following his Insta.” Her voice perked up.

  I shot her a nasty stare. “Not regularly.” I didn’t have to defend myself.

  She leaned toward me like a cat perched on the end of her chair. “What if he’s different, Sophie?”

  I closed my eyes. “And what if he’s not?”

  “Don’t you want to check on him? See how he’s doing today? Call him or text him. Tell him you feel terrible the Dires lost.” She had been pleading with me a lot lately to reach out to him.

  The book fell from the easel. I couldn’t make it stand straight. “Why would I do that?”

  “Because I knew you two when you were Roman and Sophie.” She sighed, straightening her long legs.

  “But now I’m Sophie. Only Sophie,” I emphasized. She knew Roman near the end. It sounded morbid to think of it that way, but it was true. She knew Roman, the minor-league hockey player who drove all night to see me. She was there when I decided to buy the building we were standing in without a real plan. My plan had been Roman.

  Lee stepped toward me and gave me a gentle squeeze. “Text me if you want to talk about it.”

  “There’s nothing to talk about.” I gritted my teeth. “Hockey season is finally over, thank God.”

  She smiled. Her red lipstick looked darker than usual. “Billy will be in a pissy mood since we lost. I better make sure he has plenty of coffee and no client appointments until after lunch. Maybe I’ll stop at Caf-Cup just in case.”

  “You'd better.” I nodded, trying to find a polite way to kick my best friend out of my shop. I didn’t want to analyze the game or what I should or shouldn’t do about how Roman was taking it.

  “Remind me again why I decided to be a paralegal?” she asked, pausing at the door.

  “Your undying love for justice and the law,” I teased.

  “Right.” She stuck her finger in the air. “Off to do that.”

  I laughed, and the door closed with gentle swish behind Lee.

  5

  Roman

  I groaned, keeping the sunglasse
s securely over my eyes in Coach’s office. Fluorescent lights hurt like hell during a hangover.

  Coach sat behind his desk. My agent was on speaker phone. He hadn’t flown back to Richmond after game seven. I didn’t blame him. On either side of me was Rick from Human Resources and Woody Gates, the organization’s legal advisor.

  “Roman, this is serious. We can’t leave this office until we have a commitment from you that you’re going to get help.” Coach wore a Dire Wolves hoodie.

  “Help for what?”

  Jerry sounded far away on the speaker. “Just listen to what they have to say, man.”

  I leaned back in the chair. “I’m listening.” I wasn’t sure what direction the meeting was headed. I was locked into my contract for another two years. If they were going to bump me down to the minors because of that goal, I’d fight them.

  “We have to talk about what happened the other night.”

  I closed my eyes. “And what’s that?”

  Woody opened a leather-bound portfolio. He pushed a note in front of Coach. I saw the hesitation in his movements.

  “Roman, we’re all suffering. Everyone on the team is taking the loss hard. But to try to drown yourself in a hotel tub—”

  “What?” I jumped from the chair, and my sunglasses fell to the floor. They stared at me. “Who the fuck said that?”

  “Calm down. Just take a breath.” Rick’s hands were outstretched as if I was a wild animal snared in a trap.

  “Take a breath? Why don’t you take a goddamned breath, Rick?” My eyes darted around the room. “You think I tried to hurt myself? This is fucking ridiculous.”

  “We know an ambulance was called. We know about the razor, the booze, the girl.”