Hawke

  "You take all the fun out of me," I tell him halfheartedly, because really, this is way more fun than me walking on an uneven wall in the dark after drinking several shots of Jack.

  "I've got an idea for fun," he says ominously, and another shiver follows the first. I recognize that tone in his voice. It's one I love hearing, especially after he took my virginity on my eighteenth birthday four months ago.

  "Oh, yeah?" I whisper as my fingers curl deeper into his hair and then clutch hard. I give a tiny pull so his face lifts and his eyes slam into mine. "What's that?"

  "Let's go back to our apartment," he says gruffly. I moved in with him just two weeks after my eighteenth birthday much to my dad's dismay.

  "Want to make love to me?" I tease, enjoying my new sexual freedom now that I've reached adulthood. Hawke impatiently waited, out of respect for my dad, until I attained majority. I'd have given it up sooner, but Hawke was ever the romantic, wanting to make it a special occasion on my birthday.

  "No," he says with a dark laugh. "I want to fuck you."

  "Dirty boy."

  "That I am," he mutters, and grabs my wrists to pull my hands away. "Let's go."

  He manages to tug me two steps before I dig my heels in. "Wait."

  Hawke turns to look at me and my breath seizes in my lungs.

  Absolute hunger on his face.

  For me.

  And love.

  Always love.

  "What?" he says impatiently.

  I look around...left, then right. It's dark, secluded. No one else around.

  "You could just fuck me here," I suggest coyly, and even bat my eyelashes at him. I think it's a wasted move in the gloom.

  A low growl emits from deep within Hawke's chest and he tugs on my hand. "We might get caught."

  "So?" I challenge him as I wrench my hand free of his and reach for the hem of my T-shirt. "You've seen one dick, you've seen 'em all." I stare at him a moment and then whip the tee over my head, tossing it onto the rock wall.

  His posture is stiff with tension and he looks around with uncertainty. I use the opportunity to kick my tennis shoes off and unzip my jeans. His head snaps back to mine and he watches me guardedly.

  "Come on, baby," I urge him quietly. "Get naked."

  He looks around once more, then his shoulders go lax. He grabs his shirt and pulls it off.

  Hawke advances on me and mutters, "A fucking nut job."

  "But you love me," I assert as my hands go to my bra.

  "Too fucking much," he agrees.

  --

  My alarm goes off and my hand slaps at it. It takes two tries, but I manage to quiet it and open one bleary eye, which confirms it is indeed five A.M. Rubbing my hands over my face, I try to shake off the foggy dregs of my dream.

  Freaking Hawke.

  Of course I had to dream about him, didn't I?

  A dream about the glory days of my youth, really only but seven years ago. Walking around with my head held high and my eyes gleaming with the possibility of unparalleled fun. Laughing, joking, and getting drunk. Spending every free moment with Hawke because we were young and in love and so into each other we could barely see anything else. But in seven years, my life has changed so drastically I'm nothing but a mere ghost of that same person I was then.

  And I've been thinking about that since yesterday.

  Ever since seeing Hawke at the team meeting.

  It wasn't a surprise to me that he would be there; not the way I know it shocked him. I could see it in his expression when I turned to face the crowd of hockey players staring down at me. Long before I saw him saunter into the meeting room, I had been preparing myself for when he'd first lay eyes on me again. While there's no doubt in my mind that Hawke never kept track of my whereabouts, I couldn't say the same. Of course I knew he'd been traded to the Cold Fury, so I was somewhat prepared for this. But that's only because I know everything that goes on in the hockey world. It's my passion and always has been, compliments of being Dave Campbell's daughter. I follow the sport religiously. Can tell you anything you want to know about the "Q," the Western Hockey League, and the Ontario Hockey League, and those are just the Canadian juniors. I know all the American minor leagues and without a doubt, I follow the NHL with an eagle eye. I do this not only because I was raised in hockey, but because I now want to work in hockey. I've put in my fair share of job applications from the juniors all the way up to the top. My time working in college football wasn't a desire but a lack of options, but here I am now. At the top with nothing more than one well-placed call by my father to Brian Brannon, his old college buddy, and I became a Cold Fury employee.

  It was a terrible twist of fate that I ended up joining the team at the same time Hawke did. Just as it was a terrible twist of fate, my needing to come to the Cold Fury--and trust me when I say, I desperately needed to relocate.

  With a sigh, I swing my legs out of the bed and grab my iPhone, unplugging it from my charger.

  There's a text from Todd that came in at 9:45 p.m. last night and I wince slightly as I read it. Waited for your call. Assume you fell asleep. I miss you.

  Crap. I was so exhausted last night after I got home from the gym I just completely forgot to call him. I remember taking a shower, eating a quick sandwich, and then lying on the bed to rest my eyes for a bit.

  I shoot him off a quick reply. I'm so sorry. Was exhausted. Heading to gym now but will call later. xoxoxo

  Todd would understand. It's one of the reasons I adore him so much.

  He just gets me, and not many people do anymore.

  --

  "Fuck, dude...that hurts like a motherfucker," I hear Kip Sutherland snarl as another piece of kinesiology tape is ripped from his back.

  "Not my fault you got a hairy back," Goose says with a dry look.

  I twist my neck to look at the two of them and yeah...Kip does have a hairy back. He's a third-line defenseman for the Cold Fury and he just came off the ice with some lower back spasms. Goose is the other assistant athletic trainer. No clue what his real name is, but this is technically my first day on the job, so there's still a ton to learn. I figure his real name is the least of my problems at this point.

  My head swings back down to the laptop in front of me. I have it propped up on a therapy table, reviewing the procedural manual for the Cold Fury athletic training program. Our head trainer, Bruce Duvall, handed me the laptop and suggested I just set myself up somewhere and get it read. I don't have an office, and I suspect that's because the Cold Fury wasn't actively seeking another trainer when I got the job offer. Bruce told me I could share desk space with Goose, but one look at the top covered with binders and medical charts and I decided it was just easier to set up in our large training room. Practice had been running for thirty minutes, so all the men--minus Kip and his hairy back--are out there and it's dead quiet in here.

  R-i-i-i-p.

  "Fuck," Kip groans. "How many more pieces are there?"

  I grin to myself and reread the first paragraph on the chapter entitled "Medical Charting."

  "Three more, you big sissy," Goose says with a chuckle. "Then we'll get you in an ice bath."

  "I need something for my head too," Kip grumbles.

  "Why? Did you hit it?" Goose asks.

  "Nah, dude. Just went out with a few of the guys after Coach's party last night and I'm hungover as shit. That goddamn Therrien, man, he can drink like a fish and I about killed myself just keeping up with him."

  Figures.

  Hawke was still partying hard, but that has been his reputation within the league. Play hard, party hard. I bet he even has that tattooed somewhere on his body.

  I force myself away from their conversation, trying to absorb the content on the screen before me. I have a notepad next to me on the vinyl-covered cushioned table but I haven't taken any notes. The stuff is easy, straightforward, and pretty much in line with the way things were done at my last job. Still, I want to make sure I do things right because it's imperative I k
eep this job. And let's face it, they don't really need me here so I have to rise and then shine brighter than Goose to maintain my position.

  A knock on the door doesn't quite disturb me from my reading, but the voice that says, "Hey, man...I need my knee taped," does, and my head swings up.

  Hawke stands in the open doorway in full gear minus his helmet, his forehead sweat slicked and his long hair sticking to his temples. He stares straight at Goose and I use the moment to try to still my beating heart, which started running away from me the minute I saw him.

  But damn...why does the man have to look so freaking good?

  I just saw him but a few hours ago in my early morning dream, and yet even that memory of what we had was dull and faded next to him up close and personal. Dark brown hair that he still wears long. It curls just above his shoulders with a heavy wave and his blue eyes are set deep below darkly slashed eyebrows. The one thing that's different in this man just seven years later is that he now sports a beard. While we are well out of playoff season, Hawke apparently liked the look and decided to keep it. It's full but well trimmed; dark with some subtle lighter strands woven in.

  I have to say, it does him justice, only serving to highlight his high cheekbones and strong jawline.

  He's perfection, and while I want to tear my eyes away, I just can't. Besides, he hasn't spared me a glance, and while we were over years ago, I can't say it's a chore staring at him like this. What woman in her right mind wouldn't stare at that?

  "Be just a few minutes," Goose says with good nature as he pulls another piece of tape from Kip's lower back, who in turn groans dramatically. "Then I need to get him in an ice bath."

  "Why can't she do it?" Hawke asks, and his eyes slide lazily over to me.

  My body stiffens and I stand upright from the way I was leaning on the table as I read from the laptop. My heart skitters out of control as I realize Hawke was very much aware of me.

  He stares at me now with those mesmerizing eyes that don't speak a single word to me. There was a time in our lives when he could communicate to me just with those irises. I could read want and need. Anger and love. Pain and happiness. Hell, I could tell if he was hungry for a steak or a chicken by the way he stared at me.

  Now I get nothing. Not even a hint of welcome or even curiosity about me.

  I have to wonder what he's feeling, because we did not part on good terms. In fact, we parted on very bad terms. I shut him down and out, and refused to even let him know my thinking.

  Of course, I was operating on pain, loss, guilt, and anger myself, so I felt I was justified back then.

  Now?

  I'm not so sure I did things right, but I can't change the past. I was ruled by emotion, and I acted in the only way I knew my conscience would let me at that exact moment in time.

  "Vale's still reading the procedural manual," Goose says. "I can get you in a few."

  "Or she can tape me now," Hawke suggests with what borders on an imperious tone. "I need to get back on the ice."

  "Suit yourself," Goose says with a shrug of his shoulders. "She fucks it up, not on my shoulders."

  My body jerks and my gaze swings over to Goose. Now why would the asshole say that?

  "She fucks it up, it's on her shoulders," Hawke clarifies, and my head snaps back to him. He's got a challenging glint in his eyes, and I realize in this moment that I much preferred the blank, uninterested look he gave me earlier. This look right here says there's still some bitter feelings toward me, and that's just an unnecessary complication I don't need in my life right now.

  With a sigh, I tip my head toward the table next to the one that holds the laptop. "Skates, socks, shin pads, and pants off."

  Hawke lumbers toward me, his skate guards clacking dully on the industrial tile floor. "Jock strap too?" he asks without a trace of humor.

  "No," I tell him coolly as I grab a towel and toss it at him before turning to the supply cabinet. "You can put that over your lap though."

  He's only half a foot away when he catches the towel and murmurs so low I barely hear him, "Why? Seen one dick, you seen 'em all."

  I freeze with my hand on the cabinet handle and a sudden wave of longing and sadness crashes through me. Anguish over what we had, which was still so fresh in my mind from my dream of him and me and that stupid stone wall along the Sydney River. Wondering through the years, and more so now with him standing just a few feet away, what would have happened had things been just a little different.

  "Vale?" Hawke says softly, and I jerk into action. I pull the cabinet open and gather adhesive, gauze, and tape, knocking it closed with my shoulder.

  I turn to face him, squaring my shoulders and sliding a neutral expression on my face. I tip my head toward the table. "Let's go, Therrien. Thought you wanted back on the ice?"

  His eyes flick back and forth between mine, his jaw muscle ticking. He studies me, appears to want to say something else, but then silently bends down to start unlacing his skates.

  I take a deep breath but blow it out silently.

  This should be fun.

  Chapter 3

  Hawke

  I quickly shed my gear from the waist down, actually a bit self-conscious of getting seminaked in front of Vale. No clue why, because that woman has seen parts of my body up closer than even I have. But I guess there's something about this tension and the cool vibe radiating from her body that has me feeling off-kilter around her.

  I should have just fucking waited for Goose to finish up with Sutherland. I suspect he's in here getting his back worked on not because it hurts but because his face is fucking green as hell. His parting words to me last night when he stumbled into a cab were, "Dude...I hope I don't puke before I get home."

  Still, the guy did an admirable job of keeping pace with me last night, and even though I could have kept on partying, I knew I had to be up early for practice today. Didn't stop me from collecting the phone number of a really hot waitress from the bar we were at last night, and I think I'll give her a call this weekend.

  Vale keeps her back to me until my ass is on the therapy table and the towel is covering my lap. I take a moment to watch her as she lays out her supplies on the table beside us, her slender fingers using a pair of scissors to open a new package of tape. She then cuts off uniform lengths of tape and attaches them to the table.

  Fuck, but she's still gorgeous. Even in her "uniform" of khaki pants and her tidy, black Cold Fury shirt, she still rocks sexy. Her face is devoid of makeup, but she was never the type that needed it. Oh, she wore it, back in her days of frenzied punk style. Thick, dark eyeliner that made her eyes pop and dark red lipstick that left streaks on my dick. Her hair is conservatively pulled back in a sleek ponytail. Not a single piercing to be seen, not even in her ears. So different, yet so damn hot still.

  Her body is different though, I notice that. Her arms seem more toned...defined. Her stomach flatter and her hips flared more. It's like she filled out and shrunk down in certain places, but not those tits. Nope, they are still spectacularly big and full and were my favorite part of her body before.

  I shake my head and chase away those thoughts before I get a boner. Vale still may be one spectacular knockout of a woman, but there's no extinguishing that tiny flame of anger that continues to burn over the way she ended things with me. While it's true I haven't thought much about her over the years, it's not from antipathy. No, I forced myself to let her go and block what we had, otherwise my anger would be burning deeper and hotter, and I don't have time in my life to get sucked into that shit. What's done is done and all that.

  Vale turns to face me and asks, "Left knee?"

  "Yeah," I say with surprise.

  "I looked up your medical chart while you were getting undressed," she says by way of answer to an unasked curiosity. "Arthroscopic medial meniscus repair two years ago."

  "Yeah. Sometimes it feels a little loose. A good taping is all it needs."

  She nods and steps up in between my legs that
dangle over the table. She's not wearing perfume, but a subtle floral scent hits me...must be her shampoo. I look down at her as her fingers go to the inside of my knee, pushing in firmly.

  "Any soreness?" she asks.

  "Nope."

  "Clicking or popping?"

  "Nope."

  "Locking?" she inquires as she lifts her face to mine.

  Clear, green eyes on a perfectly polite and professional face.

  "Nah," I tell her, suddenly wanting her to step back and away from me. "Just feels a little loose."

  "Okay," she says, laying a soft pat on my thigh. It's nothing but a move of reassurance, but I feel it all the way through to my gut.

  What the fuck?

  Vale grabs her supplies and gets to work taping my knee. I watch her with narrowed eyes, wondering how she got to be here. How did she go from supremely fun party girl with absolutely no aspirations all the way to the athletic training department of the Cold Fury...my new team?

  Why in the hell have our lives collided again?

  "So how are you?" I find myself asking without the foggiest clue why. I mean, do I really care?

  Apparently, I do, because when she doesn't answer right away, I almost bring my fingers under her chin to make her lift those eyes to me. But she clears her throat and says, "Fine. Happy to be here and all that."

  She starts an elastic bandage, holding it deftly to the inside of my knee with the thumb of one hand and starts a practiced, tight wrap. I wait for more but she stays silent.

  So I prod. Because...well, fuck if I know why.

  "What made you decide to go into athletic training?" I ask.

  She gives a nonchalant shrug. "Just thought I'd follow in my dad's footsteps, you know?"

  I don't buy her blase tone for a minute. "You never wanted to do that before."

  Vale finally lifts her face and looks at me intently. "Well, things change, don't they?"

  "Yeah, sure they do. But why?"

  Why the new career path? Why did you dump me all those years ago? Why did you refuse to tell me why?

  Why, why, why?

  She finishes the wrap, holding the end while taping it with the precut pieces. "There you go," she says, stepping back.

  Clearly, she's not in a sharing mood, and while I need to get back on the ice, I still press her in a roundabout way. "How's your dad?"