Playing It Cool: A York Bombers Hockey Romance (The York Bombers Book 8) Read online

  PLAYING IT COOL

  A York Bombers Hockey Romance

  Book 7

  Lisa B. Kamps

  PLAYING IT COOL

  Copyright © 2020 by Elizabeth Belbot Kamps

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the express written permission of the author.

  The York Bombers™ is a fictional semi-professional ice hockey team, its name and logo created for the sole use of the author and covered under protection of trademark.

  All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation to anyone bearing the same name or names, living or dead. This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any individual, place, business, or event is purely coincidental.

  Photographer: CJC Photography

  http://www.cjc-photography.com

  Cover Model: Tom Ernsting

  Artwork and Cover Design by Jay Aheer of Simply Defined Art

  http://www.simplydefinedart.com/

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Other titles by this author

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Epilogue

  RULE BREAKER preview

  About the Author

  Other titles by this author

  Other titles by this author:

  COVER SIX SECURITY

  Covered By A Kiss, A CSS Novella, Book 0

  The Protector: MAC, Book 1

  The Guardian: DARYL, Book 2

  The Defender: RYDER, Book 3

  The Warrior: DERRICK, Book 4

  The Rescuer: WOLF, Book 5

  The Savior: COLTER, Book 6

  The Hero: ROMAN, Book 7

  THE NEW ORLEANS BOURDONS

  Rule Breaker, Book 1

  Troublemaker, Book 2

  Heartbreaker, Book 3

  Risk Taker, Book 4

  THE YORK BOMBERS

  Playing The Game, Book 1

  Playing To Win, Book 2

  Playing For Keeps, Book 3

  Playing It Up, Book 4

  Playing It Safe, Book 5

  The York Bombers Boxed Set 1

  Books 1-3

  Playing For Love, Book 6

  Playing His Part, Book 7

  Playing It Cool, Book 8

  THE BALTIMORE BANNERS

  Crossing the Line, Book 1

  Game Over, Book 2

  Blue Ribbon Summer, Book 3

  Body Check, Book 4

  First Shot At Love, A Baltimore Banners Short Story

  Break Away, Book 5

  Playmaker, A Baltimore Banners Intermission Novella

  Delay of Game, Book 6

  Shoot Out, Book 7

  The Baltimore Banners: 1st Period Trilogy

  Books 1-3 Boxed set

  The Baltimore Banners: 2nd Period Trilogy

  Books 4-6 Boxed set

  On Thin Ice, Book 8

  Coach's Challenge, A Baltimore Banners Intermission Novella

  One-Timer, Book 9

  Face Off, Book 10

  Game Misconduct, Book 11

  Christmas Interference, A Baltimore Banners Intermission Novella

  Fighting To Score, Book 12

  Matching Penalties, Book 13

  THE CHESAPEAKE BLADES

  Winning Hard, Book 1

  Loving Hard, Book 2

  Playing Hard, Book 3

  FIREHOUSE FOURTEEN

  Once Burned, Book 1

  Playing With Fire, Book 2

  Breaking Protocol, Book 3

  Into the Flames, Book 4

  Second Alarm, Book 5

  Feel The Burn, Book 6

  Coming Soon

  STAND-ALONE TITLES

  Emeralds and Gold: A Treasury of Irish Short Stories (anthology)

  Finding Dr. Right

  Time To Heal

  Dangerous Passion

  Dangerous Heat

  Illicit Affair

  Coming Soon

  Want to receive updates on my releases, preorders, and sales? Then follow me on BookBub.

  And be sure to sign up for my monthly newsletter, Kamps' Korner, for exciting news and sneak peeks! You don’t want to miss it!

  Can't wait for the newsletter? Want exclusive content before anyone else? How about fun, games, and giveaways? Then please join me and a great group of readers and fans at Kamps Korner on Facebook.

  Chapter One

  The man staring back at him was a stranger.

  Dark hair, shot through with silver.

  Trimmed beard, showing more salt than pepper.

  The eyes were the same, though, a piercing green that flashed with irritation. Too damn bad the effect was muted by the glasses he now wore.

  Bryan Torresi raised one hand and thoughtfully stroked the beard, struggling for the cool detachment that was his trademark as he watched the reflection mimic the action.

  "When the hell did I get so damn old?"

  The reflection stared back at him, stubbornly refusing to answer the question. Probably a good thing, since that would mean he wasn't only old, but crazy as well. And it wasn't like forty-eight was old. He kept himself in good shape, ate a healthy diet, stayed active. Statistically, he had half his life left to live, maybe more—

  Unless the stress of his job finally got to him. If someone had told him twenty years ago that coaching hockey was more stressful than playing it, he would have laughed in their faces then cross-checked the lunatic. But that was then, when his promising career had stretched before him without limitations and he'd been convinced he was invincible.

  Life had a damn funny way of letting reality sneak up and bite you on the ass. Not that he had much of a life—it was all about hockey, twenty-four/seven. And that was the problem.

  It was a sad commentary on his life that his guys—kids that were damn near young enough to be his actual kids—were settling down and getting married and starting families while he stood off to the side and watched. Not that he had any desire to settle down and get married—he'd resigned himself to bachelorhood a decade ago and was realistic enough not to regret his choices. There was a difference between bachelorhood and lifeless, though, and it was time to face the fact that somewhere along the line, he'd lost sight of that difference.

  Which was why he was standing here in the master bathroom of a house that was too big for one person, getting ready more than two hours early for a date with a woman he had never met.

  He reached for the box sitting on the counter, his hand hovering over it. The product guaranteed to eliminate the gray for a thicker, fuller beard. Unstated was the promise to remove the signs of aging and restore youthful vitality to the user. Yeah. Sure. Because covering up the gray in his beard would suddenly make him ten years younger.

  He didn't believe it, not for a second, but that hadn't stopped him from tossing
the box in his cart the other day when he'd gone shopping. And it didn't make him move his hand from where it hovered over that same box, either.

  What the hell was wrong with him? Was he actually considering dyeing his beard? And for what? To make an impression on some woman he'd never met in the hopes she'd be interested in a man he was pretending to be?

  Bullshit.

  The irritation he'd been suppressing shot to the surface and he grabbed the box, tossed it into the small wastebasket with a low curse. He shot a frown at his reflection then stormed out of the bathroom, his fingers already busy with the buttons of his dress shirt.

  There would be no dyeing of anything. No tailored suit usually reserved for game day. No pretending to be someone he wasn't in the hopes of impressing someone he didn't know. The unknown woman would either like him for who he was or she wouldn't, it was as simple as that.

  Although, if he was smart, he'd cancel the date. He didn't have the time or the inclination for these games, not when past experience told him it was futile. How many dates had he had already been on these past few months? Three? Five? Seven. He'd had seven dates—and each one of them had been an exercise in frustration. He'd had nothing in common with any of the women, had struggled to carry on a conversation with all of them.

  The time for these silly ass games was over. He didn't need them, didn't want them. His entire life already revolved around a different game that was a hundred times more important.

  Bryan grabbed the phone from his dresser, stabbed at the screen with his thumb to launch the damn dating app he'd foolishly installed. Several taps, that's all he needed to do to cancel the date.

  Yet he hesitated and he didn't understand why.

  Maybe because it was too close to their scheduled meeting time.

  Maybe because he was afraid of disappointing the unknown woman.

  Maybe because the part of him that he didn't want to acknowledge told him he should take another chance. Warned him that shutting himself in his house like the recluse he was quickly becoming would get him nowhere.

  Not that he had any clue whatsoever on where he wanted to go.

  Fool that he was, he finally gave in to that damned annoying voice and tossed the phone on the bed. It was just one date. He'd go, meet the woman, play it by ear. He wouldn't stay long—he couldn't, tomorrow would be a long day with early practice and the unusual Saturday afternoon home game—but he'd go.

  One date. Maybe he'd even enjoy himself.

  How damned hard could that be?

  Apparently, pretty damn hard.

  Two hours later, he sat across from his date—her name was Stacey—and told himself he absolutely would not look at his watch. Not because he didn't want to be damned rude, but because he was genuinely worried he'd see that only five minutes had passed since the last time he'd casually checked.

  There was nothing wrong with Stacey. She was pretty. Animated. Oozing sensuality that she was as comfortable with as she was with conversation, even if he wasn't contributing much to it.

  And she was at least twenty years younger than he was.

  If Stacey cared about the age difference at all, she didn't show it. She'd started flirting with him as soon as they had placed their order with the waiter. Part of him knew he should be flattered that such a pretty young woman might actually be interested in him. Maybe he was flattered. Maybe, for one brief second, he might have actually smiled at her in encouragement.

  But he couldn't get over the fact that he was old enough to be her father. And he couldn't stop thinking that she'd be better-suited as a match for one of the men he coached. Kyle Middleton, maybe. Or Dustin Rios. Or maybe even Nathan Shaw—not that Nathan would be around much longer if he didn't up his play. Bryan had already heard the whispered rumblings from the front office, knew they were thinking of getting rid of Shaw when the season ended in almost two months, trading him in an effort to get rid of the dead weight and open the lines for new talent.

  Bryan had been hoping that Shaw would pick up the slack when Travis Bankard had been called up by the Banners but more than a month had gone by already and so far, nothing. In fact, the younger man seemed to have slid backward ever since Ben Leach had found himself a wife. He knew that Shaw and Leach had been tight once upon a time and wondered if the shifting dynamics in their friendship was the reason for Shaw's continued lackluster performance. If he didn't shape up and start paying attention to the rules—

  Bryan glanced down at the hand suddenly covering his. Embarrassment coursed through him and he looked up, met Stacey's eyes with an apologetic glance and received a bright smile in return.

  "You look distracted."

  "I'm sorry. I guess I let my mind wander."

  She slid her hand from his and curled her fingers around the stem of the wine glass. "Anything you want to share? Sometimes talking about it helps."

  "It's nothing like that. Just work stuff."

  "And what is it you do? I don't think you said."

  He hadn't, because he didn't think she'd be interested. Looking at her now, at those wide blue eyes framed by thick black lashes, Bryan wondered if maybe he'd been unfair about this whole night and had been too quick to rush to judgment simply because Stacey was younger than he was.

  He reached for his glass of Scotch and took a small sip, then offered the woman what he hoped was a genuine smile. "I coach ice hockey."

  "Really? That sounds so interesting. Is it a youth league or something like that?"

  "No. It's a minor league team. The York Bombers—"

  "The Bombers? Really?"

  Bryan sat back, surprise and something that felt oddly like pleasure shooting through him. Maybe they had something more in common than he'd first given her credit for. "You've heard of them?"

  "Yes. I mean, I've never been to a game—hockey really isn't my thing—but I dated one of the players once. Well, not date date." She laughed and took a sip of wine, traced the stem with one long nail as a look of interest heated her gaze. "Maybe you know him. Ben Leach? He used to be so much fun before he got married."

  The sip of Scotch lodged in his throat, choking him. He forced himself to swallow, wondered if he'd heard the woman correctly.

  Yes, he had. And no, he wasn't imagining the sharp interest that had lit the woman's eyes in the last few minutes.

  The evening quickly went downhill from there. Bryan paid their check and included a hefty tip then walked Stacey to her car. Those long-lashed eyes twinkled with amusement as she leaned closer and pressed a lingering kiss against his mouth.

  "If you ever need company, Bryan, just call me. I think we could have fun together."

  He had no idea how respond to that so he simply opened the door of the sporty car for her and stood back, watching as she drove away.

  Shit.

  How could he have deluded himself that he was cut out for this dating crap? He wasn't—tonight was solid proof of that. If the woman's age hadn't been a factor—and at least he was honest enough with himself that he'd been willing to overlook it, at least for that brief moment—the fact that she'd dated one of his players definitely was. And how fucking mortifying was that?

  He turned toward his own car then, on a whim, reversed directions and headed for the coffee shop a few doors down. He wasn't getting any sleep anytime soon, not with the nightmare of what might have happened lurking in his mind. If he was going to be awake, he might as well have some caffeine in his system to keep him company while he brooded.

  Chapter Two

  "Do you know what you need?"

  Pamela Howard glanced over her shoulder and refrained from rolling her eyes—barely. She was tempted to ignore her partner and best friend, Anita Guthrie, but the gleam sparkling in her warm brown eyes told her that doing so could be hazardous for her health. Anita was up to something. That by itself was enough to send shivers of warning up and down Pamela's spine.

  She checked the level in the large coffee server—Danny had made too much, again, and they'd h
ave to throw most of it away when they closed in thirty minutes—then crossed her arms in front of her and leaned her hip against the side of the counter.

  "Staff that knows how to follow directions?"

  Anita studied the over-filled pot then sighed. "He made too much again? I'll talk to him tomorrow. It's bound to sink in eventually. And no, that's not what I meant."

  "Well right now, that's the only thing I can think of that I need."

  "Of course it is but that's because you're in a rut."

  "I'm not in a rut."

  "You are." Anita pulled the rag from the small bucket, squeezed the water from it, then proceeded to wipe down the back counter. "You've been in a rut for the last six months. What you need is a date."

  This time Pamela did roll her eyes, and she didn't bother hiding it from Anita. It wasn't her fault the other woman chose to ignore it. "I don't need a date."

  "You do. A nice romantic date with some gorgeous hunk who will toss your swooning body over his shoulder and take you away somewhere to ravish you."

  "How lovely. And when he's finished ravishing me, I guess I'll just throw on my maid's outfit and fix him dinner and answer to his beck-and-call as thanks, right?"

  "My, aren't we the cynical one."

  "It's not cynicism, it's reality. I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself, thank you."

  "Battery-operated appliances don't count."

  "Anita!"

  "What? It's not like there's anyone in here to overhear us."

  "It doesn't matter." Pamela turned away to hide her burning face and busied herself with the closing preparations. "I'm still not talking about my personal life."

  "Because you don't have a personal life."

  "I most certainly do."

  Anita snorted, the deep sound at odds with her petite frame. "Uh-huh. That's why you're spending your Friday night here, cleaning a counter that I just wiped down five minutes ago."

  "I'm here because I enjoy it. This is our place. A lot of time and money went into getting where we are now so of course I'm going to spend time here. The business won't take care of itself."