Playing Hard_A Chesapeake Blades Hockey Romance Read online

  "A table for one?"

  "Um—" Shannon hesitated then shook her head. "No, I'll just sit at the bar, thanks."

  "No problem. Whenever you're ready to order, just let Bradley know. He'll take care of you."

  "Yeah, sure." Shannon nodded, trying not to stare at the man as he walked toward a few of the occupied tables. He looked familiar, but Shannon had no idea why. Maybe he just reminded her of someone—

  She shrugged the thought away then moved to the bar, pulling out a leather-covered stool with the toe of her boot. She climbed up then settled back with a sigh, removing her jacket as her gaze wandered around some more.

  The place wasn't crowded—not surprising, considering the weather. And this was more upscale than your usual neighborhood bar, which made her think the few patrons probably drove instead of walked.

  It also wasn't located in a residential neighborhood, centered as it was a few blocks away from the arena. They probably drew their crowds from the businesses nearby.

  And she was spending entirely too much time analyzing things, especially since the bartender was standing in front of her with an expectant grin on his face, waiting for her order.

  "I'll just have an iced tea."

  "Not a problem. Did you want to grab something to eat?"

  Shannon nodded, accepting the menu he slid across the smooth bar. She glanced down at it, only half-listening as he told her about the specials for the afternoon. A few minutes later, the bartender was back, placing a large glass of iced tea in front of her. He set a dainty plate holding a few lemon wedges next to the glass then looked over at her.

  "Were you ready to order?"

  She almost said yes—she knew exactly what she wanted, could already feel her taste buds watering at the thought of spicy crab soup and a juicy burger. Something made her hesitate. Caleb had said thirty minutes, and those thirty minutes weren't up yet. Close, but not quite. And even though she was almost positive he wasn't going to show—that this was still some kind of set-up—something made her want to give him the benefit of the doubt.

  Which was probably beyond stupid on her part.

  "Not yet, thanks. I'm supposed to be meeting someone here. I think."

  "No problem. Just holler when you're ready." The bartender looked at something behind Shannon, then darted a glance at her and grinned. "If you're waiting for the guys, they'll probably be along any minute now."

  "The guys?"

  The bartender's gaze slid down for a brief second before moving up to meet her eyes. "You play hockey, right? I figure you must be waiting for some of the Banners."

  Shannon glanced down, suddenly remembering she still had on her jersey. Duh. Then the man's last words finally sunk in and her head shot up in surprise.

  "The Banners? They seriously come here?"

  "Just about after every game, yeah." He nodded toward the reserved section in the back. "That's why we have that area blocked off. We may not need it this afternoon because of the weather but better safe than sorry, right?"

  "Um, yeah. Right." Shannon took a long swallow of the tea and spun around on the stool, looking around again. So Caleb really hadn't been joking about coming here? Why was she having such a hard time believing that?

  Because guys generally weren't serious when it came to things like that, not with her. At least, not once she started talking. Usually, when that happened, they learned very quickly how deceiving appearances could be. She wasn't stupid, she knew what she looked like, knew that when men first saw her, they automatically thought stripper or something—until she opened her mouth. That's when they realized she wasn't quite what they were expecting, and that it would take more effort than simply buying her dinner to get anywhere. A lot more.

  Which suited her just fine. She hated playing games—unless it was hockey, of course. Better to have things right out front from the very beginning. Less chance of misunderstandings that way.

  That also meant that things generally didn't go much past the very beginning, at least not for her. Yes, that had its drawbacks—but not enough to outweigh the positive.

  Which still didn't explain why Caleb had invited her here this afternoon. She didn't know him, at all. Had never even met him before he stopped by their signing table a little more than an hour ago. She couldn't wrap her squirrel brain around it, especially on top of Taylor's serious warning to stay away because he was a player. Was this supposed to be some kind of joke, where she ended up as the punchline?

  That and a dozen other scenarios were still running through her mind when the front door opened, letting in a rush of chilled air along with a mix of masculine voices. Shannon's gaze darted to the front of the bar and she paused, the glass of tea halfway to her mouth, as a group of suited men walked inside.

  She recognized the faces right away: Shane Masters, left wing; Logan Simms, defense; Jacob Riley, center. And yes, there was Caleb, star winger for the Banners, making his way inside on crutches, that damn dimple peeking from his cheek as he laughed at something. He turned away from his teammates, his gaze sliding across the cavernous room until his eyes met hers. And oh damn, she was in so much trouble because his grin grew even wider. She gulped down a big swallow of tea, suddenly wishing she had ordered a beer instead—especially when Caleb moved away from his teammates and headed toward her.

  "Hey. You made it."

  "Yup. So I did." Shannon placed the half-empty glass on the bar then wiped her damp hand against the leg of her jeans.

  "Good. I wasn't sure if you were going to actually show up." He climbed onto the stool next to her, wedging the crutches against the bar beside him, then turned toward her. Their knees brushed and Shannon quickly moved her leg, cursing the heat filling her face.

  "I almost didn't. I figured you were pranking me or something."

  Caleb cocked his head to the side, that grin dimming just a bit—just enough that the dimple disappeared from his cheek. "Then why'd you show up?"

  "Because I'm hungry."

  Caleb laughed, the sound rich and warm. "Fair enough." He leaned across the bar, calling out to order a beer then looking over at her glass before asking for a refill for her. He shifted on the stool, bracing his arm along the polished bar and leaning toward her. "So, what do you think of The Maypole?"

  Shannon moved away, just far enough so her leg didn't brush his. Again. "It's, uh, different. Not what I was expecting."

  "That's what a lot of people say. I can't believe you've never heard of this place."

  "Sorry, but I haven't."

  "It's kind of a legend around here. At least with the team, it is."

  "How come?"

  "Because—" He stopped to accept the mug of beer from the bartender then took a long swallow. His gaze darted around, another grin teasing the corners of his mouth as he waved to someone behind her. "Do you know who Randy Michaels is?"

  Shannon frowned, her mind racing as she struggled to remember why that name sounded familiar. "Maybe? I think. I mean, the name's familiar but I can't remember why—"

  "Good thing my ego isn't very fragile."

  Shannon jumped at the voice behind her. She spun around, her eyes widening in surprise at the man standing there—the same man who had greeted her when she first walked in.

  "Randy used to play for the Banners. He owns The Maypole."

  "That was a lifetime ago, Johnson. And I don't own it, my wife does." The older man reached for Shannon's hand, took it in a firm grip. "Randy Michaels."

  "Shannon Wiley."

  Caleb leaned in close beside her and placed his hand on Shannon's shoulder, the move almost possessive. "Shannon's the goalie for the Chesapeake Blades."

  "Yeah?" Randy's hazel eyes darted from Shannon to Caleb and back again. "The jersey kind of gave it away. How's the new league doing?"

  "It's, um, it's doing. Kind of a slow start so far." Talk about understatement. Slow? More than slow—although better than anyone had thought, at least at first. The rumor going around at the beginning of the seas
on was that the league wouldn't last past the first four games. Yet here they were, with game number seven behind them, and they were still playing. That had to mean something, right?

  Not that Shannon was about to tell either of the two men flanking her that. They'd probably think she was being melodramatic or overreacting or exaggerating or something. And why wouldn't they, considering they were both pros—current and retired? It wasn't like they had ever had to worry about not having a place to go play if their league didn't work out.

  Not when their league had been around for more than one hundred years.

  Randy Michaels was still talking, unaware of the doubts floating through her mind. "I'm sure it'll pick up soon enough. I'll have to try to make it to one of the games. Maybe get some Blades' gear to hang on the walls. If you ever feel like donating a signed jersey, let me know."

  His offer caught her by surprise and she glanced down at her jersey, fingering the hem as she tried to figure out if the offer was nothing more than empty words. "Yeah, sure. Maybe when I buy a replacement one for this or something."

  "Well, just let me know." The older man stepped back and briefly nodded his head. "I'm going to go make the rounds. You kids have fun."

  Shannon watched him walk away before finally turning around on the stool. She jumped back in surprise when she saw Caleb watching her, his eyes a little too intense, their expression unreadable.

  "When you buy a replacement? What's that mean?"

  "Just that. We have to buy our gear."

  "All of it?"

  "Yup."

  "No shit." He leaned back and reached for his beer, watching her over the rim of the mug as he took a long swallow. Shannon realized she was staring at the strong muscles working in his throat with each swallow and forced herself to look away.

  "So when you gave that kid your stick earlier—that was really your stick? You have to buy another one?"

  "Yeah. I mean, I have more than one but—yeah, I have to replace it."

  "That sucks. I had no idea you guys had to pay for your own gear."

  "Pretty much." Shannon reached for her glass, hesitated then propped her elbow on the bar and rested her chin in her hand. She leveled a direct look at Caleb, silently counting the seconds until he looked away.

  Except he didn't. He met her direct gaze with one of his own, almost like he was silently daring her to look away first. A few long seconds went by before she finally offered him a quick smile and leaned back. "Okay, Johnson, no more games. Why did you invite me out?"

  "Who says I'm playing games?"

  "Me. And you didn't answer the question: why did you invite me here?"

  "Why not?"

  Shannon laughed, amused at his non-answer. She shook her head then drained her iced tea, placed the glass on the bar with a loud thunk. Then she leaned forward, not missing the way his eyes widened ever so briefly or the way they dropped to her mouth, just for a split second; not missing the way the corners of his mouth lifted in a small grin when his gaze darted back to hers.

  "I already told you: I'm not sleeping with you. So if you think—"

  "You shouldn't listen to everything Tay-Tay says."

  "Yeah? Why not? Are you saying she's completely wrong?"

  He shrugged, that grin still teasing the corners of his mouth. "Am I saint? No. But I don't know many people who are."

  "That's not an answer."

  "Are you always so suspicious?"

  "Not suspicious. I prefer to think of it as being realistic."

  "So the only reason anyone would ask you out is because they want something from you, is that it?"

  Shannon studied him through narrowed eyes, waiting for him to look away. Waiting for him to slip and say or do something that would prove her doubts—and Taylor's warning—correct. But he didn't shift on the stool, didn't fidget, didn't look away. If anything, he looked too serious—like he was honestly curious and eager to prove her wrong.

  "Let's just say that in my experience, men generally tend to run the other way as soon as I open my mouth."

  "Yeah? And why is that?"

  "Because I intimidate the hell out of them, that's why."

  "Is that a fact?"

  Shannon nodded, unable to hide her grin. If this was nothing more than a game, he was pretty good at it. And God help her, she was having fun—so far. "Fact."

  "Well, I'm not running, am I?"

  "Not yet."

  "Not planning on it, either." He took another sip of beer, his green eyes glittering with amusement. "That's not to say I'd fight too hard if you decided to jump me. If you wanted to, I mean."

  Shit. Was she so transparent that he could see every single thought on her face? No, impossible—even if she had been thinking that exact same thing. She forced her tongue away from the roof of her mouth and gave him an exaggerated eye roll, praying her face wasn't as red as it felt. "In your dreams, Johnson."

  He shrugged, as if it didn't matter one way or the other. "Just throwing it out there. Besides, how do you know I don't have the same problem?"

  "What problem is that?"

  "Intimidating women. Or realizing they only want one thing from me."

  Shannon snorted her disbelief—loudly—then held her left leg out toward him. "Oh please. Here, pull the other one while you're at it."

  "You don't believe me?"

  "No, not really."

  He watched her for a few seconds then tilted his head back and laughed, the warm sound wrapping around her. He wiped his eyes then leaned toward her, nudging her with his elbow.

  Just like she was one of the guys.

  "I like you, Wiley." He drained his beer then nudged her again. "But there's no ulterior motive. I just thought you might want to grab a bite with the team, that's all. You know, build up some camaraderie before our big exhibition game."

  Disappointment swept through her—which only managed to piss her off. Why the hell should she be disappointed? She didn't want any complications with the man sitting so close to her—even if she had been thinking about it. She forced a smile to her face, refusing to let him see the disappointment. "Okay, I get it now. You're waging psychological warfare. Or trying to butter me up so we take it easy on you."

  He cocked his head to the side, his dark brows raised in question. "Is that what I'm doing?"

  "Yeah, pretty sure." Wasn't he? Shannon couldn't tell, not really—and she wasn't sure how she felt about that.

  He laughed again then nodded his head toward the back. "Come on, I'll introduce you to the guys."

  "I don't think—" But Caleb was already sliding off the stool and reaching for his crutches. He braced his weight against them then gave her an expectant look, like he couldn't understand why she was still sitting there. She hesitated for a brief second then finally stood, wondering if she had completely misread things. Yes, she must have, because Caleb simply led her to the reserved section then quickly introduced her—

  As Wiley, the Blades' goalie.

  Like she was just one of the guys.

  And for the first time in her life, she wasn't sure she was happy about that.

  Chapter Three

  "How's the ankle?"

  "Better."

  "You sure about that?"

  Caleb glanced down at the offending appendage, hidden by the black leather of his skate. Yeah, it was better—but it still fucking hurt if he twisted the wrong way. Damn if he'd admit it though—not that he had to, because everyone already knew, including the coach.

  He glanced toward the bench, where Coach Donovan was talking with some of the other staff. The older man paused then looked over, their gazes meeting for a few long seconds. Caleb broke the eye contact first, turning back to Shane Masters with a grin.

  "Yeah, sure enough."

  "Think you'll be playing tomorrow night?"

  Caleb shrugged, unwilling to answer for fear he'd jinx it. Whether or not he'd play tomorrow night was still up in the air. Did he want to? Hell yeah. He'd been off the ice for too
long as it was. Would he? It wasn't his call.

  Which was why he needed to show no weakness right now. To anyone. If he did, he'd continue to be a fucking scratch, and that was the last thing he wanted.

  He tossed another grin in Shane's direction then took off down the ice, his gait nice and slow. Easy. Stretching his legs, feeling the burn in muscles he hadn't used in weeks, not like this. Ignoring the twinge in his left ankle, pretending it was nothing more than a kink that would be fine as soon as he worked it out.

  And it would. Right after practice, he'd work on the additional strengthening exercises designed to get him back where he needed to be. Then he'd go home, elevate it, ignore the throbbing in the joint while he iced it down.

  Good as new.

  The sharp shrill of a whistle split the chilled air, signaling an end to this portion of practice. Special teams were up next—just not for him. Caleb glanced at the other end of the ice, his back teeth clenching in frustration. He needed to be down there practicing, instead of up here working out the kinks like some fucking rookie who was just starting to build his endurance.

  And fuck, he hated this. Hated feeling helpless, hated feeling out of the loop, apart from everyone else. The break had been a fluke, a stupid fucking accident back during the preseason, an accident he couldn't blame on anyone but himself because he'd been showboating. Nothing more than stupid dumb luck. At least the break had been a clean one, healing quickly—for the most part.

  Now all he had to do was convince the trainers and Coach Donovan that he was ready to go back in. Show no weakness.

  Not a problem. Not when he put his mind to it.

  Not when they needed him on the ice, now more than ever. The team was struggling with their goalies—both of them. Their primary goalie, Luke Connelly, had lost his fucking mojo a few weeks ago. It was like he had a huge jinx on his back that he couldn't shake, no matter what he did. And Dan Lory, their current back-up, wasn't much better. The Banners had won the last few games because of solid defense and a lightning offense, not because of their goaltending. It was anyone's guess how long they could keep that up, not without the solid goaltending.