[York Bombers 01.0] Playing the Game Read online

  Oh yeah. It was a Friday. A few of them were going out tonight, kicking things up a bit. Not that the night of the week made any difference, not to him. "I don't care. What time's good for you?"

  "Want to meet early and grab something to eat first? I want to try that new place that opened by the Galleria."

  "Yeah, we can do that." Harland grabbed the shower kit from his duffel and headed back to the shower. "You want me to pick you up or just meet there?"

  "Meet there. I want my own car in case I hook up. And maybe we can find someone to hook you up with, too."

  Harland forced a smile but didn't say anything. What was there to say? He couldn't tell his teammate he wasn't interested—hadn't been interested for the last nine months. No, probably even longer than that, if he was honest with himself.

  Maybe Jason was right. Maybe that was what he needed. Meet someone, hook up, get laid. Get everything out of his system…whatever everything was.

  Maybe.

  And why the hell not? It wasn't like he was attached to anyone, hadn't been for over three years. Maybe hooking up was exactly what he needed.

  Chapter Two

  The third drink was still in his hand, virtually untouched. He glanced down at it, briefly wondered if he should just put it down and walk away. It was still early, not even eleven yet. Maybe if he stuck it out for another hour; maybe if he finished this drink and let the whiskey loosen him up. Or maybe if he just paid attention to the girl draped along his side—

  Maybe.

  He swirled the glass in his hand and brought it to his mouth, taking a long sip of mostly melted ice. The girl next to him—what the fuck was her name?—pushed her body even closer, the swell of her barely-covered breast warm against the bare flesh of his arm.

  "So you're a hockey player, right? One of Zach's teammates?"

  Her breath held a hint of red wine, too sweet. Harland tried not to grimace, pushed the memories at bay as his stomach lurched. He tightened his grip on the glass—if he was too busy holding something, he couldn't put his arm around her or push her away—and glanced down. The girl looked like she was barely old enough to be in this place. A sliver of fright shot through him. They did card here, right? He wasn't about to be busted picking up someone underage, was he?

  She had a killer body, slim and lean with just enough muscle tone in her arms and legs to reassure him that she didn't starve herself and probably worked out. Long tanned legs that went on for miles and dainty feet shoved into shoes that had to have heels at least five inches tall. He grimaced and briefly wondered how the hell she was even standing in them.

  Of course, she was leaning against him, her full breasts pushing against his arm and chest. Maybe that was because she couldn't stand in those ridiculous heels. Heels like that weren't meant for walking—they were fuck-me heels, meant for the bedroom.

  He looked closer, at her platinum-streaked hair carefully crafted in a fuck-me style and held in place by what had to be a full can of hairspray—or whatever the fuck women used nowadays. Thick mascara coated her lashes, or maybe they weren't even her real lashes, now that he was actually looking. No, he doubted they were real. That was a shame because from what he could see, she had pretty eyes, kind of a smoky gray set off by the shimmery eyeshadow coloring her lids. Hell, maybe those eyes weren't even real, maybe they were just colored contacts.

  Fuck. Wasn't anything real anymore? Wasn't anyone who they really claimed to be? And why the fuck was he even worried about it when all he had to do was nod and smile and take her by the hand and lead her out? Something told him he wouldn't even have to bother with taking her home—or in his case, to a motel. No, he was pretty sure all he had to do was show her the backseat of his Expedition and that would be it.

  Her full lips turned down into a pout and Harland realized she was waiting for him to answer. Yeah, she had asked him a question. What the hell had she asked?

  Oh, yeah—

  "Uh, yeah. Yeah, I play hockey." He took another sip of the watery drink and glanced around the crowded club. Several of his teammates were scattered around the bar, their faces alternately lit and shadowed by the colored lights pulsing in time to the music.

  Jason pulled his tongue from some girl's throat long enough to motion to the mousy barmaid for a fresh drink. His gaze caught Harland's and a wide grin split his face when he nodded.

  Harland got the message loud and clear. How could he miss it, when the nod was toward the girl hanging all over him? Jason was congratulating him on hooking up, encouraging him to take the next step.

  Harland took another sip and looked away. Tension ran through him, as solid and real as the hand running along his chest. He looked down again, watched as slender fingers worked their way into his shirt. Nails scraped across the bare flesh of his chest, teasing him.

  Annoying him.

  He put the drink on the bar and reached for her hand, his fingers closing around her wrist to stop her. The girl looked up, a frown on her face. But she didn't move her hand away. No, she kept trying to reach for him instead.

  "What'd you say your name was?"

  "Does it matter?" Her lips tilted up into a seductive smile, full of heated promise as her fingers wiggled against his chest.

  Did it matter? It shouldn't, not when all Harland had to do was smile back and release her hand and let her continue. Or take her hand and lead her outside. So why the fuck was he hesitating? Why didn't he do just that? That was why he came here, wasn't it? To let go. Loosen up. Hook up, get things out of his system.

  No. That may be why Jason and Zach and the others were here and why they brought him along—but that wasn't why he was here. So yeah, her name mattered. Maybe not to him, not in that sense. He just wanted to know she was interested in him and not what he did. That he wasn't just a trophy for her, a conquest to be bragged about to her friends in the morning.

  He gently tightened his hand around her wrist and pulled her arm away, out of reach of his chest. "Yeah. It matters."

  Something flashed in her eyes—surprise? Impatience? Hell if he knew. He watched her struggle with a frown, almost like she didn't want him to see it. Then she pasted another bright smile on her face, this one a little too forced, and pulled her arm from his grasp.

  "It's Shayla." She stepped even closer, running her hand along his chest and down, her finger tracing the waistband of his jeans.

  He almost didn't stop her. Temptation seized him, fisting his gut, searing his blood. It would be easy, so easy.

  Too easy.

  Then a memory of warm brown eyes, wide with innocence, came to mind. Clear, sharp and almost painful. Harland closed his eyes, his breath hitching in his chest as the picture in his mind grew, encompassing soft brown hair and perfect lips, curled in a trembling smile.

  "Fuck." His eyes shot open. He grabbed the girl's hand—Shayla's—just as she started to stroke him through the worn denim. Her own eyes narrowed and she made no attempt to hide her frown this time.

  "What are you doing?" Her voice was sharp, biting.

  "I could ask you the same thing."

  Her hand twisted in his grip. Once, twice. "Zach told me you needed to loosen up. That you were looking for a little fun."

  Zach had put her up to this? Harland should have known. He narrowed his eyes, not surprised when the girl suddenly stiffened. Could she see his distaste? Sense his condemnation? He leaned forward, his mouth close to her ear, his voice flat and cold.

  "Maybe you want me to whip my cock out right here so you can get on your knees and suck me off? Have everyone watch? Will that do it for you?"

  She ripped her hand from his grasp and pushed him away, anger coloring her face. "You're a fucking asshole."

  Harland straightened and fixed her with a flat smile. "You're right. I am."

  She said something else, the words too low for him to hear, then spun around and walked away. Her steps were short, angry, and he had to bite back a smile when she teetered to the side and almost fell.

 
; Loathing filled him, leaving him cold and empty. Not loathing of the girl—no, the loathing was all directed at himself. What the fuck was his problem?

  The girl was right: he was a fucking asshole. A loathsome bastard.

  Harland yanked the wallet from his back pocket and pulled out several bills, enough to cover whatever he'd had to drink and then some. He tossed down the watered whiskey, barely feeling the slight burn as it worked its way down his throat. Then he turned and stormed toward the door, ignoring the sound of his name being called.

  He should have gone home, back to the three-bedroom condo he was now forced to share with the sorry excuse that passed for his father. But he wasn't in the mood to deal with his father's bullshit, not in the mood to deal with anything. So he drove, with no destination in mind, needing distance.

  Distance from the spectacle he had just made of himself.

  Distance from what he had become.

  Distance from who he was turning into.

  But how in the hell was he supposed to distance himself…from himself?

  Harland turned into a residential neighborhood, driving blindly, his mind on autopilot. He finally stopped, eased the SUV against the curb, and cut the engine.

  Silence greeted him. Heavy, almost accusing. He rested his head against the steering wheel and squeezed his eyes shut. He didn't need to look around to know where he was, didn't need to view the quiet street filled with small houses that showed years of wear. Years of life and happiness and grief and torment.

  "Fuck." The word came out in a strangled whisper and he straightened in the seat, running one hand down his face. Why did he keep coming here? Why did he keep tormenting himself?

  She didn't want to see him, would probably shove him off the small porch if he ever dared to knock on the door. He knew that, as sure as he knew his own name.

  As sure as he knew that she'd be sickened by what he had become. Three years had gone by. Three years where he'd never bothered to even contact her. Hell, maybe he was being generous. Maybe he was giving himself more importance than he deserved. Maybe she didn't even remember him.

  He rubbed one hand across his eyes and took a ragged breath, then turned his head to the side. The house was dark, just like almost every other house on the block. But he didn't need light to see it, not when it was so clear in his mind.

  A simple cottage style home, with plain white siding that was always one season away from needing a new coat of paint. Flowerbeds filled with exploding color that hid the age of the house. A small backyard filled with more flowers and a picnic table next to the old grill, where something was always being fixed during the warmer months.

  An image of each room filled his mind, one after the other, like a choppy movie playing on an old screen. Middle class, blue collar—but full of laughter and warm memories. He knew the house, better than his own.

  He should. He'd spent more time there growing up than he had at his own run-down house the next street over. He had come here to escape, stayed because it was an oasis in his own personal desert of despair.

  Until he had ruined even that.

  He closed his eyes against the memories, shutting them out with a small whimper of pain. Then he started the truck and pulled away, trying to put distance between him and the past.

  A past that was suddenly more real than the present.

  Chapter Three

  "See you tomorrow!"

  Courtney Williams smiled and nodded at the bus driver, unable to wave because her hands were full. She stepped away from the curb as the bus pulled away then turned with a sigh and headed down the street. The weight of the bags pulled on her arms, causing another ache in already sore muscles. She paused, readjusted her grip on one of the bags, then continued. Despite wearing her most comfortable shoes, her feet ached, the soles tight and the toes cramping.

  Well, what had she expected? That was what happened from standing on her feet all day. And today had been longer than usual because she stayed to cover for her friend, Beth. It wasn't a hardship, not when the extra money would come in handy. And Beth would do the same thing for her if needed.

  That was just one of the things she enjoyed about the hair salon where she worked. Everyone was family, always willing to help each other out when needed. Maybe they were dysfunctional sometimes—what family wasn't?—but in a pinch, they all pulled together.

  Courtney paused again, blowing a strand of hair from her eyes before continuing. It was a nice day for a walk, maybe still a little warm for September but nowhere near as hot and muggy as it had been just a few weeks ago. The sun was already starting its slow decline behind her and there was something in the air—an edge, maybe, or just a bit of a chill that signaled change was coming.

  Nothing more than a change in the weather, she told herself. Her life had changed enough already and she was quite happy with the way it was now, thank you very much. She didn't need—or want—any more change. Well, unless she hit the lottery. That would be one change she'd gladly accept.

  She turned the corner, a small smile on her face. The lottery. Yeah, right. Not much chance of that ever happening. She pushed the thought from her mind, not allowing herself to dwell on fantasy for even a second. She didn't allow herself to indulge in fantasies or dreams or what-ifs, not anymore. Not after what had happened.

  Courtney mentally rolled her eyes and called herself a fool for being so melodramatic. If she had made the comment out loud, anyone within hearing distance would think she'd suffered from some dark life-altering drama. Life altering, yes. But not traumatic. At least, not darkly traumatic, not now.

  No, she was quite content with the way her life was now, thank you very much. She had her health, a job she loved, coworkers who were her friends, and her family.

  And her family was what mattered most.

  She turned the final corner and paused again, shifting the bags and rolling her shoulders to ease the ache in her neck. Her house was up ahead; in just a few more minutes she'd be inside, unpacking groceries. Then she'd go upstairs and relax, read a story—

  Courtney stumbled to a stop, the breath leaving her in a rush. Her vision swam and for a brief second she thought she might actually fall over. She blinked her eyes and shook her head, telling herself she was seeing things. The weather must be hotter than she realized, making her hallucinate.

  She had to be seeing things.

  But no, the vision didn't waver. She wasn't hallucinating. A chill descended over her, numbing her to the point that she was afraid the bags would fall from her hands. An overwhelming urge to escape seized her. To drop the bags and turn around and run as far as her legs would carry her, then keep on going until she collapsed in a heap of rubbery nerves.

  The urge died, replaced with a more immediate fear. Had the man resting on her front porch been inside? No. Surely her mother wouldn't have let him inside, wouldn't have told him—

  Courtney took a deep breath, her mouth sucking in air like a drowning victim snatched from the water at the last possible minute. Her chest ached with the effort. Her hands shook and one bag nearly slipped from her sweaty grip.

  No! The word was a silent scream in her mind and she repeated it to herself, more forcefully. No! He didn't have the power to do this to her, not again. Not unless she gave him that power.

  And that was one thing she absolutely refused to do.

  Her gaze narrowed, her vision focused only on the man sitting on her porch. She took another deep breath, not as shaky as the last one, and moved forward. One step in front of the other. Slow. Steady. One step at a time.

  Just like she had done more than three years ago.

  He must have heard her because his body stiffened. His head turned, a thick hank of dark blonde hair falling into pale, honey-brown eyes. She didn't need to see his eyes to know their color, not when she had looked into them for more years than she could remember.

  Not when she looked into them each day.

  Harland rubbed his hands along the denim of his jeans
then stood, slowly moving down the three steps of the small porch. He stopped, took a step forward, stopped again. Ran a hand through his hair, shoving it out of his eyes.

  Courtney hesitated, the urge to turn and run even stronger. No! This was her house, her life. She wouldn't let him scare her away. Her hands fisted around the straps of the recycled grocery bags, so tight her nails dug into her palms. So tight she was afraid she was cutting off the circulation to her fingers.

  They stood there, each staring at the other, neither of them saying a word. The warm air grew heavier, oppressive and smothering. Sweat beaded along her hairline; a small bead trickled down the back of her neck. The sensation felt like a bug crawling across her skin and she shivered.

  Just that small movement was enough to release her from the odd spell that froze her in place only seconds before. She stepped onto the walkway leading to the house then stopped again. Would he move out of her way? Or would she need to push past him? Maybe she should just start swinging with one of the bags and—

  She took another deep breath, reaching for a calm she didn't even come close to feeling. "You shouldn't be here, Harland."

  "I just—" He stopped, his broad chest rising as he took a deep breath. He shifted, not quite looking at her, then ran a hand through his hair again. "I thought maybe we could talk."

  Talk? He thought they could talk? Courtney swallowed against the tightness in her throat and shook her head. "You said everything there was to say three years ago. Or don't you remember?"

  Why did her voice have to break? Why was there so much emotion in those words? There shouldn't be any. Or, if there had to be emotion, it should be anger—not sorrow, not pain. Certainly not regret. She swallowed again and moved forward, ready to push past him. He took a step to the side, blocking her. One hand reached out, stretching toward the bags.

  "Let me help with those—"

  "No." She stepped back so quickly she almost tripped over the uneven concrete of the walkway. His hand closed over her elbow, steadying her. The heat of his touch shot through her, almost paralyzing her, causing her breath to catch and her pulse to soar. No. No, she would not react like this to him. She wouldn't allow it.