Crista McHugh - Breakaway Hearts

“Is everything okay?” her dad asked when she returned to the Sin Bin. “He didn’t short us on the bill, did he?”

She shook her head. She had no idea how much he’d left, but it had seemed like more than enough to cover two beers and the special. “Pop, do you think you’ll need me to help close up for the night?”

His face hardened. “There’s something you’re not telling me, isn’t there?”

“Maybe.” She folded the note, taking care with the fragile creases, and tucked it into her pocket. “I just need to go home and check something.”

The corners of his mouth tilted down, but he went back to drying the clean glasses. “Don’t make a habit of this.”

“I won’t.” She grabbed her things from the office and drove to the small trailer on the edge of her dad’s property that served as her home. He’d given it to her when Zach had gotten old enough to need his own room. There wasn’t an inch of it that didn’t remind her of her son, and yet she refused to move.

She went straight for her bedroom and pulled a box out from under her bed. Inside was a scrapbook she’d made, cataloging every event in her son’s brief life. She pulled it out without opening it, looking for the stack of letters she’d received from the Vancouver Whales.

When she’d first realized who Ben was, she tried reaching out to him, saying she wanted to talk. She got no answer. When Zach got sick, she’d tried a more desperate approach, trying to let him know about his son before it was too late. That’s when she had gotten the letter from their PR manager, claiming that Ben denied ever knowing her.

She unfolded the letter Ben had left on the table tonight and laid it on the bed next to the letter that said he didn’t know her. Her gaze went from one to the other, reading each word carefully.

If Ben had told his PR manager he didn’t know her, then why had he kept her letter all these years?

Ben threw his arm over his eyes to block out the sunlight that streamed through his window. That was the problem with summers in BC—the sun was up at an ungodly hour. It didn’t help that every time he closed his eyes, he dreamed of a woman with sexier-than-sin dimples lying underneath him. Sometimes her hair was blue, sometimes blond. It didn’t matter. All he knew was that he was hornier than a teenage virgin looking to get laid before graduation.

Nine years had passed since he’d first met Hailey, and nothing had doused the heat between them. That kiss last night was proof. It had taken every ounce of self-control not to invite her back to his place and recreate that one night between them. The only thing that had held him back was the change in her demeanor.

She obviously hated him, and he had no idea why.

But that didn’t mean he couldn’t discover the reason. He had time to kill here in Cascade, and he’d been given a second chance with the one woman he could never forget. Maybe if he was persistent, he’d get lucky in more than one way.

He sat on the edge of the bed and tested his knee before standing. The doc had cleared him to start skating again, but caution still held him back. It was all mental—he freely admitted that. Even as he stood and put all his weight on it, he only felt the slightest twinge. But the idea of getting back on the ice—of falling to block a puck only to get slammed by another player and have his knee ripped apart again—set his heart thumping faster than a set of speed-skating drills.

He reached for the reassuring comfort of his cane. As long as he carried it, no one pressured him to return to the team.

An hour later, he’d completed the reps of exercises his physical therapist back in Vancouver had given him to do. The muscles still fatigued quickly, but every day, they grew stronger. And every day, he came closer to making a decision he would’ve liked to put off indefinitely.

Would he return to the team next season?

He wiped the sweat from his face and pondered that question, still unable to come up with an answer. All he knew was that the ice still called to him, whether he liked it or not.

Only now he knew the ice would be occupied by one player whose love of the game surpassed his own.

After a shower and breakfast, he found himself back at the ice rink. He came in through the back door and waited in the shadows like before. And just as he’d expected, Hailey was on the ice.

Today, she was alone. No high school kids to beat up. No grumpy Gus yelling at his boys to keep up with her. Just a line of pucks along the blue line and a cardboard cutout of a goalie standing in front of the net.

Hailey launched a slap shot at the goal. It hit the cutout in the crotch, knocking it over.

Ben reflexively covered his own crotch and winced. No man liked watching a nut shot, even if it was on an inanimate object.

It did little to comfort him when he realized the cutout was of him. “Do you really hate me that much?” he asked after she reset it.

She spun around on her skates, her eyes wide. A heartbeat later, her face hardened, and she went back to the line of pucks. “The rink’s closed, Kelly.”

“The back door was unlocked.”

“Not for you.” She snapped her stick back and sent a zinger of a top shelf shot. It blasted past the cutout’s shoulder into the net. The next shot slid through the five-hole, followed by a bar down shot that narrowly missed the cutout’s head.

He let out a low whistle as she fired off shot after shot with deadly accuracy. “You’re quite a sniper, even if you aren’t playing against a real goalie.”

She sprinted toward him, stopping just before she crashed into the wall. “Why don’t you come out here and give me a real challenge?”

“Can’t.” He tapped his cane on his bad leg.

“Bullshit.” She pushed back from the wall, her eyes holding his in a challenge. “You’re just scared to face me.”

He was scared, all right, especially after seeing how she’d abused his likeness.

“I meant what I said last night. Leave me alone.”

“And what if I don’t want to?” He purposely exaggerated his limp as he came down the stairs.

“Damn it, Ben.” She threw her stick on the ice and shed her gloves like she was getting ready to beat the shit out of him. “What do you want from me?”

He refused to be drawn in by her ire. Growing up with six brothers had taught him that the best way to avoid a fight was to stay calm and well out of fist range. He coolly assessed her from several steps up, trying to find a way to disarm her before she blew up. He kept his voice quiet and soothing as he replied, “A second chance.”

Her mouth parted like he’d just kneed her in the gut, followed by a flash of pain in her eyes. She sucked in a shaky breath. “And why should I give you one?”

“I’m having a hard time trying to figure out why you’re so hostile toward me.” He closed the space between them one step at a time. “After all, you were the one who left me without so much as a good-bye.”

“I left you a note.”

“Yes, and I kept it for nine years.” He reached out, his mouth going dry as he took her hand. It was strong and warm, the calluses on the palm speaking of the hours she devoted to the sport. And it felt absolutely perfect in his.

She stared down at their hands, her anger fading just as it had the night before. No matter how much bluster she surrounded herself with, she couldn’t hide the physical connection between them. He’d witnessed it last night when he’d kissed her, and he had proof of it now. It gave him the courage to continue. “I have no intention of wasting this opportunity, Hailey. We had something special that night, and I want to know if there could be more.”