Jett, Page 3

“To be clear,” Dax says slowly, leaning against the end of the cubbies and crossing his arms over his chest. “You asked her out on an actual date, and she accepted.”

  “Not quite,” I admit. “I got her to agree to dinner to discuss social media with the stipulation that if she agreed to just one dinner, I’d never bother her again.”

  “That’s not a date,” Bain says confidently.

  “It is to me.” I turn and face him. “Besides… she’s attracted to me.”

  Kane snorts. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  My head twists his way. “It means that she’s not completely immune to my charms. It means I have something going for me.”

  “Physical attraction means nothing in the grand scheme of things,” Tacker says as he comes up behind Kane. He’s already showered and dressed. Lifting an arm up and resting his wrist on top of a cubby, he crosses one leg over the other. “Not saying attraction isn’t important, but the physical part isn’t going to get her past her reservations of going out with you in the first place.”

  I’m dubious. I’m pretty sure attraction is the key ingredient in two people hitting it off, and it’s certainly the main reason she caught my attention. Admittedly, her continued refusal to give me the time of day outside of business has me doubly intrigued.

  “It’s true,” Bain says with a solemn nod of his head. “How many of us have gone out with someone that was super-hot in all the right ways, and they ended up being annoying, clingy, bitchy, or just plain nasty to be around?”

  “Truth,” Kane replies as he and Bain fist bump in solidarity.

  I’ll agree with that. I’ve had my share of sneaking out of a girl’s bed to avoid engaging with an awful personality. Bain is right… you can want to fuck someone but not really want to talk to them.

  That’s not the case with Emory. I’m totally attracted to her and I can tell she’s attracted to me in return, but I don’t want a one-night stand. I mean… if that’s all she’ll give, I’ll take it, but there’s something about her that goes past the physical.

  I need to find out what it is.

  Nabbing my duffle, I hitch it over my shoulder. “My brothers,” I say sticking out my fist and moving it left to right for each guy to bump. “Your advice is ever appreciated.”

  “Glad we can help,” Dax says.

  Tacker nods and adds on. “We’re also going to take bets on whether or not you strike out once you leave.”

  I snort, knowing he’s not joking. I’m sure the odds are against me too.

  Doesn’t matter. At the moment, I have a date with Emory Holland, and I’m going to do my damndest to score a second one before the night is over.

  I head out of the locker room, through the outer ring of the basement level of the arena, and to the stairs that take me up one flight to the player parking lot.

  Half of the guys have already cleared out and I enjoy the light breeze that hits me as I step into a perfect November day that’s hovering right at seventy degrees. I head toward my vehicle—a Lamborghini Urus—because I’ve got a thing for nice cars. When I made it to the NHL from the Swedish Hockey League, the amount of money paid to me was overwhelming.

  And so very tempting to just spend it all on expensive clothes and fine cars.

  Let’s just say I had a few years where I blew through almost every dime I had earned, and my early twenties are a bit of a blur. But since coming to the Vengeance, I’ve settled. I’ve had some amazing role models to pattern myself after, most of all our owner, Dominik. He takes a very active interest in his players and part of joining his team in the expansion draft meant having a very serious conversation about an extended future with the team.

  I remember that meeting vividly because I was nervous as hell. But Dominik put me right at ease and even took on a bit of a paternalistic role which included asking me if I was investing my money for retirement.

  I was like, “Retirement? I’m going to play hockey forever.”

  God, I was such a dumhuvud when I think back to my foolish thinking. Dominik pointed out to me the average span of an NHL career is only five years and I about had a heart attack. I’d been with the Toronto Blazers for four years before coming to the Vengeance and if I was an average statistic, I didn’t have much opportunity left to secure my future with my earnings. Noting my panic, Dominik reminded me I could have many more years left, but that I shouldn’t take them for granted. I left Dominik’s office with a recommendation for a good financial planner, and I’ve since changed my spending habits.

  Except for the nice cars. The Urus is badass. Sleek, sexy, and functional as well, and it’s a purchase I refuse to have regrets over. Past that and a nice condo downtown, I sock away most of my money for retirement.

  As I make my way to my Urus, I hear something clatter to the ground on the other side of an SUV one spot over, followed by a string of curses. I recognize the vehicle and voice.

  My linemate, Riggs Nadeau.

  I drop my duffle near the front bumper of my car—as I’d backed carefully into my spot—and walk around the back of his vehicle.

  He’s squatting near the front tire, which is clearly flat, with a tire iron in hand. I watch as he puts it back onto the lug nut near the bottom and note his knuckles are bloody. I’m guessing his hand slipped and had a nice collision with the concrete, thus the clatter and curse.

  “Need help?” I ask him.

  Riggs is as surly as they come, but he’s also unflappable. He doesn’t even jerk in surprise from my words or appearance. Casting me a short glance, he shakes his head. “Nah… I’m good.”

  I lean against the back passenger door. “Bloody knuckles to the contrary.”

  Riggs snorts but works the lug nut loose with ease before moving to the next one. “I’ll just tell anyone who asks I got them in a fight.”

  That would not be a hard sell on anyone asking about such an injury. Riggs is a brawler and while he might not seem to connect personally to us as teammates, he takes great offense if one of us are attacked on the ice.

  That’s been Riggs from the start.

  He takes his job with the Vengeance seriously, at least he has since his not-so-great start when he was late for the first day of practice. Word around The Euchre Club was that he had some type of issue with his younger sister he’s caring for, but no one knows for sure. He’s tight as a clam when it comes to his personal life.

  It doesn’t stop me from poking though. “What are your plans for the rest of the day?”

  “Not much,” he mutters, his concentration mostly on the flat tire. “Hang around the house, I guess.”

  “With Janelle?” I hazard a guess.

  “Yup,” he replies and offers nothing else.

  “She’s like… seventeen or something, right?”

  Riggs glances up at me, and I actually feel bad that I’ve not once asked specifically about her before. I guess his brusque refusal to join The Euchre Club, or any invitation to be social with us, has been a put-off not only to me, but to many others as well.

  His expression turns into a frown. “Why are you asking?”

  “Because I’m trying to establish a friendship with you,” I retort with a smirk. “You don’t make it easy though.”

  Riggs shrugs as if he doesn’t care if he makes it easy or not. He starts working on another lug nut and I almost turn away, but he says, “She just turned seventeen a few months ago. She’s feeling a bit out of place here in Phoenix.”

  I’m actually stunned at that tidbit of unsolicited personal information. I’m afraid to ask more, because I know deep down, that’s all he’ll give. Instead, I remind him, “You should get with Jim and introduce Janelle to his daughter.”

  “Yeah,” Riggs replies somewhat vaguely. “I’ve got to do that. But it’s hard to find the time with games, practice, and her never ending schedule of things she already has planned, none of which involve me.”

  “Typical teenager,” I mutter.

  Riggs laughs, eyes
still on his work. “You got siblings?”

  “Nah. But seventeen was less than a decade ago for me. I remember the heartburn I gave my parents.”

  “Yeah, I remember that too,” he says flatly and there’s something in his tone that tells me his parents weren’t quite as forgiving as mine were over my antics.

  He doesn’t look back up at me, but the expression on his face has turned cool and his focus on the last lug nut is intense. I recognize that look… it’s a disconnect when things get too personal. I’ve seen it many times with Riggs and I have found the key to keeping communication open with him is to back off at the right time.

  I make a show of looking at my watch. “Listen… I gotta go. You sure you don’t need help?”

  “Thanks, but I’m good,” he replies.

  “See ya, man.” I move around the back of his SUV, bend over to grab my duffle from the pavement, and unlock the doors to my Lamborghini. It’s time to go home and mentally prepare myself for my upcoming date with Emory.

  It’s going to take every ounce of charm I have to score that second date.

  CHAPTER 4

  Jett

  I was expecting Emory to fight me when I offered to pick her up. I anticipated her saying, “Just give me the address of the restaurant and I’ll meet you there.”

  You know… so it would not seem like a date at all.

  Instead, she gave me her address and told me to knock on the door when I arrived as the doorbell was broken.

  It could mean nothing, but I find it encouraging she trusts me enough to know where she lives.

  Emory’s house is in a neighborhood that I would call typical Arizona, where the residences are all stucco in various shades of white to taupe with rust or brown colored tiled roofs. It’s Phoenix middle class, where the yards are all landscaped the same with mostly rock and native species of succulents that don’t require irrigation. The streets have sidewalks and nice lighting, setting a mood for evening strolls around the block. It’s suburbia, an idea that’s never appealed to me very much. This neighborhood just oozes monogamy, marriage, and an average of 2.7 kids to each house. I’m a little surprised someone like Emory—educated and working an executive position—would choose to live here rather than the more hip city life.

  Regardless, her home isn’t the reason I’m attracted to her and I don’t think twice about the homemade wreath made of plastic flowers and fake cactus hanging from the wooden door as I knock on it.

  I’m surprised to hear voices inside, although I can’t make out the words.

  Voices, as in plural, and most definitely feminine.

  I’m stunned speechless when the door swings open quickly and I’m facing a tiny little girl with her head tilted back to look up at me. She has the same black hair and blue eyes as Emory, and she’s holding a chicken drumstick in one hand.

  “Felicity,” a woman groans in frustration from somewhere inside the house, and then I hear stomping feet. It’s not Emory but another woman who appears. She has golden hair worn long and loose, parted on the side, and swept across her forehead. Her eyes are a warm brown and her skin is tanned, and she looks like a sunny, California girl. I’m sure some would even nickname her Barbie.

  She looks to be in her early twenties, has the same facial features as Emory. The same graceful and delicate lines of the nose and cheeks.

  Definitely closely related, but there is a difference.

  This woman has brutal scarring over the left side of her face that I can see as she gets closer, starting right above her jaw and extending down along her neck.

  Not cuts, but they look like burn scars… knobby patterned welts that are both red and pale in ridges and valleys across her skin. They disappear into the collar of her shirt, and when I bring my eyes back to hers, I can see she’s bothered by my perusal as she pulls her hair forward over her shoulder to help hide her skin from my sight.

  Her eyes won’t meet mine and she ducks her head, puts an arm across the chest of the little girl and pulls her back. “Felicity… I told you to stay at the table.”

  An American accent mostly, but there’s a faint lilt to it. It’s not the same crisp, slightly formal tone as Emory’s clearly English accent.

  Before the kid can answer the blonde woman, Emory comes trotting into the living room, head tilted while pushing an earring into her lobe.

  Her eyes move to the woman and kid, then to me. She gives me a sheepish but brief glance of apology, for what, I’m not sure, and then turns to the little girl. Squatting down, she puts her hands on the child’s shoulders and says, “Promise to be a good girl for Auntie Jenna, okay?”

  “Promise, Mummy.” The little girl nods her head, blue eyes staring at Emory solemnly.

  “Love you,” Emory says and leans in to kiss the child on the cheek. She straightens, looks to the blonde woman and says, “I’ll be home by 9:00 PM, no later.”

  While those words were said to the other woman, they were meant for me. It meant our time tonight had an expiration date.

  “Go easy on the ice cream,” Emory continues and gives a pointed look at who I now understand might actually be Emory’s daughter, a fact that doesn’t set all that well with me. I had never considered the woman would have a kid, much less be married.

  Although she doesn’t wear a ring.

  And there’s no man here.

  Divorced? Single mom?

  These are potential facts that should send me scurrying out the door with a hasty apology to Emory that I won’t bother her again. Kids are a definite “no” for me.

  Not that I don’t like kids.

  Love, love, love them.

  As long as they belong to someone else and I don’t have to be responsible for their well-being and prosperity. When you date a single mom, there’s the risk that said single mom will want to rope you into parenthood and I’m not ready for it.

  Not sure I ever will be.

  Definitely not until my hockey career is over.

  “You ready to go?” Emory asks and I blink away my thoughts to find her staring at me expectantly.

  And for some unknown reason, I’m a bit miffed she hasn’t introduced me. I mean… I don’t want anything to do with the kid, and the other woman is a mystery but not one overly intriguing.

  Still, I can’t help but step one foot past Emory and hold my hand out to the blonde. “Hi. I’m Jett Olsson.”

  She looks startled for a moment but then shakes my hand silently. Emory is prompted to make introductions. “I’m sorry,” she says softly, but I can tell she’s not sorry at all. She had no intention of me meeting these two who greeted me at the door.

  “This is Jenna, my sister,” Emory clips brusquely. I smile at the woman and she finally meets my gaze head-on but it’s only for a moment. She returns my smile and ducks her head. “And this is my daughter, Felicity.”

  Even though I suspected this was her kid, I still wince internally to learn she’s not just a hot, single woman like I assumed. Regardless, I put on the goofy, playful smile I use on my littlest fans and bend over to hold my fist out. “Hi, Felicity. Give me some knuckle.”

  The child frowns in confusion, her eyes going briefly to her mom for some elucidation. I don’t wait for Emory to explain.

  With my other hand, I take hers and help close it into a fist. “Like this,” I say, and then I pull hers to mine so we bump them together. “It’s how most hockey players greet other people.”

  “Mummy said you play for the Vengeance,” she replies timidly, and fuck me… I realize she’s got an English accent too, just like Emory, and it’s cute as hell.

  “That’s right,” I reply, straightening. “And your Mummy and I are heading out to discuss business so she can do her job and I can do mine better.”

  That sails right over Felicity’s head but it’s my way of saying out loud that this evening is absolutely only going to be about business, because I have no intention of getting involved with a woman who has a kid.

  ♦

&nb
sp; I chose to take Emory to a steak restaurant that I really like. It’s not what I’d consider an overly romantic venue, but the tables are spaced apart further than in normal restaurants and the inside is dimly lit, lending an air of privacy to each seating arrangement. They have the best steaks in Phoenix as far as I’m concerned, but also provide vegetarian dishes as well as seafood to accommodate any diner.

  We’ve just placed our orders and I study Emory as she checks her phone. She informed me on the drive here that, as a mother, she will be constantly checking to make sure nothing is wrong at home and I had no qualms with that. This was—I had resolved based on the change of circumstances—just business after all.

  On the way here, Emory launched right into a lecture on how I needed to change the way I was posting to my IG account. I listened intently, because I knew if I didn’t, I’d let my thoughts drift to the disappointing fact she has a child.

  But now, in the lull created by the waiter bringing us our drinks and taking our order, I find myself more curious than put off by the fact she’s a parent.

  “Does Jenna live with you?” I ask Emory, and she glances up from her phone briefly.

  “Yes,” she replies and she efficiently types what I assume to be a text. “She doesn’t have a car which is why I had you pick me up. She wanted to take Felicity out for some ice cream tonight.”

  “You and your sister look nothing alike,” I remark casually.

  Emory’s head jerks up from the phone and she narrows her eyes. “Why?” she demands defensively. “Because of her scars.”

  I recoil slightly from the acidity of her tone, then immediately take offense which comes out as slicing sarcasm. “No… because you have black hair and blue eyes and your skin is rather pale, while she’s blonde and brown eyed with tanned skin.”

  Emory seems to fold in on herself as she lets out a long breath of frustration before giving me a baleful stare. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have jumped to such an awful conclusion. Jenna is having a hard time with it and it makes me overprotective. I can obviously see that’s not what you meant.”

  “You do have some matching facial features,” I say, pointing out I had at least noticed that.