The Playmaker

  The Playmaker

  Cathryn Fox

  Cathryn Fox

  Contents

  Copyright

  1. Nina

  2. Cole

  3. Nina

  4. Cole

  5. Nina

  6. Cole

  7. Nina

  8. Cole

  9. Nina

  10. Cole

  11. Nina

  12. Cole

  13. Nina

  14. Cole

  15. Nina

  16. Cole

  17. Nina

  18. Cole

  19. Nina

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  The Stick Handler

  About Cathryn

  Also by Cathryn Fox

  Copyright

  Copyright 2017 by Cathryn Fox

  Published by Cathryn Fox

  * * *

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite e-book retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  * * *

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  ISBN 978-1-928056-83-6

  ISBN Print 978-1-928056-84-3

  1

  Nina

  Fat drops of spring rain pummel my head, wilting my curls as I dart through Seattle’s busy traffic to the café on the other side of the street. My best friend, Jess, is inside waiting for me, undoubtedly hyped up on her third latté by now.

  I step over a pothole and search for an opening in the traffic. I hate being late, I really do. I totally value other people’s time, but when the email came through from my editor, asking me to write a hot hockey series, my priorities took a curve. I’ve worked with Tara for a couple years now, and I know her like—pardon the pun—a well-worn book. To her, hesitation equals disinterest. She’s a mover, a tree-shaker, and it wouldn’t have taken long for her to offer the opportunity to another author. She wanted a quick reply and I had to give it to her.

  I got this!

  Yeah, that was my response, but what did I have to lose? I’ve been in such a rut lately, thanks to my fickle muse, deserting me when I needed her most. I swear to God, sometimes she acts like a hormonal teenager. I need to whip her into shape so I don’t lose this gig. The royalties from a series will help make a sizeable dent in the bills that are piling up high and deep.

  High and deep.

  I laugh. One of those self-derisive snorts that crawls out when you’d really rather cry. Yeah, that pretty much sums up the I got this response I emailed back. High and deep, like a big steaming pile of—

  A car horn blares, jolting me from my pity party. With my heart pounding in my chest, I step in front of the Tesla and flip the guy off. I safely reach the sidewalk and once again my mind is back on my job, and off the impatient jerk in the overpriced car.

  I step up on the sidewalk and lift my face to the rain, the cool water a pleasant break from this unusual spring heat wave we’re having. Pressure fills my throat. The hum of traffic behind me dulls, leaving only the sound of my pulse pounding in my ears. Panic.

  Why the hell did my editor think I, former figure skater turned romance novelist, would want to write a series about hot hockey players? Yeah, sure my brother is an NHL player, but that doesn’t mean I’m into the game. I hate hockey. No, hate is too mild a word for what I feel. I loathe it entirely. But you know what I don’t loathe? Eating. Yeah, I like eating. Oh, and a roof over my head. I really like that, too.

  I draw in a semi self-satisfied breath at having rationalized my fast response.

  Except my reply was total and utter bullshit. I don’t got this. In fact, I…wait, what’s the antonym of got this? All that comes to mind is, you’re screwed. Yep, that pretty much describes my predicament.

  Why didn’t I just stick to figure skating?

  Because you took a bad spill that ended your career.

  Oh right. But seriously, a hockey series… Ugh. Kill me. Freaking. Now.

  I reach the café, pull the glass door open and slick my rain-soaked hair from my face. I quickly catalogue the place to find Jess hitting on the barista. Ahh, now I get why she picked a place so far from home. I take in the guy behind the counter. Damn, he’s hotter than the steaming latté in Jess’s hand, and from the way she’s flirting, it’s clear he’ll be in her bed later today.

  I sigh inwardly. It’s always so easy for her. Me? Not so much. Men rarely pay me attention. Unlike Jess, I’m plain, have the body of a twelve-year-old boy, and most times I blend into the woodwork.

  I pick up a napkin from the side counter and mop the rain off my face. Doesn’t matter. I’m not interested anyway. From my puck-bunny-chasing brother to all his cocky friends, I know what guys are really like, and when it comes to women, they’re only after one thing, and it isn’t scoring the slot. I roll my eyes. Then again, maybe it is.

  And of course, I can’t forget the last guy I was set up with. What he did to me was totally abusive, but I don’t want to dredge up those painful memories right now.

  I shake, and water beads fall right off my brand-new rain-resistance coat. At least something is going right for me today. Semi-dry, I cross the room and stand beside Jess.

  “Hey, sorry I’m late.”

  Jess turns to me, smiles, and holds a finger up. “I’ll forgive you only if you’re late because you were knees deep into some nasty sex, ’cause girlfriend, it’s been far too long since you’ve been laid.”

  Jesus, what ever happened to this girl’s filters?

  Thoroughly embarrassed, my gaze darts to the barista, who is grinning, his eyes still locked on my friend, looking at her like she’s today’s hot lunch special and ignoring me like I’m yesterday’s cold, lumpy oatmeal.

  Ugh, really?

  “Non-fat latté,” I say, and scowl at him until he puts his eyes back in his head. I might be an English major but I have a PhD in the death glare. Truthfully, I’m so sick of guys like him, one thing on their minds. Then again, Jess only wants one thing from him, so I really shouldn’t have a problem with it. Why do I? Oh, maybe because Mr. Right, my battery-operated companion, isn’t quite cutting it anymore, and it’s left me a little jittery and a whole lot cranky.

  Jess is right. I do need to get laid.

  Jess’s lips flatline when she takes me in, her gaze carefully accessing me. “What?” she asks, her mocha eyes narrowing.

  God, sometimes I really hate how well she can read me. “Nothing.”

  She straightens to her full height, and I try to do the same, but she dwarfs me, even without h
er beloved two-inch heels. I square my shoulders, but it’s always hard to pull off a high-power pose when you’re only five foot two, and teased relentlessly about it.

  “Come on,” she says, and guides me to a corner table. I peel off my coat and plunk down. Jess sits across from me. “Spill.”

  I point to my forehead. “Do I have ‘idiot’ written here?”

  She looks me over, and cautiously asks, “No, why?”

  My phone chirps in my purse, and I reach for it. Great, it’s my editor wanting to set turn-in dates. “How about never?” I say under my breath.

  “Uh, Nina. You’re talking to your phone. You better tell me what’s going on.”

  “You’re not going to believe what I just agreed to.”

  “Do tell,” she says and leans forward, like I’m about to spill some dirty little sex secret. If only that were the case.

  I grab my phone and hold it up, showing her Tara’s message. “I just agreed to write a hockey series,” I say, and toss my phone back into my purse, mic-drop style—without the bold confidence.

  Jess pushes back in her chair, clearly disappointed. She lifts her cup, and over the rim, asks, “I don’t see how that makes you an idiot.”

  My mouth drops open. Jess and I have been friends since childhood. She of all people knows how much I hate hockey. “Are you serious?”

  She shrugs. “You’re a writer.”

  Mr. Sexy Barista brings me my coffee and he shares a secret, let’s-hook-up-later smile with Jess. “And…?” I ask when he leaves.

  “Writer’s write and make things up. I know you hate hockey, but what does that have to do with anything?”

  “I can’t come up with a plot, or write about the game, if I don’t know anything about it.”

  She shakes her head. “And I can’t believe your brother is a professional player and you never once paid attention to the game.”

  “I was busy pursuing a professional skating career, remember?”

  She reaches across the table and gives my hand a little squeeze. “I know. I’m sorry.”

  My tailbone and neck take that moment to throb, a constant reminder of a career lost.

  I didn’t just lose my dream of skating professionally the day my feet went out from underneath me, I lost my confidence, too. A concussion will do that to you.

  Good thing I majored in English in college. Once I hung up my skates, I began to blog about the sport and sold a few articles. I joined a local writers group, and after talking to a group of romance writers, I tried my hand at one. Much to my surprise, it actually sold. I went from non-fiction to fiction, in every sense of the word. Happily ever after might exist between the pages, but it certainly doesn’t in real life. At least not for me.

  I take a sip of my latté, and give an exaggerated huff as I set it down. Jess instantly goes into problem-solving mode when she sees that I’m really stressed about this. As a brand-new high school guidance counselor, she can’t help but want to fix me.

  “Okay, it’s simple,” she begins. “You have to learn the game.”

  “How am I supposed to do that?”

  “Turn on the TV and watch.”

  “I can watch a bunch of guys chase a stupid puck around a rink all I want, I still won’t be able to understand the rules.”

  “How dare you call my favorite sport stupid.”

  “Jessss…” I plead. “What am I going to do?”

  She crinkles her nose. Then her eyes go wide. “I’ve got it. Shadow your brother.”

  I give a quick shake of my head. “No, he’s on the road, and he won’t want me hanging around.”

  Jess goes quiet again, and that hollowed-out spot inside me aches as I think about Cason. I miss my brother so much and wish we were closer. Cason and I grew up in a family where there were no hugs or words of affirmation. I know Mom and Dad loved us, but as busy investment bankers, work consumed their lives. Sure, they put me in figure skating, and Cason in hockey when we were young, but they never shared in our passions, or really supported our pursuits.

  I guess I can’t expect my brother to display love, when none was ever displayed to him.

  “Why don’t you teach me?”

  “It might be my favorite sport to watch, but I don’t really know all the rules. I think you’d be better off getting your brother or…” She straightens. “Wait. I got this,” she says, and I cringe when she tosses my three-word email response back at me. A warning shiver skips along my spine, and I get the sense that whatever she’s about suggest, is going to take me right down the rabbit hole.

  “What about Cole Cannon?”

  I groan, plant my elbows on the table, and cover my face with my hands. “Never,” I mumble through my fingers. “Not in a million freaking years.”

  Jess removes my hands from my face. “Why not? He’s your brother’s best friend. I’m sure he’ll help you.”

  “Cocky Cole Cannon, aka, The Playmaker. Do I need to say any more?” I reach for my latté and take a huge gulp, burning the roof of my mouth. Damn.

  “I know you hate him, Nina, but—”

  “Of course I hate him. You remember the nickname he used to use when we were kids—Pretty BallerNina. I was a figure skater, not a ballerina,” I could only assume he was mocking me about being pretty too, but I keep that to myself.

  “At least he worked your name into the moniker, and hey, it could have been worse. He could have called you Neaner Neaner, like Cason did.”

  I glare at her and she holds her hands up. “Okay, okay. I get it. But Cole’s been home for a month, recovering from a concussion, and his team—the Seattle Shooters, in case you don’t know the league’s name,” she adds with a wink, “are probably going to make it to the playoffs, so you know he’s watching all the games. You don’t have to like him to ask him to explain a few of the plays, right?”

  “I suppose.”

  Wait! What? Am I really thinking about asking The Playmaker to help me? I reach for my latté and blow on it before I take another big gulp.

  “And if you ask me, while he’s helping you learn the plays, I think you two should hate fuck.”

  I choke on my drink, spitting most of it on my friend as the rest dribbles down my chin.

  OMFG, how embarrassing. All eyes turn to me. Mortified, I grab a napkin and start wiping my face, but Jess is laughing so hard, I start laughing with her.

  “Couldn’t you have waited until I swallowed?” I ask.

  “That’s what she said.”

  “Ohmigod, Jess. How are we friends?”

  She waves a dismissive hand. “You know you love me because I’m hellacioulsy funny.”

  “I do, just stop cracking jokes when I’m drinking.”

  She leans towards me conspiratorially, and I brace myself. “I wasn’t joking. You and Cocky Cole Cannon should hate fuck. He’s as sexy today as he was when he used to hang out with Cason at your house when we were teens.” I give her a look that suggests she’s insane. She ignores it and wags her brows. “He’s explosive on the ice, but do you know why they really call him the Cannon?”

  “Because it’s his last name.”

  “Yeah, but that’s not the only reason.”

  Don’t ask. Don’t ask.

  “Okay, then why?” I ask.

  “’Cause he’s loaded between his legs.”

  Yeah, okay, I totally set myself up for that.

  “You don’t know that,” I shoot back. My mind races to my brother’s best friend, and I mentally go over his form. He’s athletic, tall and—as much as I hate to admit it—hot as hell. The perfect trifecta. Could he be packing too? Working with some top-notch equipment?

  Jesus, what am I doing? The last thing I should be thinking about is Cole’s ‘cannon’.

  “Come on.” Jess grabs her purse. “I’ll drive you there.”

  I flatten my hands on the table. “I’m not going to his house, especially not unannounced.”

  “Give him a call then.”

  “No.�
�

  She sits back in her chair and folds her arms, a sign she’s changing tactics. “And here I thought you liked your condo and food in your cupboards.”

  I groan at the direct hit.

  Her voice softens and she touches my hand. “But you know you always have—”

  “Fine.” I stop her before she brings up my trust fund. Yeah, sure, Mom and Dad set money aside for me, but I don’t want to use it. I want to live by my own means, make it on my own merit. Besides it wasn’t their money I wanted, then or now, it was their attention, their love. I moved out years ago and only ever hear from them on my birthday or at Christmas.

  I pull my phone from my purse. “I’ll text him. If he doesn’t answer, we don’t talk about this again.” I go through my contacts and find his number, having stored it years ago when he called to check on me after my injury. The call had taken me by surprise; so did his concern. Maybe my brother put him up to it. I don’t know. Nor do I know why I kept his number.

  My fingers fly across the screen, but in no way do I expect him to respond. At least I hope he doesn’t. I read over the text. Sorry to hear about your concussion. I was wondering if you could help me with something. Then hit send.

  I set my phone down and look at Jess. “Happy?”

  “Hey, I’m not the one who’s going to be homeless.”

  Point taken. Maybe I should be hoping he does text back.

  My phone pings, and we both reach for it. Jess gets it first, and from her smirk, I guess my wish just came true—Colin responded.

  Careful what you wish for.

  “What does it say?” I ask, afraid of the answer.