Faceoff (Northbrook Hockey Elite Book 1) Page 8

  “Oh, you don’t have to!” Bree shook her head. “This is time for you guys. I don’t need to . . . ”

  “Of course we do,” Mr. McCarthy interrupted in his almost-booming-but-always-cheerful voice. “You’re practically family.”

  She absolutely was not, especially when she couldn’t keep her eyes off of Clint for more than five seconds at a time.

  As if it was inevitable, she looked at him again.

  That same soft, satisfied smile was on his lips as he watched her, hearing every word.

  She had no response for the sweet offer from his parents, especially since she wanted, more than anything, to spend more time with Clint. But with his parents too?

  That felt huge somehow.

  She bit her lip, her brow wrinkling with a question she couldn’t ask aloud.

  Clint’s mouth quirked more on one side than another, and his shoulders lifted in an almost-imperceptible shrug.

  Then, to her shock, he nodded.

  An immediate smile spread across Bree’s face, her heart leaping into the craziest jig she’d ever felt. “I’d like that,” Bree told the McCarthys, her eyes staying on their youngest son. “I’d like that a lot.”

  Clint’s smile grew, and that stupid idea of climbing across the table to kiss him returned.

  It wasn’t that stupid this time.

  It wasn’t stupid at all.

  “Hey, Fido,” Sawyer suddenly asked loudly, “how do we get one of your jerseys to wear around? Need to get mine before the price gets jacked up with your popularity.”

  “Just ask,” Clint said simply, blatantly staring at Bree now. “Just ask.”

  Bree swallowed hard. She raised a brow, the question there.

  Clint didn’t react at first, then, of all things, he winked.

  The Hawks might have lost the game that night, but Bree Stone had just scored.

  And the crowd went wild.

  “Why do we like this sport?”

  “Because it gives us great bodies.”

  “Not you.”

  “Whatever.”

  “No, seriously, why?”

  Fig looked at Clint in disbelief as they sat against the wall, their legs shaking against the force of it and the weights on their thighs. “Because it’s the greatest sport on earth, that’s why. Now shut up. I’m not doing more line drills than we have to.”

  Clint chuckled breathlessly, leaning his head back against the wall with a grunt. Coach was in a mood today, so their conditioning had been brutal. Circuit days were nobody’s favorite, and while he’d started out doing great, this fourth time around might actually kill him.

  He’d rather do drills for hours on end than conditioning. Not that the Marines hadn’t given him plenty of experience in pushing his body past what he thought it could tolerate, but he’d always prefer being on the ice to anything else.

  That never got old.

  Never would.

  “You shakin’, Fido?”

  Clint groaned in agony as their strength-and-conditioning coach, aptly named Coach Payne, came over to the row of them in the same group currently enduring wall sits.

  Coach Payne squatted down and smiled in Clint’s face as he laid another twenty-five-pound plate in Clint’s lap. “You’re a Marine, Fido. Marines don’t shake. Marines don’t quit. Marines do not show weakness.”

  “No, sir!” Clint barked out of sheer habit, something stiffening in his spine despite the pain from his waist down.

  “If I asked you to run three miles now, would you run three miles?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “If I asked you to sit here for another hour holding those plates, would you sit here and hold those plates?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “No pain.”

  “No pain!”

  “No fear.”

  “No fear!”

  “You weak, Fido?”

  “No, sir!”

  “At ease.”

  Clint exhaled roughly and sagged to the floor, the rest of his group doing the same.

  Coach Payne grinned down at him. “Semper fi, McCarthy.”

  Panting, his entire body trembling with fatigue, Clint nodded, his lungs screaming for air.

  “Two tours myself, son,” Coach Payne told him, straightening and putting his hands on his hips. “Nothing like the heart of a Marine.”

  Clint grinned in spite of his exhaustion. “Tell that to my legs, Coach.”

  Coach Payne chuckled and blew his whistle, waving the other groups in. When they all arrived, sharing in their same level of pain, exhaustion, and misery, the coach cleared his throat. “All right, one easy lap around the concourse, then that’s it. Get yourself cooled down, get your treatments in, and report back here tomorrow at oh nine hundred. We’re off to Denver right after practice for the Chargers, so pack well. Hook, what’s the dress code this time?”

  Hook, dripping with sweat, wiped his brow. “Men in black. Suit it up, fellas. It’ll look great for our media team.”

  Good-natured chuckles went around the group.

  “Hawks on three,” Hook called. “One, two, three!”

  “HAWKS.”

  Clint shook his head to himself, amused by the raspy quality of their cheer today. Pain did interesting things to the voice.

  The team moved as one to the concourse, jogging lightly on already-quivering legs.

  “Feel better, Fido?” Fig asked as he and Junior joined him in the run.

  “Like a million bucks,” he shot back. “Love me a good workout.”

  “Uh-huh.” Junior rolled his eyes, though his shirt was damper than either of theirs. “What a rush.”

  They really didn’t say much after that, words and speaking too draining after their workouts while still running.

  Clint didn’t mind; the run felt good for his legs. Made them a little less angry about earlier and kept him from going completely stiff. A good soak in an ice bath after this and another easy run in the evening, and he’d wake up good as new for tomorrow.

  Amazing how he’d settled into a routine so quickly. Of course, with their intense playing schedule, there wasn’t much else to do but acclimate, and he’d done his best to do so. There had been three games since his first, and all of them away from St. Louis. Now they were about to head to Denver tomorrow, but just for the night. Three home games in a row after that, and he was grateful for it.

  He needed to spend some time with Bree.

  As usual, he smiled at the thought of her.

  That was something else he’d settled into quickly. And easily. And intensely.

  It was crazy: they’d been talking every day, either texting or calling, even when he was away, and it still wasn’t enough. He missed being with her when he was away, despite it only being two weeks since they’d started seeing each other.

  Two weeks.

  Well, more like two and a half.

  Big difference.

  He’d defended it in his head time and time again; they’d known each other for years, after all. Quick and intense could be considered normal under the circumstances. They hadn’t been close over the years, but what did that have to do with anything?

  They were close now.

  But what were they?

  Two weeks, and he wanted a definition?

  Ridiculous.

  “Enjoy the moment, McCarthy,” he muttered to himself.

  There was no need to rush anything. After all, that was the best part of being with Bree; she was so comfortable and refreshing to be around. Their conversations hadn’t gone anywhere particularly serious, and there hadn’t been any need for them to. There wasn’t a checklist of things to discuss while they were together or while he was out of town; they only had to be together.

  Even silence was comfortable with Bree.

  He tended to be more silent than she was, remarkably enough, but that was because he usually caught himself staring instead of speaking. Every time he saw her, it was like he couldn’t believe he really was se
eing her. Such a gorgeous, natural-looking woman without airs or effort, and addicting to be around.

  He’d never forget the dinner after his first game. A room full of people, and his eyes kept coming back to her. What had struck him was that her eyes seemed to do the same to him. So many smiles, so many unspoken messages, so much to feel . . .

  If they’d had a single moment of privacy that night, he’d have kissed her.

  That thought had startled him, but he hadn’t been able to get rid of it since then.

  The urge to kiss her had faded somewhat, so he wasn’t constantly on edge, but he had noticed himself looking for opportunities. That was a terrifying threshold, though, and he wanted to make sure he wanted to cross it.

  He wanted to make sure she wanted to cross it.

  Bree was special, and he wasn’t the kind of guy to throw physical intimacy into a relationship right away. Maybe he was old-fashioned in that regard, but he’d never minded that title much.

  She didn’t seem to mind either.

  He jogged to a stop as he reached the stairs towards the locker room, following his teammates down. Bree would be in the library on campus for most of the day, but he could probably convince her to sneak away for dinner, at least.

  Or maybe ice cream.

  She seemed to have a weakness for ice cream, and he had no shame in exploiting that if he needed to.

  He laughed to himself as he moved to his locker, digging into his bag for his phone to text her.

  There was already a message waiting for him, but he didn’t recognize the number.

  Interesting . . .

  He opened it, more than a little curious.

  Hey boys. Jax Emerson here. Been a minute, hasn’t it? Listen, you’re going to be getting an email from the Northbrook chairman of the board, Deacon White, in a day or two, and I’m gonna need you to take it seriously. The club’s in trouble, and I think we owe it to them to check it out. Easy for me to say—I’m home in Chicago—but they’ve checked all our playing schedules, so they know we’re free. Might just be this one time, so do what you can to get here. For Hal, if for no other reason.

  Clint stared at the screen of his phone, reading the message at least two more times before he could look away.

  Jax Emerson. He hadn’t seen him in at least eight years, if not more. One of the better players Northbrook had ever seen, and they had seen a fair few.

  The club was in trouble? Northbrook was one of the select elite hockey clubs in the country; how could it be in trouble? There had been community support, sponsors, and scholarships for the talented kids who couldn’t afford the fees, and it was one of the best hockey training locations in the world. The camps every year alone had a waiting list that rivaled some universities. Clint had been fortunate enough to play for the feeder program as a kid, and he was convinced that was the only way he had made it to the elite squad.

  There was no way Northbrook was in trouble.

  But Jax . . . Jax wouldn’t be involved if something wasn’t up, and he definitely wouldn’t reach out to Clint if it wasn’t serious.

  He checked the phone again and counted four other numbers in the group message.

  None of them were saved as contacts.

  Which of his former teammates would be included?

  Or were they guys from before or after his time? There were plenty of guys to choose from before his time. Northbrook had a long history of talent. After his time was a little different, mostly because Clint had stopped paying attention while he was in the military full-time.

  Bitterness can make you do strange things.

  He wasn’t bitter now, of course. He’d fought his way up the professional-hockey ladder by the skin of his teeth and his own willpower. But being one of the only guys from the team not drafted had never sat well with Clint, so he’d walked away.

  Or so he’d thought at the time.

  Maybe that was unforgivable to the guys.

  Maybe that was what had earned him such an insane hit from Zamboni.

  He could see that, actually.

  His phone buzzed in his hand, and he looked down at it.

  Zamboni in, bros.

  Great.

  Of all the guys he didn’t need to see off of the ice again, Zane was probably at the top of the list. Nice enough guy, bit of a knucklehead, great player, but a complete animal once his skates hit the ice. Complete transformation that terrified those who didn’t know what to expect.

  He lived, breathed, and died for hockey; he’d have a hard time forgiving Clint for leaving, for sure.

  Plus there was his stupid use of the word bros, as though he had been raised on a surfboard, drinking suntan lotion in the ’90s. That was a new trait, given that he was as Chicago-bred as they came.

  Score one for against the trip home.

  The Rock is in, man.

  Clint hissed at the new message.

  Rocco was a good one. All heart, wore his emotions on his sleeve, and had the most wicked slapshot Clint had ever seen.

  That was a definite tally in the Go category.

  This was ridiculous. He had just gotten to St. Louis with his team and was settling in before the season really took off. There was no way he could ask for a day off of practice and just head up to Chicago in the middle of all of that to check on his old club. He’d basically severed ties years ago.

  He might be back to playing hockey now, since the love of the sport had never died, but it wasn’t the same thing.

  Couldn’t be.

  After a quick shower and change of clothes, he headed out of the Hawk facilities and jumped in his car without much by way of conversation with his teammates.

  He didn’t need them right now.

  He needed Bree.

  His phone buzzed again before he got on the road, and he quickly checked his messages, the strangest sensation of anxiety hitting him squarely in the chest.

  I’ll try. —Dice

  Dang, Jax was pulling out all the stops if he was going for Dice. Declan Rivera played for Denver, which meant Clint would see him tomorrow.

  His eyes widened as he thought of that.

  Dice was an incredible defender on the ice. Not as much of a bruiser as Zamboni, but more than capable of cleaning up when the situation called for it.

  Was Clint in for a penalty-inducing injury from him, too?

  His still-tender cheek twinged at the thought.

  Exhaling through his nose, Clint pulled out of the parking lot and headed towards Bree’s campus. He punched the Bluetooth button and said her name.

  If she was in the library, she wouldn’t pick up, but he could send her a text if the call went to voicemail.

  “Hey,” her voice suddenly answered, the throaty tone of it making him smile in spite of his fairly tumultuous train of thought at the moment.

  He loved that her voice was as natural as her personality, that it wasn’t high-pitched or bubbly or grating. It was a voice you wanted to listen to. A voice that soothed.

  A voice to crave.

  He cleared his throat. “I thought you were at the library.”

  “Eh, I gave up,” she said, the sound of wind accompanying her.

  “You walking on campus?”

  “Yeah, just headed back home. Why, you need something?”

  “Just you.”

  There was silence on the other end, and Clint held his breath, waiting for her response, wondering if he’d pushed too far with his quip.

  “Okay,” she said slowly, but he could hear her smile. “Where do I need to be for you?”

  A grin flashed across his face. “Wherever you are is good enough for me.”

  Bree laughed once. “Not really. I’m in the middle of the square, and you’d have a tough time getting here from any of the parking lots. You coming from practice?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “’Kay. Smith and Keystone lot is easiest. There’s a great place to sit, if you want.”

  “Sitting with you would be perfect.”
He swallowed as he said it, the fervency catching him off-guard.

  “You okay?” Bree immediately asked. “What’s wrong?”

  Clint shook his head, even though she couldn’t see him. “Nothing’s wrong.”

  He heard her rushed exhale. “What’s not right, then? Something’s up. Don’t pretend it isn’t.”

  She was good; he’d give her that. Reading him easily without even seeing his face. Either that meant something or he was a terrible actor.

  Maybe both.

  “I’ll tell you more when I see you,” he said, turning off the interstate, “but I might need to go to Chicago next week.”

  “And why do we sound reluctant for a trip home?”

  Now it was his turn to exhale in a rush, the tone of it eerily similar to hers. “Because it’s a trip to see Northbrook and some of the guys, not to see home and family.”

  “Uh-huh. Remind me, babe, who’s Northbrook?”

  Whatever he was going to say caught in his throat with a painful lurch. Did she just call him . . . ?

  It could have been raining, snowing, or hailing, and he would have said it was the most glorious day the world had ever seen. If he were not currently going fifty miles an hour, he’d pull over and do his best imitation of a touchdown-celebration dance out in the middle of whatever road he was on.

  He’d never wanted to kiss her more in his entire life than right now.

  “Clint?”

  Right. Conversation.

  Babe.

  His face flushed. “Northbrook,” he answered quickly. “The hockey team I played for in junior high and high school. I guess the club is having some trouble.”

  “Okay, so . . . ?”

  “I haven’t been back in years. Haven’t seen any of them in years,” he admitted with more pain than he’d expected. “I mean, you remember Zamboni from the Nashville game?”

  He heard her dark laugh. “Not likely to forget that piece of trash and his dirty hit, am I?”

  Clint bit back a laugh of his own. “He was on that team with me. He’s already committed to going.”

  There was no sound from her end for a moment, and then just a very small, “Oh.”

  “Uh-huh.” He waited a moment, then shook his head. “Honestly, I don’t know if I want to go after that. I basically walked away. What if they’re all going to be like that?”