Offside (12 page)

“Well what are we waiting for?”

And then she stepped out on the ice.

Billie skated a couple of laps on their side
of the ice, nodding to the guys on her team as she slowly circled.
The air was filled with energy—competitive energy—the kind she
thrived on. She inhaled as the intoxicating scent wove her way
among the players.

She caught sight of Kendall and her
teammates. They sat behind the player’s bench and for a moment she
faltered, realizing they didn’t have a game but had come out to
watch her play.

Logan skated past and glanced behind her.
“See you brought some fans out tonight.”

Billie didn’t know what to say, so she said
nothing, grabbed the puck off him and took a shot at their goalie.
The team circled and took shots until the referee’s whistle blew
and they retreated to their bench.

“All right, let’s have a good game, guys.”
Paul Leadbetter cracked his stick on the ice. “I mean, and uh,
girls…or girl…Billie, too.”

Billie smiled as Paul blushed and swept by
her onto their bench. She’d known him since middle school.

The whistle went once more and Shane
shouted,”You’re up, Barker.”

The rest of the guys filed onto the bench,
leaving Billie, her two wingers, one of whom was Strombley, and the
defensive line which boasted both Shane and Logan.

She skated to center ice and took a moment to
eye the stands once more. Jackie Everett sat with her husband Duke,
which made her feel better because she certainly didn’t like the
idea that she’d been responsible Duke and Jackie arguing. Beside
Jackie were Billie’s friends, Tracy and Lana. And just behind them,
a flash of white caught her eye. Grandpa Barker.

Herschel touched his cap and settled into his
seat, a bag of popcorn in his hands, a proud expression on his
face. For a moment she panicked…who was with dad? But then she
realized Bobbi was home. All was good. Or at least as good as it
was going to get.

“You ready, princess or are you too busy
staring at your fan club?”

The referee, Bill Squires, scowled and
glanced around, his large jowl or rather, second chin, jiggling as
he did so. The man weighed at least three hundred pounds, which at
several inches below six feet didn’t exactly make him an
advertisement for [i]
Men’s Health
[i] magazine. Dressed in
black and white stripes, his impressive girth wasn’t a great sight
to behold either, especially the two inches or so that stuck out
just above his belt. His helmet looked two sizes too small and his
beady eyes glared at her like she was a piece of dirt…or a bug he’d
like to crush.

Great. Always a good sign when the referee
openly hated you.

“I’m ready,” Billie answered and watched as
Seth Longwood skated to a stop on the opposite side of the faceoff
circle. The Whalers logo was blue and orange—a massive whale
crashing into a sea of orange. She eyed it and then bent low,
elbows up, legs spread, stick at the ready. And as her eyes
concentrated on the prize in the referee’s hands, which for the
next hour was a small black puck, everything else faded away.

She didn’t hear Seth’s derogatory words or
the referee’s instructions. She didn’t hear the shouts of
encouragement from the stands—or the ones that weren’t so nice. She
didn’t see Kendall’s team jumping around like crazy people, or her
teammates take their positions—though she was keenly aware of where
they were.

Billie inhaled a shot of fresh cold air and
felt the thrum of energy that skirted along the ice and traveled up
her body.

She set her stick down and exhaled. This was
her element. This was where she was king. Billie’s hand-eye
coordination, her innate ability to anticipate and strike, was what
had made her legendary in the faceoff circle.

She waited. She heard the breath pull through
her lungs. Felt the beat of her heart.

Then the puck dropped and she exploded into
action.

With lightening quick reflexes Billie jabbed
her stick, won the draw, and passed it back to Logan. The Angry
Pirates were off, skating forward, while Seth swore like a trucker
and circled behind her, trying to play catch up from the
get-go..

Billie tore down the ice and drifted to the
right, easily maneuvering around a Whaler defenseman as she slowed
down to wait for the puck. Logan passed it to her winger,
Strombley, just as she neared the blue line and he passed it up.
She scooped the puck, aware the Whaler forwards were skating like
hell to get back to her. The defenseman in front of her skated
backward trying to block her shot, his stick in the air, his eyes
on the puck.

That was his mistake. His eyes should have
been on her body. With a burst of speed, she skated to the side and
when he glanced up it was too late. She nudged the puck behind him
and was there before he could turn around to stop her.

Cronkwright faced her, eyes glaring through
his cage as he moved forward in his crease. He was big and bulky in
all his gear, but with a much practiced wrist shot, Billie hit the
top shelf over his left shoulder.

Score one for the Angry Pirates seven seconds
in.

Longwood skated past Billie and glided around
the net, as Cronkwright slammed his stick on the ice and fished the
puck from behind him.

Shane gave a fist pump while Logan headed
toward the bench. Along the side, maroon and gold jumped up and
down, crazily waving their arms as if this was a real game or
something. A game that mattered. Not a Friday beer league kind of
game, but something more.

The whistle blew and she sat down, moving
over as Logan slid in beside her. She grabbed her Gatorade and took
a big gulp.

“Kinda weird tonight,” he said casually.

Plumes of air blew out his nostrils as he
looked onto the ice. His profile was as yummy as the rest of him,
and Billie followed his gaze toward center ice where the referee
was about to drop the puck for the second time.

“Yeah,” she muttered softly. “I’m not sure
what’s going on.”

Seth Longwood had stayed out for the second
shift, and he shot daggers her way as he bent low and prepared to
draw for the puck.

“Give ‘em hell, Billie.” Someone shouted
behind her.

Logan glanced at her, his expression serious.
“These guys are out to get you…you know that right? Especially if
you chip away at their pride for the entire game.”

“They can try,” she said carefully, not sure
where this was going. “But I’m not worried. It’s no contact.”

“You think guys don’t get hurt? There’s a lot
of shoving out there especially when the game gets intense.” He
motioned toward the other bench. “It’s gonna get intense.”

“I think that I have more of a chance of
getting hurt walking down the street than I do playing in this
league.”

“What about your concussion?”

“What about it?” she replied belligerently.
The word alone was enough to sting and it sure as hell wasn’t
something she wanted to discuss with him. “I’m fine. My doctors say
I’m fine.”

[i]
I should be in Sweden
[i].

For a moment Logan said nothing and
eventually she looked away. There was a scramble in front of their
net, with Seth at the center of it. For a guy who’d packed on more
than a few pounds, he moved surprisingly quickly and his hands were
still really good.

He snapped off a quick shot but the Angry
Pirates goalie, Pete Tortolini, made the glove save and the whistle
blew. It was time for another shift change.

Billie stood and Logan followed suit. He
leaned close just as they were about to exit the bench and a shiver
rolled down her spine. “I’ve got your back, Billie, but play
smart.”

“I won’t change the way I play for these
guys.”

She then stepped out onto the ice and
proceeded to ignore Logan’s advice for the entire game. She
pointedly ignored Logan’s glare, until he gave up and switched
shifts halfway through the third period.

She didn’t even notice, not at first—she was
in the zone and every time she looked at Cronkwright, or skated
past Longwood, she tried even harder to excel. Something dark
twisted inside her.

Was it sportsmanlike to make fools of the
other team? To stick handle the puck around grown men and make them
look like hacks? Hell no, but in the heat of the moment, with so
many of them hurtling insults at her—ones that would make a sailor
squirm—she didn’t give a rat’s ass.

Billie never thought about the
consequences—not even when she got caught in the corners, with no
back-up and Seth Longwood breathing down her neck. The Whalers
fore-checking had worked and they had her where they wanted her. No
longer was this a lighthearted Friday night game—if it ever
was.

The puck was between her toe and the boards,
while she was boxed in on all sides by three Whalers. They poked
with their sticks, trying to get at the puck and she hissed in pain
as the sharp end of one stick found its way to the unprotected area
on her calves.

“Not so peppy now, are ya’ darling?” She
didn’t know who spoke, but used her stick as leverage to keep from
being pushed into the boards. She ignored the jaunts, wondering
where the hell her teammates were, when another jab on her calf
brought a yelp, but it was nothing compared to the pain she felt
when someone shoved their stick up her jersey, and a ragged piece
of blade caught the soft skin under her arm.

“Jesus Christ,” she swore as she tried to
grab her side, the puck forgotten.

“Move the fuck away,” Logan yelled, just as
Seth Longwood’s voice echoed in her ear.

“Go play somewhere else, bitch. You don’t
belong here.”

Suddenly, the whistle blew signaling the play
to stop, but she wasn’t free until there were several more long
moments of swearing and maneuvering behind her.

Once she was able, Billie whirled around,
eyes blazing, adrenaline pumping and itching to nail someone in the
nose. She needed to hit something—anyone would do as long as they
were blue and orange. She spied Longwood.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

For his part, Seth lowered his eyes. “Shit,
Barker, I didn’t mean…”

“You’re an asshole.” She dropped her gloves,
chest heaving and then realized the guys were staring at her in
silence.

In fact the entire arena was silent.

She groaned as she shifted her weight and
frowned as pain rolled down her side. Logan had hold of Seth’s
jersey, and both of them stared down at the ice—something in their
eyes pulled her gaze down as well.

“Fuck,” she muttered hoarsely.

She was standing in a circle of blood.

Yeah, Billie-Jo Barker didn’t do blood real
well.

Logan wasn’t sure how he didn’t pound Seth
Longwood into the ice. He sure as hell thought about it. Visualized
it. The need was there. The strength. The determination. The
fucking anger.

He thought of Seth and his blood boiled once
more. The asshole was the only guy in the league who still played
with a wooden stick. Everyone else had graphite. He was betting
Longwood was more than aware his stick needed tape, and that the
edge was ruined.

Logan had just cleared the ice after
finishing the third period—Billie had insisted on that—and he
glanced toward the Whalers dressing room as he stalked by, his
hands fisted, his expression fierce. He’d deal with Seth later, but
at the moment, he had to be sure Billie was all right.

Dammit, why the hell had he left her alone on
the ice?

[i]
Because she gets under my skin and I
hate that she doesn’t listen to me
[i].

“You check on Billie, I’m gonna have a few
words with the Whalers.” Shane’s voice was deadly and the look in
his eyes more so. Strombley and Danvers were just behind him, as
well as—surprise, surprise—Mike Dearling.

All of the men looked pissed as hell. Logan
nodded, “Will do.” Heck, his first priority was Barker, so if the
men wanted to take care of business, he was more than fine with
it.

He eyed Shane. “Make sure you don’t do
anything stupid.”

Shane slapped his hand on the Whalers
dressing room door. “Don’t worry about me, just check on
Billie.”

Logan whipped his helmet off and without
asking permission, pushed her room door open. He tossed his helmet
to the side and took a few steps in, suddenly feeling unsure as his
eyes took in the scene before him.

His brother Connor had run in after her,
because hey, why call a doctor for stitches when a veterinarian was
around.

Billie stood with her back to Logan, in—sweet
mother of God—boy shorts that did nothing but emphasize the fact
that, Billie-Jo Barker, definitely was not a boy. Sure, they were
athletic shorts, but when hugging an ass as shapely as hers, it was
pretty hard to think of sports or hockey, or anything else for that
matter.

Victoria’s Secret, maybe.

Slowly his eyes slid across toned thighs, and
then down to her calves where—he scowled—several bruises were
already forming from the cheap shots she’d taken.

“Gramps, is that you?”

Logan whipped his head up, only to meet his
brother Connor’s gaze as Connor arched a brow and bent over to
finish up the last stitch on her side. Billie was clad in what
looked like a sports bra—and again, most bikinis showed a hell of a
lot more than this get-up, but holy hell, a man could only take so
much.

Logan wasn’t sure if he was all hot and
bothered because he was pissed the Whalers had played so dirty, or
the fact that Billie stood a few feet away wearing next to nothing,
with his brother’s hands all over her.

And why the hell did Connor feel the need to
cup her hip while he worked on that last stitch?

She twisted her head to the side, her long
braid swinging back and forth like a pendulum…a pendulum that
pointed downward.