Playmaker: A Baltimore Banners Intermission Novella (4 page)

"There you are, love."

Bridget pushed the outside door closed and locked it, readjusting the strap of the backpack when it fell off her shoulder. William leaned against the frame of his open door, his arms crossed in front of him, a picture of masculine insolence as his gaze raked her from head to toe. His dark eyes met hers and he raised one dark brow in question.

"And looking a little worse for wear, too." He pushed away from the door frame and motioned for her. "Come on, then. We'll at least feed you."

Bridget hesitated, torn between taking him up on his offer or just hurrying upstairs. She was tired and sweaty, a dull headache was throbbing behind her eyes, and her ankle was still a little sore. And she was tired. And hungry. And not really in the mood for company.

It was the hungry part that finally got her feet moving. Not upstairs, to her own apartment, but across the hall to her cousin's. No, she wasn't in the mood for company. But William and Mitchell would feed her.

And maybe even give her a little pampering. Pampering was good. Food was better.

She moved across the hallway, the soles of her shoes making enough noise as she shuffled that William gave her a pointed look. But he didn't say anything, just opened the door wider for her and stepped back. He snagged the strap of her backpack and dragged it off her shoulder, placing it on the floor as he closed the door.

Savory smells greeted her in a warm caress as soon as she walked in. Rosemary and sage with an underlying aroma of chicken and fresh bread. Bridget closed her eyes and inhaled, the scents wrapping around her, warm and soothing.

Her stomach growled, a noisy rumble loud enough that she couldn't pass it off as anything else. Bridget pressed a hand to her stomach and looked over her shoulder. But her cousin didn't say anything, just shook his head and motioned for her to sit down as he moved by her. She pulled out one of the heavy dining room chairs and dropped into it before sliding the chair up to the thick glass table. A minute later, William pushed through the old-fashioned swinging door from the kitchen, a large glass of white wine in his hand. He placed the glass in front of her then sat down, lazing back in the chair while he studied her.

"You're burning yourself out, love."

Bridget sipped the wine, a burst of crisp fruity freshness exploding in her mouth. She wanted to prop her elbow on the table, rest her head in her hand. Maybe close her eyes for just a few minutes. But she couldn't, not with William watching her so closely.

"I'm fine."

"No, you're not. You're ready to fall asleep right there. Don't deny it. And look at you." He pointed at her with one finger, waving it at her hair, down to her shirt and lower. "You're a mess."

Bridget didn't bother looking down, she knew what she looked like. Unruly hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, dark blue baggy shapeless sweatshirt that came down to her knees, loose gray sweatpants. She took another sip of wine and shook her head. "I just got back from class."

"Hm." William eyed her face, his dark eyes penetrating, searching. Bridget looked away. "And which class was this one? Because I don't remember you taking any class important enough for you to miss a game. And wasn't there a game tonight?"

"Yes, there was." Mitchell pushed through the doors and tossed William an impatient glance before sliding a plate in front of her. "Leave her alone, William. She needs to eat first."

Bridget gave him a grateful smile then grabbed her fork and pierced a tender slice of roasted chicken. The food was delicious, comforting. Just what she needed. It didn't matter that Mitchell took a seat next to William and watched her, his pale gaze just as scrutinizing as her cousin's dark one. Neither one of them said anything, just waited patiently for her to finish eating.

As tempting as it was to drag out the meal, especially since she knew what was coming, she couldn't. The food was too good and she was too hungry, too tired, to play games. So she finished the last bite, took a final swallow of wine, and pushed the plate away from her. Then she propped both elbows on the table and rested her chin on her clasped hands and looked at her cousin and his partner.

In looks, they were complete opposites. William was tall, dark, all brooding good looks and masculine refinement. A little too formal, a little too serious. Mitchell was shorter, closer to Bridget's height, with blonde hair and pale blue eyes. He carried himself with an air of refinement that was softened by his welcoming smile and quick laughter. They had been together for seven years, two pieces of a puzzle that belonged together. 

They were her family, had been for years, since William had taken her in as an awkward sixteen-year-old after her mother died. And Mitchell had immediately accepted William's oddball cousin from the very beginning. Yes, they were her family, in every way important.

And right now, her family was circling the wagons, preparing for an interrogation.

"Okay love, time to spill it."

Bridget raised one brow. "Spill what?"

"You know exactly what. Why are you suddenly running yourself into the ground?"

She sat back in the chair, trying to go for the nonchalant innocent look. From the expression on William's face—and the nearly identical one on Mitchell's—she didn't think she succeeded. Bridget blew out a deep breath and slumped forward in the chair, her elbow against the edge of the table.

"I'm not. Not really." Which was kind of the truth. Maybe. She wasn't running around more than she usually did. At least, she didn't think so. She had her full schedule of classes—with only one semester left to go, thank God. Two part-time jobs. And the two classes she took at the gym. Oh, and her spot on the ice crew. She tried to explain that to them, but neither one of them looked particularly sympathetic just now.

"Hm." William studied her with those dark eyes that saw too much. "And yet you look worse this week than ever before."

"Of course she does, William. Her ankle is still sore."

"No it's not. Not really." Bridget shifted her gaze to the floor, to the ankle in question. Maybe it was still a little sore, but not to the point she couldn't walk on it.

"Really?" William leaned back in the chair, his long fingers twirling the stem of the wineglass in his hand. "If your ankle is fine, and your schedule hasn't changed, then why did you miss the game tonight?"

Bridget opened her mouth, ready to let an excuse tumble from her lips. But William just kept watching her, those dark eyes studying her. She snapped her mouth closed and looked away, shrugging. "I just…maybe it's still a little sore."

"So missing the game has absolutely nothing to do with the gentleman who brought you home last week?"

Oh crap. Crap, crap, shit. She was so busted. Heat blossomed on her face, instant and burning. Bridget looked away, knowing there was no plausible excuse she could give to explain away the fiery blush. Not to these two, none they would believe.

She had told them about getting a ride home, obviously. How else could she explain the need for a ride to the arena's garage to pick up her car? But she hadn't shared any other details. No way. How could she, when she still couldn't believe what she'd actually done?

A one-night stand. With super-hot sex. And a lot of it. But it was a one-night stand. No way she could explain that, not when it was so out of character for her. It was better to just forget, to pretend it didn't happen. Except she didn't think she was going to have that option, not if the expression on William's face meant anything.

"You never did tell us who brought you home, love."

"Um, didn't I? Guess I forgot. It doesn't matter—"

"It does matter, love. Unless you'd prefer I speak with the entire team?"

"What? For what?"

"To find out who thought it would be okay to take advantage of you."

"For crying out loud. You can't be serious! Nobody took advantage of me, William. I'm an adult. I make my own decisions."

"Yes, you do. But I have to wonder how clearly you were thinking since you have been in such a funk all week."

Bridget shook her head and looked away, not sure what else to say. Had she been in a funk? Of course she had. But it wasn't just because of what happened the other night. Well, it was, but more because of
who
it had been.

Derek Caulton? Really? What had possessed her to even go there? Yes, he was attractive. Too attractive. Egotistical. Arrogant. Irresponsible. Entirely too sure of himself.

Entirely too talented—and not just on the ice.

Had she been in a funk? Absolutely. But not because of what happened. No, it was because she wanted more. And that was never going to happen. She shook her head once more, maybe in denial, maybe because she wasn’t sure what else to do. Then she forced a bright smile to her face, trying to reassure William. "I'm fine, honest. Just tired. Things should settle down in a few weeks, as soon as the semester is over. So stop worrying."

William didn't look like he believed her. Neither did Mitchell. They exchanged a quick glance, a thousand unspoken words and thoughts being communicated between them with that single look. How did they do that? And wouldn't it be great if she found someone she could share that with?

Yeah, like that would ever happen.

"Somehow I doubt that."

"What?" Bridget frowned, wondering why William would say something so discouraging. Then she realized he was replying to her comment about things settling down, not to her unspoken thought.

She still wasn't sure how to respond, so she just stood and walked over to the pair, leaning down to give them both quick kisses on the cheek. "I'll be fine, honest."

Neither of them said anything but she could feel their gazes on her back as she moved to the door. She grabbed her backpack then glanced over her shoulder. Sure enough, they were both still watching her, their worry clear on their faces. "Honest. It's okay, so stop worrying."

She pulled the door closed behind her and made her way upstairs. Her own apartment was chillier, empty of atmosphere. Since when did that bother her? It didn't, not usually. So why was tonight any different?

Bridget tossed the backpack on the overstuffed sofa then moved to the thermostat, kicking it up a few notches. The heater kicked on with a low hum, pushing warm air out through the vents.

What she needed was a shower. A nice long, hot shower. Then she'd put on her fuzzy flannel pants and a thick long sleeve shirt and curl up with a book. A fiction book, maybe a romance. Something that would grab her attention and pull her mind away from her studies and her jobs…and deep blue eyes and sinfully long dark lashes.

Maybe not a romance, after all. Maybe a nice murder mystery would be better.

Yeah, definitely a murder mystery. Then it wouldn't matter if she thought about those blue eyes and long lashes, because she'd be imagining them on a corpse instead.

At least, that's what she told herself as she climbed into the steaming shower, determined to forget.

Derek jumped the boards and made his way to the bench, grabbing one of the water bottles and shooting a stream of water into his mouth. His gaze drifted up to the large screen above the ice, watching the last play in slow motion. Fuck, what the hell had he been thinking? That last shot was terrible, not even close to making its mark. He grimaced and spit the water out, determined not to watch as the ice crew made their way out to the ice.

Something hit him in the side, a sharp punch that pulled at his attention. Derek looked over, frowning at Justin. "What?"

"What the fuck are you staring at?"

"I'm not."

"Really?" Justin motioned to the ice with his chin. "Doesn't look like nothing to me. You've been distracted all night."

Derek shot another stream of water into his mouth and shook his head. He wasn't about to answer Justin's question, wasn't about to respond to his accusation. Because Justin was right, he had been distracted.

Justin wasn't the only one who noticed, either, not if the side looks he was getting from their coach, Sonny LeBlanc, meant anything. Shit. This was such bullshit. He shouldn't be distracted. His attention needed to be on the game and only on the game.

He shot one last stream of water into his mouth and swished it around before spitting it to the side. Yeah, he needed to focus on the game, not on the redhead out there on the ice, bundled up in shapeless athletic wear as she skated along the length of the rink.

She didn't look over at the bench. Not once, not since the game started. It was the third period now and she had passed by the bench at least six times.

Completely ignoring him.

What the fuck was up with that? No, she hadn't looked over at all, but she certainly didn't have any trouble laughing or talking with the guy skating next to her. And that pissed him off. How could she be laughing it up when he was sitting over here, watching her every move, steaming each time she skated by?

Which was ridiculous. Stupid. Insane. Totally out of character for him. It didn't matter that this was the first time he had seen her since that morning, just over two weeks ago. She should be completely gone from his mind, a distant memory.

So why wasn't she?

He watched as the crew skated off the ice, his eyes narrowed as she laughed at something somebody else said. Derek clenched his jaw and forced his attention back to the ice, to the game being played.

The game the Banners were currently losing by one point.

Fuck. He needed to get his head back on straight, to focus on what he was doing.

Derek jumped the boards and hit the ice at a fast pace, bent low with his stick out front, charging after the puck. He came up beside one of the New York players, shoving him against the boards as they fought for the puck in the corner. He took an elbow to the gut, grunting under the force.

Fuck this shit. Derek clenched his jaw and pushed back, his elbow connecting with the ribs of the other player. He dug in again with his stick, blades crashing against each other. Derek used his elbows once more and cleared the puck, cradling it with his stick as he shot away from the boards. Justin skated into his periphery. Derek passed the puck across the ice. Perfect! Justin nabbed and spun, heading to the net, Derek and Kenny flanking him. One pass, another, back to Justin. He flew around the net and shot, sending the puck straight past the goalie and into the net.

Yes, score! Justin jumped in celebration, huddling for a celebratory hug before skating back to the bench. Derek looked up at the giant screen, smiling at the now-tied score. They could do this, no problem.

An hour later, they were still celebrating the overtime win and making plans to hit The Maypole. Justin, Kenny, Mat and Harland were waiting for him downstairs. All Derek had to do was grab his keys and wallet and take the elevator down to the garage.

So why was he taking his time?

Derek didn't want to think too hard about why, didn't want to admit that he was thinking about fiery red hair and emerald green eyes. Was Bridget still here? Would her car be parked in the same spot? He hadn't seen it when he got here earlier but that didn't mean anything.

Derek stepped off the elevator, his keys held loosely in his hand. He ignored the calls from his teammates and looked to the side, his eyes narrowed as he studied the row of cars to the left.

There it was, an aging red sedan. Something twisted his gut—apprehension or excitement, he wasn't sure. But he couldn't stop the grin on his face when he saw Bridget walking toward him.

No, not toward him. Toward her car. And she wasn't even looking at him, her eyes trained on the ground in front of her. She was dressed the same as the first night he met her, the same as she had been on the ice earlier tonight. Her hair was pulled back into that tight ponytail, a backpack slung over her shoulder.

"Hey, Caulton. Come on already."

Derek didn't bother looking over, just waved in Justin's direction, wordlessly telling him he'd be a minute. His gaze was focused on Bridget, watching her.

She had looked up at Justin's call, her steps pausing when her eyes met Derek's, like she had just noticed him. But she didn't smile, didn't even nod in his direction. Had her eyes widened just the smallest bit? Maybe, and not in a good way, either, because now she was hurrying to her car, those long toned legs she hid underneath bulky sweatpants stretched for maximum distance.

What the hell? Was she actually trying to avoid him?

Derek hurried his own steps, reaching her car the same time she did. And she couldn't escape, not with him standing in front of the door like he was.

He leaned against the side of her car, giving her a wide smile. "Hey."

She didn't say anything, didn't even smile back. Derek's own smile faded. Why was she looking at him like that? Like she didn't want anything to do with him? He shifted, trying to act casual, and glanced down at her foot.

"How's your ankle doing? All healed?"

Bridget's gaze narrowed, those deep green eyes flashing behind the lenses of her glasses. She adjusted the backpack on her shoulder and jiggled the keys in her hand, the gesture annoyed, impatient.

"Enough."

"Good." Derek nodded and cleared his throat. "That's good."

"Christ, Caulton, come one. We're waiting."

Fuck. What was wrong with them? Couldn't they see he was busy talking? Or at least, trying to talk? Derek glanced over at the guys. "Yeah, okay. I'll just meet you there."

He didn't miss the confused looks being sent his way. Justin leaned over and said something to Kenny, the words too low for Derek to hear. He didn't need to hear, not if the identical expressions on their faces were any indication. They were wondering what he was doing, who he was talking to.

No doubt wondering why he was talking to her.

He ignored them, focusing his attention on Bridget. Discomfort rolled from her, obvious from the way she shifted her weight, the slightest movement from one foot to the other. Her full lips were pressed together and her eyes slid to the right, resting on the dented metal of the car.

"I, uh, I need to go. If you don't mind?" She motioned to the door with one hand, the keys jingling together with the move. But she didn't look at him, didn't even move to push past him.

"A couple of us were going out for a few drinks. Did you want to join us?" The question was out before Derek even realized he was going to speak. From the look on her face, it surprised her as much as it did him. Her eyes widened, a spark of something flaring in their depths. And her mouth parted, those full lips opening on a soft gasp of surprise. She blinked a few times and snapped her mouth closed, then looked over her shoulder. His teammates were pulling out already, the hum of motors and soft squeal of rubber against concrete echoing around them.

Bridget looked back at him, her gaze raking him from head to foot with one quick glance. Not an appreciative glance, either. This was more like a quick study, like she was simply taking in his wool coat, suit and tie, dress shoes. For some reason her quick once-over made him feel self-conscious and he barely resisted the urge to squirm.

"I'm not really dressed it for it but thanks anyway."

"You look fine. It's just a sports bar." Which was mostly true. And there really wasn't a set dress code, despite the fact that it was more of a high-end sports bar.

"No, I think I'll pass." Bridget jiggled the keys again and looked pointedly at the door Derek was blocking. Was she really saying no? He couldn't believe it. He was asking her out, for shit's sake. Yeah, maybe it wasn't really like a date, more like a spur-of-the-moment invite, but still…was she really saying no?

Yes, she was. And from the look on her face, she was getting a little frustrated, maybe even a little impatient, with him. Her lips were pursed, making them look fuller, softer…

Derek looked away from her mouth and cleared his throat. "Why don’t you want to?"

"Why would I?"

The question surprised him, completely unexpected, completely alien. He opened his mouth to respond but nothing came out except a small grunt. Bridget watched him, one brow raised, something like humor flashing in her eyes. Or maybe he was imagining the humor because she wasn't smiling. And she didn't watch him for long. Already her eyes drifted away from him, focusing on the car instead. She adjusted the backpack again, the keys making a loud noise in the sudden chilled silence surrounding them.

"Why?" He repeated her question and pushed away from the car. "I just thought, you know, it might be fun—"

"Listen Derek. We did our thing. You don't need to pretend it was anything more than what it was, okay?"

Was she serious? She couldn't be. But he couldn't tell because she was looking away from him, not meeting his eyes. He couldn't even really see her face because she turned away from him.

He jammed his hands into his pockets and stepped away from the car. "So it was just a one-night stand then?"

Bridget's head whipped around, the edge of her ponytail swinging to the side with the movement. Her eyes flashed, or maybe it was just a reflection off the lenses of her glasses. An expression crossed her face, there and gone so quickly he almost missed it. "Wasn't it?"

What was she trying to hide in her expression? He almost missed it—almost. But he caught the glimpse of surprise and uncertainty. The slight waver in her soft voice when she spoke. And maybe something else. Not hope. Interest?

Or maybe he was just seeing and hearing what he wanted to see, what he was so used to seeing. He tried to think, to remember the last time he had ever been turned down before.

He couldn't remember when. And he couldn't believe it was happening now. If he played this the right way, said the right thing, could he get her to change her mind?

Derek took a deep breath and stepped a little closer to her. He didn't want to crowd her, didn't want to intimidate her—but he did want to get closer to her. Close enough to feel the heat of her body against his. No, not just the heat. He wanted to feel
her
, her soft curves and lean muscles. The silky softness of those fiery red strands of hair.

He stopped before he could get too close. What the hell was wrong with him? Women didn't have this effect on him. He didn't have to chase them—they usually chased him. Is that why he was suddenly so determined? Because she didn't seem to be interested?

That had to be it. It had to be.

He cleared his throat and offered Bridget a charming smile, kicking up the wattage just a bit. How many times had he been told this particular smile was irresistible? That's what he was aiming for. The smile and a few carefully chosen words, that's all he needed.

"It doesn't have to be. A one-night stand, that is." He leaned a little closer and reached out with his hand, thinking he could stroke her arm or maybe even take her hand in his.

But Bridget stepped away. And she didn’t just step away—she laughed. A light musical sound that echoed from the bare pipes and concrete ceiling above them, then bounced off the cold floor beneath their feet. She shook her head and stepped around him, jabbing the key into the door and unlocking it. Her lips curved into a smile, a wide bright smile that made the air rush from his lungs.

"Nice one." She tossed the backpack onto the passenger seat then grabbed the door frame and eased herself into the driver's seat. She looked up at him, that wide beautiful smile still on her face. "No wonder they call you the playmaker."

"But—"

"I'll see you around, Derek." She slammed the door closed and started the car, the engine belching with a loud rumble before smoothing out. She backed the car out of the space, gave him a small wave, then pulled away.

What the fuck? Derek stared after her, wondering what the hell had just happened.

And wondering why the hell the dismissal—and the comment—left him feeling like he had just been slammed into the boards without wearing any gear.