Chapter 11 The next morning, I walk up the path to the house with my laptop and notebooks in tow. I slept incredible. Nothing like a near-death experience to lull you to sleep. And I woke up excited. I texted Molly to let her know the change in plans, as well as Olivia. Now it's time to get to work. Nick is already in the driveway. A little boy with the same messy dark hair walks down the front steps with a large duffel bag over one shoulder. The kid's steps slow when he sees me approaching. "Who's the chick?" he asks. Nick steps forward and takes his bag, tossing it into the bed of his truck. "Don't call girls chicks. And that's Ruby. She's coming with us to the rink today." Nick tips his head to the kid while looking at me. "This is my son, Aidan." "Hi, Aidan." I lift a hand in a small wave. "Hello." He opens the rear right-side door of the truck and gets in. Not rude, just unphased by my presence. "Sorry about that," Nick says more quietly to me. "It's fine. He looks just like you," I tell him. And acts like him. A little grumpy around the edges. In reply I get a small huff. He's freshly shaved this morning. His chin dimple is prominent and there are small wrinkles on either side of his mouth where the other two dimples would be if he smiled. Nick's truck smells like coffee. As I buckle into the passenger seat, I glance longingly at the to-go mug in the console. Coffee is my favorite meal of the day. Hopefully I can get some at the rink. The three of us ride in silence for several minutes. I gave a lot of thought to the whole Nick has a son thing last night when he casually dropped it, but seeing Aidan has me thinking about it again. "Are you married?" Something I probably should have considered sooner. Is there a Mrs. Grumpy Galaxy? "What?" His brows furrow as he asks in a are you stupid? tone. "No." "My parents aren't married," Aidan says from the back seat. "My mom lives in Bozeman." Nick glances in the rearview mirror and frowns. "Oh. Cool," I say when no other words come to my mind. "Girlfriend?" Aidan snorts. "Pop wishes." "All right. Pipe down back there." I curl my lips between my teeth to keep from laughing. Maybe Aidan isn't so much like his dad after all. "You aren't exactly reeling in the ladies either," Nick says to his son, and I think I detect a bit of an edge. "I could have a girlfriend if I wanted one," is Aidan's reply. "Me too," Nick says. And I don't doubt it. There's no way he has a problem attracting women...at least until he glowers at them. No, not even then. At the rink, Aidan runs ahead of us, duffel bag slung over his shoulder and looking like it weighs more than him, into the building. Nick and I are slower. He waits for me at the front of the truck, coffee in hand. He hasn't so much as had a sip of it and the smell is killing me. The parking lot is filled with cars and trucks. Parents dropping off their kids, all with big bulky bags like Aidan's. Some of the smaller kids have someone walking them inside. "Hey, Coach Nick," a little girl calls to him, blond braids bouncing as she passes us by. "Morning, Aubrey." She walks as fast as her little legs will carry her. "There are more girls than I expected. Is hockey a coed sport in high school too?" "No, but at this level it makes sense. I'm guessing you didn't play as a kid?" "I wouldn't really be seeking expert advice if I had, now would I?" "I did a summer of basketball, and I don't remember shit about that, so maybe." He holds the door open for me. As I step inside, the chill of the ice hits me. In all my preparations this morning, I forgot to dress in multiple layers. At least I'm in jeans, but a tube top was not the best choice. I suck in a breath. "Wow. You'd think it would have created a core memory yesterday, considering I only got warm after taking a very hot shower." He notices me rubbing my arms and his jaw works back and forth, probably silently judging me for being so unprepared. "I'll survive." I force out, not letting my teeth chatter. "Is there coffee around here somewhere?" "No." His brow knits. "There's a small café but it doesn't open until ten." "Oh, okay." Ten o'clock. I can survive until then. Probably. He looks down at his mug and then holds it out to me. I stare at it like a poisoned apple. "Take it," he says. "Oh no, I couldn't. I'm fine." My mouth is salivating as the smell wafts closer to me. I wave both hands dramatically in front of me again. Nope. Not taking this man's coffee no matter how badly I want it. He's agreed to help me and let me stay at the cabin but I'm still not certain he wouldn't also poison me. He keeps it held out a moment longer, then nods and takes it back. He still doesn't drink it. What is he waiting for?! I swallow down all the saliva collecting in my mouth, then force a smile and head toward the parent section. "Where are you going?" Nick calls after me. I point, as if it isn't obvious. He motions with his head for me to walk toward him. "Come with me." He has me sit on a bench next to the ice, in front of the plexiglass. I'm so close to the ice it feels like the cold is radiating off it. Nick changes into his skates and grabs his hockey stick. The kids are still filing into the rink, getting dressed and slowly entering the ice. "Do you have more questions for me?" he asks. "I probably have five minutes before we start." "Yeah," I answer then stifle a yawn. I stayed up late, showering to get warm (and because I felt disgusting after the motel), then reading over our notes from yesterday and brainstorming follow-up questions. I'm a weird mixture of cold and tired that has my brain moving slowly. I scan the list of questions. "Let me think where to start." He nods. "I'll be right back." I watch the kids when he's gone. They're cute. I recognize a few from yesterday and note they look more comfortable. When I spot Aidan, I'm astonished all over again by the resemblance. Even the way he skates is similar to his dad. Same athletic presence and easy movements, like they were born with skates on their feet. Nick comes back a minute later with a sweatshirt in one hand and a coffee cup in another. He holds them both out to me. "Here," he says, voice gruff. "So you don't get hypothermia." My heart does a funny little flutter thing in my chest. I stare at him, more than a little shocked. "Concerned about me?" I ask as I take the sweatshirt. The material is soft and smells faintly of his laundry detergent. It's big and baggy, but as I pull it over my head, my body warms instantly, like I'm being wrapped in a big Nick hug. Or what I might imagine his hugs are like. Which to be honest, now that I really try to picture it, I struggle with the visual. He has a kid so he must like hugging someone, at least occasionally. His response is only a slight uptick of his lips-his version of a smile, I'm learning. I take the coffee next. I'm nearly giddy as I wrap my hands around the cup and take a tentative sip. It's a little stronger than I usually take mine, but it tastes heavenly right now. "Thank you." I don't know what to make of this nice, accommodating version of Nick. I've had glimpses of it before, but something seems to have shifted since last night. "You're welcome." He gives me a curt nod, then looks away. The ice fills as more kids arrive. Travis waves to me from the other side, then skates by. "Ruby. You're back!" He's about the same height as Nick with similar dark brown hair, but everything else about them is different. Travis is unfiltered enthusiasm. He smiles with his entire face. His lips pull wide and his eyes crinkle at the side. Even the way he faces me, angling his body to give me his full attention, is friendly and inviting. "I am a glutton for punishment." His easy grin moves from me to Nick. "Interesting night?" he asks his friend. Nick sighs heavily, then levels him with a glare that's not very convincing, thanks to the way he fights a smile. Travis skates off as quickly as he came. Nick turns back to me. "I thought we'd have more time this morning," he says. "It's okay." I knew it would be a long shot that he'd answer all my questions, but I was hoping to get a few more in. "Most evenings I'm busy with Aidan." "I get it," I say, realizing he's letting me down easy. He might even feel bad about it. "We could come to the rink earlier tomorrow. He'll never turn down some extra ice time." Earlier. Yikes. "Whatever works for you. As long as I have coffee, I'll be fine." He chuckles. A deep, rich sound that I feel deep down in the pit of my stomach. His dimples are on full display and dear lord, the man is doing the world a favor by being so grumpy all the time. Women would be lining up around the block if he flashed that smile around all day long. "Does the cabin have a coffee pot?" he asks, then looks contemplative like he's trying to remember. "I didn't see one, but I don't mind buying one. I need to get some groceries anyway." He leans on a hockey stick, casually, staring at me with a hint of that killer smile still lingering on his face. I wonder how the heck he stays upright so easily out there on the ice. Then I remember I can ask. "When did you start skating?" His body language switches immediately, as if he just remembered this is an interview and I broke our rule of no personal questions. He really seems to have an issue with answering questions about himself, and I can't help but wonder why. "This isn't for the book. I'm just curious. You look so comfortable out there." "I was four," he says finally. "Were you good at it right away?" I bet he was. "I don't really remember, but I've been doing it so long it feels as easy as walking or riding a bike." I don't point out that those things aren't easy for everyone. "Morning, everyone," the woman coach from yesterday skates in the middle of the rink. "We're going to start in two minutes so get your gear on. We're starting on the ice today." Nick looks to me as if prompting me to ask whatever I can in the short time we have left. "Okay." I look at my notebook. "Can you tell me what a week during the season looks like for you?" "It varies by team and coaching preferences, but I get to the rink around nine and I'm here until one or two o'clock in the afternoon." "And is it all..." I wave my hand around. "Skating around with a puck?" His lips twitch with a smile. "No." "Walk me through a day." I find I'm curious to know more about him and not strictly for the book. "I eat breakfast, then meetings, work out, get on the ice for drills or scrimmaging, then recovery-ice bath, red light therapy, a massage, something like that, then I head home to pick up Aidan from school." While he speaks, he moves back and forth - pacing on the ice. His stick moves in front of him, guiding a puck effortlessly. It's kind of distracting and a lot hot. Who knew hockey players were so sexy. Maybe my publisher was onto something. "Meetings?" I try and fail to picture him in a stuffy boardroom. "We'll watch video from the last game or scope out the next team." "Research." "Exactly." I scribble down his words as I ask a few more follow-up questions about his daily routine. His answers are short and concise, but I never feel like he's holding back - more that he takes for granted how ingrained he is in the sport. The more he talks, the more things I realize I don't know, and when camp starts, I fight back a tinge of disappointment. I close my notebook and slide my pen in the spiral binding. Nick looks to me as kids swarm around him. "Are you sticking around?" "Will you have time to chat more?" "Yeah. I'll make sure Travis can cover lunch." "Okay." I stand quickly, making myself a little lightheaded in the process. I think I'm high on nice Nick vibes. "I guess I'll see you then. Good luck." Good luck? I groan inwardly. I don't know what it is about this guy, but now that he's playing nice, I find myself reverting back to my teenage self and she was one hundred percent awkward. "Thanks." Nick offers me one last dimpled grin. During lunch, he leads me down a hallway to a small office. Nick stands in the doorway and waves for me to enter. I take a seat in front of the desk in one of two blue plastic chairs. Nick stands behind the desk, arms crossed over his chest and leaning against the wall. "Okay. Should I..." He nods. "Fire away." Before I can, Travis appears with two food containers. "Sandwiches?" he asks Nick, then glances at me and smiles. "Ruby-Doo!" "Hi." I laugh at the nickname. "That's a new one." Up close, he's even cuter. Big brown eyes and long lashes and that smile is full of charm. "Thanks," Nick says, stepping forward and taking both containers of food. He holds one out to me. "Oh. Thanks." I hadn't considered food for the day and my stomach is growling. Travis walks farther into the room, ignoring the annoyed look Nick sends in his direction, and takes the seat next to me. He learns forward in his chair. The excitement splashed across his face has me reciprocating his smile. "What kind of books do you write?" "Romance. Mostly paranormal, but I'm branching out to contemporary." "Like werewolves and dragons?" "Vampires, actually." Somehow his smile stretches wider. "What about historical? Dukes, viscounts, bodices, and long walks around gardens? I was obsessed with Bridgerton when it first came out. It was basically my entire personality." "No. I haven't tried historical yet. Are you a big romance reader?" "I'm more of a film guy." He glances at Nick. "I get it now." "Trav," Nick says in a low, warning tone. "Get what?" My brows pinch together in confusion. "You're beautiful, and everyone knows Nick's dad loves to set him up." He tips his head toward Nick without looking at him. "His dad thinks a good woman will make him less grumpy." I glance over at Nick in time to catch an eye roll. "Yes, I definitely feel less grumpy every time he sets me up with someone against my will." Nick sits in the leather office chair on the other side of the desk. There's something I like about seeing him slightly off-kilter, a little exasperated. It makes me feel like less of a mess for not having it all together, like he appears most of the time. "Mike means well." Travis waves it off. "I don't think that's why Mike brought me here," I say, mulling over the idea and immediately dismissing it. "Maybe not. It could just be a happy coincidence that you're beautiful." I'm blushing, which is ridiculous. Travis seems like the kind of guy who throws out compliments like confetti. "Dude." Nick winces then rubs his forehead with two fingers. "What? She is." He looks to me. "You are." "Thanks." He stands quickly. "How long are you in town?" "I'm not sure," I say because even though Nick has agreed to let me stay, it feels like he might still change his mind. "We should grab dinner sometime." "Trav," Nick says, sounding more exasperated. "She's here to work." "Fine. Fine. Well, if you need any research help on the Victorian era, I'm your guy, but Nick is one of the smartest hockey players I know so you're in good hands." "I appreciate it." He flashes me another giant smile, then slides his gaze to Nick. "Later, loser." As quickly as he waltzed in, he's gone. "Sorry about him," Nick says with a heavy sigh. "Don't be. He's funny. Have you been friends a long time?" "Since I joined the team." "Two years ago," I say, realizing too late that I've just admitted too much. I give him a sheepish smile. "I looked you up." Birthdate June twentieth. Drafted out of college. Played in Chicago, then Minnesota, and now here. And no social media as far as I could find. "I looked you up too," he says. "Really?" I don't even try to hide my surprise. "You're not just an author, you're a bestselling author, translated in a bunch of different countries." My face flushes with embarrassment. Are you still a bestselling author if your last book flopped? I know the answer is yes, but it doesn't feel that way. I glance down as the heat continues to creep down my neck. I can't even let myself think about what he might have read about me online. I've seen more than a few headlines about "disappointing sales numbers." He clears his throat and leans back in his chair as he pops open his lunch container, carefully avoiding my gaze. I'm still wearing his sweatshirt. It's light purple with Moonshot Hockey written across the front in white letters. His number is on the right shoulder, but in my case, it hangs down at elbow-length. I push the sleeves up and open my lunch, but I'm too jittery to eat. "What other questions do you have for me?" he asks as he pulls out a sandwich. I set my food aside and glance down at my notes, happy to have the distraction from thinking about my career. "I have a couple game play scenarios. One where the hero needs to do something amazing and another where he screws up." "Something amazing?" "The heroine is in the stands, and he wants to impress her," I say, setting the scene. "Does that happen? Do you invite women and then try to impress them with your hockey skills?" "No," he says quickly as if the thought is absolutely ludicrous. "Never?" He pauses as if considering it, but only for a second. "Maybe in high school or early in my juniors' career." I want to pick at that but keep myself in the professional zone. "Okay, well, what's the most impressive thing you've done during a game?" He grins but doesn't answer immediately. "Was it a hat trick or a slick deke move against a defender." I don't even know what I'm saying. I've read just enough hockey stuff over the past day to use a few terms, probably not the right way. "Fans tend to be more impressed by goals than anything else, so I would go that route," he says. "Okay. Great. What does that look like? Play-by-play." He chuckles softly. "Usually people are critiquing my game, not asking for my interpretation of it." I smile back at him, waiting. He takes a moment to collect himself, then gives me the play like he's a sportscaster. His face is more animated than I've seen it, and those dimples are continually on display. I write it down word-for-word, pen moving fast over the paper. I feel giddy, like I was there for it. And I can't stop smiling at him. "And no girls were impressed?" I ask, disbelieving. I'm impressed now just hearing it. Sure, I don't really know that much about hockey, but I could feel the passion of it. There's no way the fans in the crowd didn't feel it too. "Maybe, but I don't see a lot beyond what's happening on the ice. The fans and the lights, the music...it all becomes background noise." "I guess that makes sense." I chew on the end of my pen as I think. "What about a time when you screwed up?" "How badly are we talking?" he asks, then adds, "Mistakes happen all the time. Missed shots or passes, penalties at the wrong time that shift momentum. Most of the time, I push past it and keep going. Lingering on it can cause cascading effects." I nod. "Something bad enough that you couldn't shake it off." I want to know for the book, but I also want to know because it's him and I find him fascinating. "Last season during our final game, I had a breakaway in the first minute of play. Defenders were too far back to stop me. I flew down the ice. Just me and the goalie, this young kid, his first playoff appearance. I knew the pressure he was feeling. I remember what it was like, nothing really prepares you for it." I nod along like I know. Maybe it's like publishing your first book - that all-consuming fear and excitement. Everything feels like unlimited possibilities...and countless ways things could go wrong. "What happened?" I ask, literally and figuratively on the edge of my seat. Adrenaline courses through me as I wait for him to finish the story. "I had him. He was freaking out, watching me so intently, but a second behind my every move. I faked left and then went right..." He pauses, leaving me hanging for several long seconds as a bashful look crosses his face. "A wide-open look and I rung the pipe." "You missed?" I ask, genuinely surprised even though I knew this story was leading in that direction. "Yep." He shakes his head. "I was so certain I had him. I took my eye off the goal and...missed." I feel the embarrassment of the moment or at least the embarrassment I would feel. An entire stadium of fans watching you mess up. At least for me I can generally hide behind my keyboard. Every typo or poorly executed plot point is discovered miles away from me. "How do you recover after something like that?" I ask because something tells me he doesn't follow my method of eating ice cream and binge-watching reality television. "There isn't a lot of time to dwell on it in the moment. It's usually after the game when I rehash it and think about what could have been." He takes the last bite of his sandwich and then sits back in his chair. When he's finished chewing, he asks, "Anything else before I head back out there?" I'm still lost in his story, imagining how I can tweak it for the character in my book. Originally, I told it from the heroine's point of view, but maybe I should do it from his. "No, I think this is good for now." I gather up my stuff and he throws away the trash. "Can I read it when you're done?" he asks as we head for the door. "The game scene?" I nod. "Yeah, in fact, that'd be great." "The book." "All of it?" I pause. Per usual, the idea of someone reading the words I'm writing (and yes, I know that's the point) makes me break out into a cool sweat. "Yeah. I'm intrigued." "You don't even know what it's about." "I know it's about a hockey player." "Are you a big reader?" I think of Flynn. He reads every single one of my books, but I think that's mostly because Olivia gets a kick out of it. "Eh." He bobs his head. "I wouldn't say I'm a big reader, no, but I always have something on hand during the season while we're traveling a lot." "What genres do you like?" I have a very nice visual of him in some reading glasses with a hardback in his hands. Maybe he's more my type than I originally gave him credit for. "All sorts. Some nonfiction, sports biographies mostly, an occasional fiction book." "What's the last fiction book you read?" I ask. I am fine-tuning my visual and...I like it. I like it a lot. "I read that murder mystery about the guy who turns into a vampire after having bad sushi." He snaps his fingers as he smiles. "Becoming..." The blood drains from my face and I work to keep my expression schooled. My voice wavers slightly. "Becoming Alaric?" "Yeah. You know it?" "I've seen it." I look away and step out of the small room into the hallway. It isn't his fault that he read the most popular book published last year, but my visual is officially ruined. "Are you sticking around this afternoon?" he asks as he catches up to me with his long strides. "I think I have what I need to get started editing." "Okay." I want to flee before he sees something in my expression I'd rather he didn't, but instead I meet his gaze. "Thank you for helping me." His mouth pulls into a half smile. "You're welcome." "Oh." I remember I'm wearing his sweatshirt and pull it off. "Do you need a ride back?" "No, thanks. I think I'll catch a ride to a coffee shop. I saw a couple cute ones on our drive in." "I could ask my dad to pick you up and take you back to the cabin." "No, it's fine." I hand him his sweatshirt back. "It doesn't bother you to write with people and noise?" "I like to write with silence but when I'm editing, the more noise the better. I usually blast music." "My dad would get a kick out of that." "I'll keep it down," I promise. "We're used to it." "Aidan?" He seems a little young to blast music. I thought that was an angry teenager thing. Then again, I don't have a lot of experience with kids. Just Greer, and everything she does is adorable. "He's learning to play the guitar." Nick winces as if just talking about it has him shuddering. He gives me a sheepish grin as he holds the door open for me, leading to the ice. I brush past him and then pause in the hallway. "Thanks again. I guess I'll see you tomorrow?" "Yeah. If you have more questions, we can plan on getting to the rink earlier." He pulls out his phone. "Let me give you my number." My stomach flutters in that way it does when you're talking to someone and taking the next step to stay in touch. "So we can coordinate," he adds. "Right." Official business, not flirting with me. Fumbling, I pull out my phone. I add his number to my phone, then text him so he has mine. Somewhere on the ice I can hear one of the coaches tell the kids lunchtime is over. Nick takes a step backward, flashing me those dimples. "If you need anything before tomorrow, just text me." "You've given me plenty for now." I clutch my laptop to my chest. He nods, turns on his heel, and jogs off. Café Moon smells like dark roast beans and sweet sugar. A rich, wood bar takes up half the counter space and there are tables along the windows and spaced out around the room. It's cozy and warm, and to my surprise, filled with more people than I thought were in all of Moonshot. It's bustling with people hurrying in and out. Others sit with friends or dates, and a few have laptops in front of them, working like me. After I settle into the booth by the window, I pull out my laptop and my notes. Excitement courses through me as I read through Nick's answers to all my questions. He's turning out to be different than I thought. I think he might be a genuinely nice guy underneath his jerk exterior. I like the way he lights up talking about hockey. He transforms. Even in reading his thoughts to things like his daily schedule, I find myself grinning at the screen as I remember the way he was so animated as he told it. Unfortunately, his excitement, and mine, doesn't translate well. As soon as I switch over to my manuscript, the blinking cursor looms and I'm frozen, fingers poised over the keyboard. I take a deep breath, sit back and eat my scone, giving myself the mother of all pep talks. You can do this. One word at a time. You've done it before. You can do it again. You have got this! Except with my scone gone and coffee cup empty, I still haven't made a single edit. I grab my phone and swipe to read a new text from my sister. Olivia How is it going with the hot hockey player? Chuckling, I tap out a reply. Me You can't keep calling him that. Olivia Why not? He's hot. Flynn agrees. Me Because I'm working with him. And because I don't need a reminder. Those dimples. Those eyes. Those muscles. Olivia Fine. How is it going with the hockey player (who is definitely hot)? Me Better than expected. Olivia That's great news! I can feel her hopefulness. She has always been my biggest cheerleader, and I don't want to let her, or anyone else, down. I send a smiley face in reply and go back to staring at the cursor. I can do this... Discover our latest featured short drama reel. Watch now and enjoy the story!