Home and Away

Samantha Wayland

For Renee, dearest sister in my family of choice. You’ve stuck by me through every damn thing. I’m sure this doesn’t begin to express how grateful I am for your friendship through all these years.

I must begin by thanking Marc for emailing me a list of quaint terms from bygone eras. And thanks also to his lovely wife for asking if I thought there was a way I could work “fadoodle” into one of my books. I’m not sure if this is what you had in mind, Kari, but I enjoyed the challenge.

This book would simply not exist were it not for Stephanie Kay. When she decided to try her hand at NaNoWriMo, I assured her I would rather stick a hot poker in my eye than join her. She then went on to successfully completed NaNo, while I was doing, roughly, nothing. This led to my not-altogether brilliant idea to set the same word count goal in December (because what, Christmas? Pshaw) and, well, it worked. Then Steph took the time to read my chapters as I wrote them, give me good feedback,
and
to learn to love hockey as much as I do (okay, maybe more), making her the best coach, cheerleader, and terribly enabling hockey-addict this writer could ever hope for.

As always, I must thank Victoria Morgan. She is my rock, and ever patient with me. In particular this go around, since I wasn’t always able to get her read-throughs back to her as quickly as I should have. I don’t deserve her at all.

Many thanks must go out to Caitlin Fry, who has done a wonderful job with all my covers. She never complains about my inability to get back to her in a timely fashion, nor my hatred of all things tagline-related. Her patience, kindness, and creative genius will serve her well in all her future endeavors, not the least of which will be motherhood. Many congratulations, Caitlyn.

As always, I must thank Meghan Miller. First, of course, for her brilliant editing. But mostly for not throat-punching me when this book took twice as long as it should have and I sent her endless texts freaking out about it along the way. She is a saint and an angel and I really don’t understand why she won’t move to Massachusetts so I can install her on my couch forty hours a week for unfettered access to her calming influence. Oh, wait…

Rupert was fond of many things. Callum Morrison was not one of them.

Rupert had suspected the man was a pain in the arse after the first time they spoke on the phone, and more or less confirmed it on a group Skype a week later. Callum’s biting tone and rampant arrogance perfectly suited his scarred lip and obviously repeatedly broken nose.

He was precisely the sort of man Rupert used to make an effort to avoid. But, sadly, that wasn’t going to be possible now that he’d foolishly agreed to take over the management of the Moncton Ice Cats.

He, Rupert Smythe, quiet, thoughtful business man and total wimp, was going to run a professional hockey team. As his life had reminded him on an almost daily basis for the past month, this wasn’t the most brilliant idea he’d ever had.

But the Ice Cats needed him, and it had been the best way to convince his best friend, Reese, not to sell the team. Why on earth it had mattered so much to Rupert, he was still trying to work out. He was English, for Pete’s sake. No one gave a shit about ice hockey in England. But sometime during the past decade, in the course of helping Reese with the business side of owning a team, Rupert had fallen in love with the game.

Not the players. Or even the staff. Not at first. God’s truth, they were a brutish lot and, more often than not, still scared the shit out of him.

He’d only started watching hockey out of some perverse notion that it was research. That, in spite of his strong distaste for the violence that often went along with the sport, he should learn more about it before he started making decisions that would impact the team. But he found he couldn’t resist admiring the fluid motion of the game. The agility and power on the ice. The strategy. The cycles and special teams and all those wonderful statistics. Plus-minus scores, shots on goal, ice time, save percentages.

Rupert had found himself rooting for not just the team, but his favorite players. He was disappointed to see some traded away, excited to bring others aboard. He’d had grown to admire the reflexes of the goalies, the Ice Cats' own Alexei Belov in particular. And, if he were going to be honest about it, Callum Morrison as well. He’d watched Callum’s Olympic performance with the same slack-jawed awe as the rest of the world. He’d been a superstar of the NHL for a lot of years now, a household name—at least in those houses that followed hockey.

Unfortunately, none of that made Callum any less of an arsehole, as evidenced by the way he barged, wholly unwelcome and unannounced, into Rupert’s office. The heavy door ricocheting off the cement wall sounded like a thunder clap.

Until that moment, Rupert had been having a perfectly pleasant meeting with Garrick LeBlanc, former captain of the Ice Cats and now part-owner of the team. He was also Rupert’s friend, and Rupert would be lost in this crazy endeavor without him.

They both leapt to their feet.

“Don’t you answer your fucking phone?” Callum barked into the shocked silence.

Callum hadn’t called Rupert recently, so he could only assume the drama was for Garrick’s benefit.

Garrick, generally a socially adept and quick-witted man, was obviously flummoxed. “Callum, what are you doing here?”

“I’m saving your bacon, buddy,” Callum said with something that was less of a smile so much as a baring of teeth. He kicked Rupert’s door shut.

Suddenly, Rupert’s small office felt very, very full.

He stayed where he was, safely ensconced behind his desk, as the two men shook hands, the meeting of their palms a loud crack in the air. Garrick was a large man, but somehow, even though Callum was few inches shorter, he took up more space.

Rupert surreptitiously wiped his damp palms against his trousers.

Garrick remembered his manners. “Callum, you’ve met Rupert over Skype a time or two, I believe,” he offered, waving a hand at Rupert by way of introduction.

Callum barely spared him a nod, which was
rude
. Then again, Rupert should be perfectly happy not to be the focus of a possibly deranged hockey player who’d taken one too many pucks to the head.

Callum glared at Garrick. “You’re going to Boston.”

Garrick appeared to be rendered speechless by this pronouncement.

Rupert’s mouth fell open. “
What?”

Callum spun, pinning Rupert with the full weight of his bright green stare. Sweat broke out across Rupert’s entire body, but he held Callum’s gaze. Of course, he still had the desk between them, so this wasn’t exactly a towering act of bravery.

Rupert felt sorry for Garrick, he really did. Not just because both his lovers had moved to Boston for their new jobs. Or because he was forced to stay here in Moncton to help with the sheer volume of work that needed to get done this summer. But because the fool was in love with Savannah Morrison, and was probably going to have to deal with this rampaging arsehole for the rest of this life because of it.

“I’m here to help,” Callum declared. The fact that he needed to state that should have been his first bloody hint that he wasn’t doing a very good job. “Garrick has to go.”

Garrick looked concerned. “What happened? What’s wrong?”

“Garrick can’t just leave,” Rupert said, as calmly as he could manage. “He has a lot of work to do here.”

Callum’s grunt dismissed Rupert completely.

“Goddamn it, Callum,” Garrick snapped. “What the hell is going on?”

“Nothing. I don’t think. I don’t know.” Callum threw up his hands, the unhelpful prick. “Look, as far as I know they’re both fine. But I also know is my sister is up to her eyeballs in her new job
and
taking care of Rhian, and you need to get your ass to Boston and help her.”

Garrick grabbed Callum’s arm. “But what—”

“Get your business in order!” Callum barked, yanking his arm free. “I have no idea what that will look like, and I don’t give a shit. Just go!”

Garrick looked stricken.

Rupert saw
red
. He slammed his hand down on his desk. “Just who the hell do you think you are, barging in here and telling him what he has to do?” he shouted, surprising even himself. “We are in the middle of draft negotiations
and
a major construction project. He can’t just hie off to Boston because you demand it.”

 “Who the hell am I? Who the hell says
hie
?” Callum returned, his face flushing red. “I’ll tell you who the fuck I am. I’m his future brother-in-law, if he doesn’t fuck it up, and I’m part owner of this team. That’s who!”

Both those things were technically true—as was the fact that as part-owners, Garrick and Callum were Rupert’s bosses—but none of that mattered in the face of Callum’s unpardonable arrogance. “Well, I don’t give a rat’s arse,” Rupert shot back. “You don’t get to throw this organization into chaos because you’ve unilaterally decided to be a bloody-minded arsehole!”

Garrick stared at Rupert in awe.

Callum, on the other hand, appeared utterly unimpressed. He sneered at Rupert. “You’re going to have to get over it,
duchess
, because I’m staying and he’s going.”

Duchess?

Garrick made a poor attempt at masking his laughter with a cough. Rupert narrowed his eyes on Callum, who glared right back.

“Listen,
Daniel Boone,
” Rupert snapped, his accent more clipped than usual. He couldn’t help it when he was this worked up. “Maybe you think your brash new-world style is charming, but I’m bloody well not impressed. We can call a meeting of the owners and discuss this like the civilized businessmen
some of us
are. Until then, we need Garrick here.”

 “How about this?” Callum shot back. “We send Garrick to Boston and hold off on the meeting until you’ve had a chance to decide if I can actually help around here, instead of assuming I’m just some dumb hockey player with a big bank account and pucks for brains.”

This was, in fact, precisely what Rupert thought of Callum. He lifted his chin higher. “You couldn’t possibly jump into the draft at this stage. You have no idea what’s needed.”

“Screw you, too, Smythe. I’ve read every report, and I know a good hockey player when I see one, on ice or on paper. I’ve studied this team for months. I know the Hamilton kid will fill out our defensive line and why. I know Belov is thinking about retiring and we need to sign strong goal talent who will last past a few seasons. I know every damn thing you know, and I have the advantage of actually having played hockey, which I would bet my last fucking dollar you’ve never done in your damn
life.
”

Rupert ground his teeth, foolishly stung by the accurate assessment of his non-hockey-playing past, and furious at the insinuation that he was anything less than fucking amazing at his job. A job Callum Morrison had no fucking idea how to do, and that no amount of time in the net, or an Olympic fucking medal, or even being one of the Morrison clan, could possibly have prepared him for.

“Fine,” he bit out, deciding that if nothing else, he’d have the pleasure of watching Callum fall on his face. “Let’s see how we do. You stay, Garrick goes. And when next season you’re not pleased with the results, you’ll have no one to blame but yourself and your monstrous ego.”

Callum lunged forward and Rupert’s temper, along with the delusional fit of bravery that had come with it, deserted him utterly. He stumbled back until he slammed against the filing cabinet in the corner.

“Callum!” Garrick barked, but Callum was already frozen in place.

Rupert’s ears rang with the clang of metal at his back and the harsh scrape of his breathing. His face burned with humiliation at the stunned look on Callum’s face as he hovered on the other side of Rupert’s desk.

He’d never come close to Rupert. Hadn’t even tried, Rupert realized with a sinking heart. Callum just moved so bloody
fast
.

Rupert swallowed, more disgusted with himself than anything Callum Morrison had managed so far. He stood and stepped away from the filing cabinet, clinging to what few shreds of his dignity remained to him. He looked at Garrick. “Go.”

“What?” Garrick asked.

“Go. Go to Boston. Your mind has been there for months anyway.”

“But, Rupert—”

“Shut up before I change my mind,” Rupert said, trying for humor and failing miserably. He took a deep, steadying breath. “As much as it galls me to admit it, Callum is right. You’re needed in Boston. You can work your ass off from there. I doubt we could prevent it if we tried, which, frankly, I won’t.”

Garrick glanced at Callum meaningfully before searching Rupert’s face. “Are you sure?”

Rupert was grateful to Garrick for his friendship. For his protectiveness, and obvious concern that Rupert might not feel safe. That Garrick didn’t laugh at him for being weak or afraid, though he was quite obviously both.

The least Rupert could do was give him this.

“Yes. Go. Send my love to Savannah and Rhian. Tell them I’m sorry you’ve had to stay here as long as you have.”

“What about—”

“I assure you,” Rupert said, arching one eyebrow at Callum, trying very hard—and failing—not to sneer, “if he’s not up for the task, you’ll be the first to know. Let’s hope he’s capable of more than high-handed douchebaggery and can pull his weight.”

Callum’s eyes widened but, remarkably, he held his tongue. Even
he
had enough brain cells to realize Rupert was about to succeed in getting Garrick out the door and on his way to Boston.

Garrick still hesitated. “But—”

“Go,” Callum and Rupert said in unison, their eyes locked on each other.

The door opened, then slammed, but Rupert didn’t see Garrick leave. He was too busy trying to stare Callum through the floor.

Callum was willing to admit he could have made a better first impression with Rupert. Probably.

He was perfectly aware that at some point in the past few years, he’d become a grumpy bastard. It wasn’t on purpose, it was just—well,
life
. Fortunately, he didn’t have that many people
in
his life, so he only got to inflict his own special brand of warmth and joy on a select few, most of whom were members of his family and wouldn’t put up with that shit for more than ten seconds before putting him in his place.

He kind of liked that Rupert had done it within minutes of meeting him.

They stared each other down across Rupert’s desk. The cool, businesslike image Rupert had projected over Skype was lost to the high color on his even higher cheekbones and the clench of his fists.

Callum could recall perfectly the first time he’d seen Rupert. His computer screen had blinked once, then there was this man—blue eyes bright even in low-res, crisp English accent, shirt and tie at what had been ten o’clock at night in Nova Scotia. Callum had allowed himself to stare, knowing the webcam would obscure who he’d studied, while Rupert had run through the deal to purchase shares of the Ice Cats from Reese Lamont. Back then, Rupert had been Lamont’s business manager, a title Callum normally associated with someone a lot more staid and boring than Rupert. But as Rupert had spouted out numbers and projections and enough legalese to put anyone off their supper, Callum had been embarrassingly enthralled. When the negotiations began and Rupert had consistently, flawlessly, arrived at every calculation within the blink of an eye and without the aid of any machine, Callum had been downright grateful the webcam only showed him from the chest up.

His best friend Michaela had laughed her ass off when he’d confessed his little problem to her later. And would laugh her ass off again if she could see him now. Or she would have, right up until the point he’d sent Rupert staggering back in fear. She would be furious at him about that part.

He was kind of furious at
himself
, actually.

He hadn’t meant to frighten the guy. Hadn’t for one moment thought he
could.
Jesus H. Christ, Rupert managed a professional hockey team. This was not an occupation for the faint of heart. And until that moment, Rupert had been happy to lock horns, his cheeks red and accent clipped, practically radiating prim British outrage. It had been kind of adorable—not that Callum was ever going to admit that out loud. To anyone. Ever. He had only intended to get in Rupert’s face and make his point. He would never lay a hand on someone in anger.