It Had to Be You (Christiansen Family) (3 page)

If you liked scars and the dark expression of a man who lived for violence. At least he had all his teeth. Still, she wasn’t impressed by the so-called team captain, and the last thing she wanted was Owen turning out like J-Hammer Jacobsen.

Except what was she going to do? Drag Owen home by his ear? He wasn’t ten; he didn’t need her babysitting him.

Or did he?

They cut off the highway, toward downtown St. Paul, and Russell drove like he knew the way. Sammy’s was a sports bar located on University, near the arena where the Blue Ox played and practiced. As Russell parked his car, she spotted Owen’s Charger in the lot across the street.

“Thanks, Russell,” she said as she climbed out.

“Do you need any help?” he asked, and she tested his words for sincerity. Not that he didn’t want to help her, but maybe . . . Oh, see, she read into everything.

He was a nice guy. And she’d blown this entire date. “I’m just going to get him and drive him home. We’ll be fine.”

Russell didn’t protest, only nodded. “Sorry about this.”

“You’re sorry? I’m the one who is sorry. I’ll make it up to you. Maybe get us a couple tickets to a game.”

He shrugged. “Can I call you again?”

“Yes, please.”

The cold swirled around her legs and up the back of her jacket as she stood there letting a perfectly good date drive away. She swallowed, regret like a boulder in her throat. This was a bad idea
 
—the last person Owen would want to see was his big sister.

It didn’t matter. Apparently tonight someone had to watch his back, and that’s what sisters did. Eden turned up her collar and marched across the street.

Sammy’s Bar and Grill hosted one of the largest collections of hockey paraphernalia in Minnesota. The pub had been an old shipping warehouse, its grand windows now lit up with neon beer signs. Inside the brick-and-mortar interior, promo posters, signed pictures, goalie equipment, and framed team sweaters plastered the walls. Flat screens hung from the ceiling and were tucked into every nook, televising games from around the nation.

The owner, Sam Newton, had played eight seasons as a Minnesota Wild defenseman before being sidelined by a hip injury. Now he lived out the action from behind the long oak bar.

As Eden entered, the sweaty heat and raucous noise flooded over her. The odors of too much cologne, fried foods, and chaos tightened her stomach. Bodies pushed against each other, and she
heard the chanting even as she stood at the entrance and looked over the crowd.

“Fight! Fight!”

Perfect. She plowed through the onlookers, ignoring the protests, dreading what she heard
 
—the familiar sounds of men hitting each other, laughing, huffing as they tumbled onto the floor.

She reached the edge of the brawl and there he was. Owen, power forward for the St. Paul Blue Ox, with a button ripped off his shirt, his long hair over his face, his nose bleeding, writhing as right wing Maxwell Sharpe caught him in a headlock.

“Tap out!” Max yelled.

Oh no. Eden watched as Owen flipped him over, broke free, and found his feet, his eyes too bright.

“Eden!” Kalen caught her arm. “We have to get him out of here.” He wore a black Blue Ox T-shirt, a plastic lei around his neck. And he had cut his hair into what looked like a Mohawk. Nice.

“Where are his keys?”

“Jace took them. He’s at the bar. I’ll get Owen’s coat.”

She turned and found the hulking form of Jace “J-Hammer” Jacobsen sitting at the bar.

Someone, probably the Blue Ox PR department, had tamed the beast, at least for tonight, dressing him up like a gentleman in a pair of black wool pants and a silver dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up over his strong, sculpted forearms. Up close, she could admit that
 
—for others
 
—he possessed a raw-edged, almost-dangerous allure that might have the ability to steal a girl’s breath. Maybe
Hockey Today
magazine hadn’t been completely wrong about putting him in its lineup. His dark, curly hair fell in tangles behind his ears, as if groomed by a fierce wind, and he’d close-trimmed
his dark beard. His fitted dress shirt only accentuated all his cut muscle and brawn, but she knew he had the finesse of a skater, smooth and liquid on blades. And his eyes
 
—blue as ice
 
—yes, they could look right through a gal, send a shiver through her.

But Eden was immune to Mr. J-Trouble and his apparently lethal smile. Because she wasn’t a rink bunny, wasn’t a crazed fan. Wasn’t dazzled by the star power of one of hockey’s top enforcers. She was family, thank you, here for one reason only.

Owen.

Yes, Eden was made of ice, and Trouble hadn’t a prayer of thawing her anger. She marched up to Jace. “Nice birthday bash. If Owen gets in trouble and kicked back down to the AHL, it’s on you.”

“Hey!” Jace turned, looking backhanded.

But she didn’t plan on listening to his lame excuses. “You’re the team captain. Who else is supposed to watch Owen’s back?”

He rebounded fast. “Are you kidding me? You’re not his mother or his trainer. He’s just blowing off steam. Trust me. Your brother can watch his own back.”

“Really? This is watching his own back?” She gestured at Owen, who had grabbed an eager girl, begun to slow dance. If that’s what she could call it. “Who gave him alcohol, anyway?”

“Seriously?”

“He’s underage. He doesn’t turn twenty-one for three months.”

Jace raised a brow at that.

“Yeah, that’s right. And if he makes the papers
 
—”

But Jace’s eyes tracked past her, to the door.

Eden followed his gaze. And the terrible roaring of anger inside stopped on the burly image of Ramsey Butler, Blue Ox manager, sliding into a booth.

Kalen appeared with Owen’s coat. “You distract Butler, Eden, and we’ll get Owen out the back.”

She gaped at him. “
Distract
him? How?”

Jace slid off the stool, towering nearly a foot over her. “Flirt with him or something.”

Flirt
 
—oh, for crying out loud. “Fine. Get Owen to his car, but don’t let him drive.” She shrugged out of her coat and draped it over the chair. Flirt. Right . . . But what choice did she have? As long as this was the one and only time. Besides, truth was, she would do anything to protect Owen’s future.

She looked like a mortician in her black pants and white blouse, but maybe Butler wouldn’t notice. She still had game, right? After all, tonight she’d had a date.

Maybe she was hotter than she thought. Eden put a little sashay into her walk, feeling stupid, but making her way to the booth. “Hello there, Mr. Butler. Nice to see you tonight.”

In his midforties, Butler had his own reputation to manage
 
—the kind that traded players midseason and fired those who embarrassed the newborn franchise. Eden managed not to look behind her as she stood at the booth, blocking his view of Owen. She added a smile, propped a hand on her hip. Tried to look . . . flirty.

He looked up from where he perused the menu. “I’ll take an appetizer basket of curly fries and a Guinness on tap.”

She stilled. “Huh?”

“And what are your specials?”

So much for flirting. She glanced at the chalkboard over the bar. “Uh, fish-and-chips and a cheddar bratwurst?”

“I’ll just have the bacon cheeseburger.”

“Good choice. How do you want that done?” Now she glanced
back and saw Kalen with his arm over Owen, directing him through the kitchen entrance.

“Rare. And bring out some of Sam’s special mayo sauce.”

“You got it.”

She quick-walked to the bar, grabbed her parka, and stepped out into the frigid cold.

Jace stood over Owen, barring him from opening his car door. Owen put up a meager fight, then let Kalen maneuver him to the passenger seat and buckle him in.

Eden shook her head and held out her hand. Jace set the keys in it.

She closed her hand around them. “I know I should say thanks, but frankly, you should do better. You’re some
captain
. Is this how you take care of your players? Or maybe this is what you want
 
—for them to all turn out like
you
.” Then she opened the door and climbed in, ignoring Jace’s glare. “Owen, what were you
 
—?”

Owen turned to her, wearing a green expression. And then his double-mushroom-and-Swiss cheeseburger, curly fries, and about a fifth of whiskey mixed with the sweet syrup of Coke landed on her lap.

“Thanks for coming to get me, Sis.”

The Blue Ox should never have named him captain when they signed him. Not with his reputation, and not with his career sinking into a slow, deep freeze.

Jace sat at the end of the bar in a darkened corner near the kitchen, counting the seconds on his Rolex, waiting until the last of the rink bunnies threw in the towel and headed home.

Alone.

They sat at the far end of the bar, a trio of danger
 
—blonde, redhead, brunette. He knew the blonde, the one wearing a white jacket with fur at the neck, unzipped enough to show exactly what he might be turning down. Haylee. She worked for the local ESPN outfit and seemed to possess a sort of hockey radar that put her at every private Blue Ox shindig. She cut a glance his direction and he looked away.

No thank you. The society page could find other fodder for gossip
 
—especially with the flock of good-looking rookies in search of some new fans.

Not only that, but he’d given up any hope of a real relationship with a woman, the kind who might see past the headlines, the limelight, to the truth inside.

No woman wanted to stick around for that.

Hockey players were trouble. He’d started to believe that his rookie year, and Owen Christiansen fed every stereotype. Still, Owen could handle himself despite tonight’s debacle. He almost felt sorry for the kid after facing his sister in the parking lot.

Eden Christiansen. He’d heard her name a few times in the locker room, seen her hovering after practice. Pretty, with her blonde hair. Not tall, a little curvy. Okay, so he’d noticed her more than once, entertained the thought of talking to her. However, after today, he’d keep his distance from Owen’s personal bodyguard and overprotective representative of the Christiansen clan.

Except she had probably saved them all from a scandalous front-page appearance.

Still, he hadn’t deserved the parting shot. He’d stared into those green eyes, ripe with fury, and for a second he’d felt punched, right in his solar plexus. He didn’t have a hope of defending himself
against the likes of Eden Christiansen. Not with her opinion of him already cemented.

At the end of the bar, Haylee slid off her stool and started toward him, her hands tucked into her pockets, her hips swaying.

His head hammered right behind his eyes, his pulse beating in his throat. Oh, this wouldn’t be pretty.

“Take this. I’ll get rid of Haylee.” Sam set a coffee cup in front of him, rich with the smell of leaves and twigs. “It’s Holy Tea. Good for migraines. Try it.” He slid a couple of tablets across the counter too, then rounded the bar, intercepting Haylee. He wasn’t a big guy like Jace, but everyone loved Sam Newton. It probably had something to do with his nine-year-old princess, Maddy, who had surely inherited her father’s smile. But the girlie grace had been all Mia.

Jace had half expected Maddy to appear tonight for his party, but that wouldn’t be appropriate for a little girl. Besides, with the frigid cold, she needed to be safe at home, tucked into bed.

Jace watched out of the corner of his eye as his best friend worked his magic and herded Haylee and her girlfriends out the door.

A different night, a different birthday, and Jace could easily imagine a much more exciting ending to this bash. Exciting, but not necessarily satisfying.

And wasn’t that, really, the epitaph of his entire career? His entire life? Exciting, but not satisfying.

He swallowed the pain relievers and sipped them down with the tea. It tasted like tree bark, but he expected that.

Sam came back around the bar, began to clean up the napkins and dirty glasses. “You should be at home with a cold compress.”

Jace nested his face in his hands, rubbing at the tension around his temples. “And miss all this fun?”

“Right. I know this was the last thing you wanted to do.” Sam received a tray of glasses and other debris from Nellie. “You can punch out, Nell. Thanks for staying.”

In her early forties, Nellie wore her years around her eyes. The rest of her looked about twenty-five and still reliving the eighties, in her tight black T-shirt and painted-on jeans, her bottle-red hair piled onto her head. She untied her apron and walked by Jace, squeezing his shoulder. “Happy birthday, J.”

Bar glasses clinked together as Sam loaded the dishwasher. He moved the tables back into place from Owen’s tussle, then grabbed a rag off the counter to wipe tabletops before putting up the chairs.

“We both know this party had nothing to do with me. Nothing. It was simply a PR gimmick to stir ticket sales. And a subtle reminder that the only thing I am to them is a name. As long as I drop my gloves and can hit harder than the other guy, I’m still an asset.”