It Had to Be You (Christiansen Family) (5 page)

Then stood there in a sort of stupefied silence looking at the white bundle of laundry the size of a Volkswagen Bug sitting on
her coffee table. She approached it, nose curled, and hooked one finger into the drawn-closed hole.

Oh! Owen’s clothes, everything that his team trainer didn’t wash, apparently. His private workout gear, disgusting socks, sweaty Under Armour, and she didn’t want to guess what else was crammed into the bag.

And next to it, on the sofa, in Owen’s handwriting:

Eden picked up the note. Crumpled it in her hand.

Threw it across the room.

It hit the sliding-glass door, where, outside, the sky had begun to turn a dark gray.

To Jace Jacobsen, skating over a sheet of freshly layered ice felt akin to flying. The arena air freezing his skin and drying his eyes as he flew scraped away the last vestiges of the migraine that had chased him into the morning, even after two cups of full-brew caffeine.

He loved the early hours before practice, when the rink belonged to him. He supposed the habit started in grade school, when he hiked over to the ice shed behind the school to kill hours before evening practice. He’d had nowhere else to go, really, and it gave him time to hone his skating, sharpen his slap shots.

Now he took the ice and stretched out in long glides, skating
the length twice, then around again at top speed, the wind in his ears. He grabbed a bucket of pucks, dropped one, and gave it a slap, chasing it toward the net.

He could hear the announcer playing in his mind and reveled in it.
Jacobsen with the breakaway. He’s flying down the ice, tucks it in between the pads
 
—scores!

The puck shot into the net, and Jace rounded the back of it, hands up. Then he fished the puck out and repeated the play on the other end.

He skated a few quick lines, back and forth, working on his stick handling; then he emptied the bucket of pucks on the ice at the blue line.

One by one, he took shots on goal. The sound echoed like rifle fire against the expanse of the arena. He imagined fans, two tiers high, screaming, and smiled.

He made eight goals before he missed, then managed six more.

The Wild had first drafted him because of his blue-line slap shot. Somehow, that fact had faded when he started dropping his gloves. And then his legend took over, and he’d stopped playing hockey and started playing for ticket sales. The Blue Ox picked him up because he made a top-notch enforcer, and he sold seats.

The pucks swam around the net, waiting for him to retrieve them, and he grabbed the bucket.

But not before glancing up at the stands. More out of an old habit than anything
 
—he didn’t really expect to see her. After all, she’d been gone for two years now. But for a second, he imagined he saw her there, in her fan gear, wearing a self-knit cap, her cheeks red from the cold. Grinning. And cheering. Always cheering, even when he missed his shots or got ejected from a game.

Mom. His biggest fan. The only person who’d stuck around in his life, through the good, bad, and ugly.

Jace swallowed away the loneliness that could creep up his throat as he gathered the pucks, one by one, shooting the last out to the blue line.

When he skated back, he spied movement near the penalty box. Silly him, his heart skipped, as if fooling him, and then settled when he recognized Graham, his agent.

Only a couple years older than Jace, Graham had signed him when Jace didn’t know better, a punk still in high school, playing in the juniors, dreaming he would be a star. He guessed that Graham had shaped him into one, although he could admit, looking back, that he’d become more infamous than famous.

To cement his image off the ice, Graham had practically thrown women at him that first year, helped him purchase his first sports car. Arranged for a handful of magazine shoots.

Sometimes he wondered just what he might have been without Graham’s nudging. Without his urging to make a name for himself on the ice, regardless of the cost.

Only, wasn’t this what he always wanted?

Jace didn’t know anymore. It just felt like, when he looked in the mirror, he’d envisioned a different man looking back. But maybe this was all he’d ever be
 
—and that should be enough. Plenty of guys would give everything they had to have his golden life.

No, he wouldn’t complain.

“Hey, Graham,” he said, skating close, spraying ice as he stopped. “Did they come back with a new contract?” He tried to keep the worry from his voice, but he was no fool. With two concussions last year that had kept him sidelined for sixteen games
and a handful of migraines that took out a dozen more this year, it was enough for the franchise to take another look at his numbers.

He was still an asset, still the one guy who knew how to play old-style, rough-and-bloody hockey. And he still had chops
 
—had managed thirty-two assists and fourteen goals last year. That should count for something.

Graham always looked dressed for the boardroom, today in a silver silk suit, baby-blue shirt, black tie, shiny shoes, his hair gelled north of his forehead. “Yeah, they gave me some numbers.” He wasn’t smiling.

In fact, his gaze darted past Jace as if he didn’t want to talk about it.

“Give it to me, straight up.”

Graham took a breath. “Have you talked to CEP? They’ve got some great ideas for guys heading into ret
 
—”

“I’m not talking to the career enhancement guys. I’m not done yet, Graham. I still have plenty of hockey in me.”

“Fine. They offered $1.2 million in a one-year, two-way contract.” Graham met Jace’s eyes then, his own steely black.

“Two-way? You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I suspect they want to keep their options open.”

A two-way contract meant less money if the Blue Ox decided to send him down to the AHL. Not that they would, him being a veteran, but they had the option. In fact, they could tie him up playing games with kindergartners if they wanted and reduce his pay to pennies while they did it. A one-way contract at least secured his income, wherever they played him.

“Shred Warner just nabbed $10 mil one-way, and he’s only a year younger than me.”

“And at the top of his game, Jace. He’s a top scorer. And he
didn’t spend most of last season on the injured reserve list. Most of all, he doesn’t go out on the ice with a giant target on his back, almost a dare for the younger enforcers to take a swing at.”

“Are you saying I can’t hold my own?”

Graham held up a hand. “Nobody’s saying you aren’t still the best enforcer out there. But you come with risks. Liabilities. The franchise doesn’t want to put all their eggs in the J-Hammer basket only to have you go down with the next hard hit.”

“It would take more than one hard hit
 
—”

“Not according to Doc. He says you’re about at your limit. And don’t tell me you don’t know it. When was the last time you ended a game without a headache rolling in?”

Jace looked away, tapped his stick on the ice. “This is all I got, Graham.”

“That’s not true.”

Now Jace met his gaze with his own steely eyes. “Really? Because we tried, remember? I can’t read the teleprompter fast enough to announce, and I’m not necessarily the pretty face they want for endorsements.”

“What about that opportunity to coach?”

“The guy wanted me to teach kids how to fight. Not even I want to do that. If anything, I want to teach real hockey.
Play
real hockey.” He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “What if I didn’t take the offer? What if I finished the contract and threw my hat into the ring as a free agent?”

Graham checked his watch. “You’d have to make sure you weren’t hurt, not even once.”

“And if I wasn’t? If I ended the year injury free?”

He had Graham’s attention now. “The Blue Ox might pay more for you if they feared losing you.”

“Now you’re talking.”

“But you’ll have to be at the top of your game. And I mean best play of your life.”

“Are you kiddin’ me? I can still outskate any of those rookies.”

Graham raised an eyebrow. “Like him?”

Jace turned and spied Owen Christiansen stepping onto the ice. He should have guessed the kid would be in early, warming up.

He reminded Jace of himself in that way also.

Owen warmed up like Jace, skating around the oval, then diving in for a sprint. Jace watched him in silence, studying his glide, the way he dug into the ice.

“Yeah, I can outskate even Owen Christiansen.”

“Show me,” Graham said.

Really? Fine.

Jace skated to center ice, singled out a puck. “Owen!”

The kid skated closer. He looked like he’d done hard time facedown on a mattress, the lines still embedded in his growl. He wore cracked red eyes, his beard scraggly.

Jace smiled, something of a dare in it, and met Owen’s eyes. Then he glanced down at the puck. “Can you get past me?”

Whatever Owen had sucked down last night, it vanished in a second. He snaked out his stick to hook the puck, but Jace saw it coming and checked him away, flicking the puck between Owen’s legs. Owen caught up fast
 
—a second before Jace slapped the puck into the goal, Owen checked him hard, and he flew into the boards behind the net. By the time he’d turned around, Owen had the puck, scooping it out of the crease and into the open.

Jace took off, breathing hard, and charged Owen into the far end of the ice. They slammed together against the glass. Jace was first to find the puck and danced away with it. Owen reached
his stick in, trying to trip him up, but Jace stepped over it, then stopped hard, and the kid skated right past him.

Jace shot toward the goal as Owen regrouped. He faked again, left, then right, and it just seemed too easy, with Owen scrambling to catch up. He was nearly parallel to the goal. One flick of his wrist and
 
—

Owen came right at him and, in a move he hadn’t expected, slammed his elbow into Jace’s chin.

The blow turned Jace’s vision gray, just long enough to lose the puck.

And in that second, Owen found it.

Jace stifled a word and lit out after him, but Owen had put on the gas, and Jace couldn’t catch up. He finally reached out to spear him, but Owen was too fast; with a flick, he sent the puck into the net.

He raised his stick and glided backward around the goal, pointing at Jace, grinning. “Got ya, old man.”

Jace leaned over, catching his breath, his stick across his knees. “I didn’t know you knew how to fight dirty, kid.”

“I learned from the master.” Owen laughed and skated away. And then, as Jace straightened, he saw Owen approach Graham.

The kid dropped his gloves, glad-handing the agent like they might be cousins.

So that’s why Graham had shown up. For Owen. Probably to check up on his superstar.

Jace watched, sweat trickling down his back, across his chest. His jaw ached where Owen had elbowed him. And in the front of his head, a tiny knot began to form.

Without looking back, Jace skated off the ice. He dumped his
stick, slipped on his guards, and walked up the ramp to the locker room.

Inside, his teammates were lacing their skates, some of them still dressing. He sat down on the bench in front of his locker and leaned his head back, closing his eyes.

“You okay, Hammer?” Kalen, their new goaltender, stood over him. He’d recently decided to shave his hair into a Mohawk, as if that might get them into the Stanley Cup play-offs.

“You look ridiculous. No hockey player with any self-respect has a Mohawk.”

Kalen grinned. “See you on the ice.”

Jace closed his eyes again, listening to the rest of his team empty into practice. Then, finally, quiet. Blessed quiet.

He should just take the team’s offer and be done. Or find a new career. Sell insurance, maybe, for dopes like him who thought they were invincible.

T
HE
J
ANUARY CHILL
had warmed to a miserable drizzle, the air foggy with melting snow, as Eden left her apartment.

Please let this night end better than the day began.

Two days of not talking to Owen had worked her into a full boil this morning.
“You need to grow up and take some responsibility!”
Of course her words, echoing across her tiny apartment, had lacked any oomph thanks to the piles of clean, folded laundry on the kitchen table.

“I am grown up! I have my own car and my own apartment.” Owen shoved the folded laundry into his bag. “I don’t need your hovering, Eden.”

His black eye had turned to green around the edges, and he’d looked fierce, even triumphant, the look he got on game day or after a good practice.

“Being a grown-up is more than paying your bills. It’s about making wise choices and having healthy relationships. Neither of which apply to you.”

“I have plenty of healthy relationships. Trust me.” He flung the bag over his shoulder and winked.

She wanted to smack him. “You make me sick. Is this how you want to make a name for yourself? You’re turning out just like every other hotshot hockey player. Think about how this affects your family. Mom and Dad, and everything they raised you to be. What about your beliefs? I thought you called yourself a Christian! Either change your name or change your ways.”

He picked up his keys. “Fine. I’ll change my name.” He walked out the door.

She stood there, her heart clogging her throat. “Owen
 
—”

But he didn’t turn around.

Have a good game.
She’d wanted to say that
 
—wanted to stop, rewind, and enact their pregame ritual, the one where she prayed for his safety and then told him to make at least one goal.

Instead, she’d stood at the window and watched him drive away. And been late for work, again.

She couldn’t keep doing this
 
—she knew it. Which was why tonight would be different. Tonight, she’d simply be a fan, out on a date with a nice guy.

Perfect.

Russell was climbing out of his car as she stepped out of the brownstone. “I was going to come up and get you.” He wore a ski hat with long tassels and an oversize black parka. Perfect attire for a hockey game.

“I’m early.” She slid into the passenger side. He had turned on her seat heater
 
—thoughtful. “Thanks for driving. My battery
seems to have given up the ghost. I’ve jump-started it three times with AAA and even tried plugging it in, but it’s dead. Lately I’ve had to take the bus to work.”

“Want me to take a look at it?”

“You’re a mechanic as well as a funeral director?”

He shrugged. “I dabble in lots of things.” Once he’d pulled away from the curb, he said, “I’m glad you called me. I meant to call but things got busy at work.”

She reached into her pocket, her hand around the tickets, just checking that she had remembered them. “I felt bad about the way things ended. You were so nice to drive me to get Owen, and . . . well, I wanted to make up for it.”

“Not necessary, but thanks. This will be fun. I’ve always wanted to see a Blue Ox game.”

He smiled but didn’t look at her, and it only confirmed what she hoped. She was out with a regular guy. Not one addicted to sports or winning. Not one using her to get close to her brother or the hockey team. Just a nice, even boring guy
 
—clean-cut, responsible, and so what if he ran a funeral parlor? Someone had to, right?

Maybe this was the beginning of normal for her, too. A life without worrying about practices and injuries and equipment and games. A life without hovering over Owen.

She looked out the window at the passing cityscape, the fluorescent lights soggy in the rain. Russell had turned on his windshield wipers. Their rhythmic thumping matched her heartbeat.

“Who are they playing tonight?”

See, a hockey enthusiast would know this. “The Denver Blades.”

“Where are our seats?”

“In the family-and-friends section. It’s on the glass, near the goal.”

He nodded. “Nice.”

“We’re sort of like a club
 
—we all know each other.”

“And I’m the newest member.”

Member? She looked at him. He hadn’t shaved, and the slightest layer of stubble gave him a hockey player look. Not that she wanted a hockey player type. She wanted a man for his heart, his head, not his ability to outmuscle another person. “Yes.”

“So I’d better be on my best behavior.”

He had white teeth, a nice smile. She’d noticed that last time as well.

“I am sure you’ll be fine.”

They pulled into the parking garage, and she directed him to the private lot, next to the players’ cars. She didn’t look for Owen’s, but it caught her eye anyway.

The arena smelled like an NHL game
 
—the vendors serving up popcorn, nachos, and hot dogs. Fans roamed the corridors wearing everything from their Blue Ox hockey sweater replicas to foam hats of pucks and tasseled Mohawk snow hats. A few crazies sported faces painted blue and white.

She’d never been a nutso hockey fan. In fact, sometimes she wished Owen had picked basketball. Or badminton. The violence in hockey could turn her stomach
 
—she’d seen too many games with blood on the ice. But this was Minnesota. Even football took a backseat to hockey.

And she was here for Owen, not the sport.

She found the section and led Russell down to their seats, third row up from the glass. “Will this work?”

Russell was standing in the aisle, taking in the arena. The expanse of it could still steal her breath, with the chilly tingle in the air, the sense of something dangerous and bold about to
explode on center ice. Flags from the other NHL teams hung from the ceiling, posters of the players lined the upper deck, and like a chandelier, a four-sided Jumbotron played scenes of fans filing in, holding beer cups and hot dog boats. Classic rock
 
—Queen, Zeppelin, Metallica
 
—played from the massive speakers, stirring the bated excitement of the fans.

“This is going to be a wild game,” Eden said as she flipped her seat down.

Russell sat beside her, and she noticed how his hands gripped his knees, almost jumpy.

“Have you ever been to an NHL game before?”

He shook his head, grinning, his eyes shiny.

Cute.

She greeted the family in front of her
 
—the parents of Kalen Boomer
 
—and Brendon Sharpe, brother of Max Sharpe, a wing like Owen. They all glanced at Russell and smiled.

Cora Sutten sat down next to Eden, wearing a replica of her son’s Blue Ox sweater. Cora reminded Eden so much of her mother. Ingrid would love to attend more of Owen’s games. But she had a resort to rebuild, and frankly, she’d spent a decade in her SUV shuttling him to games. Seeing him play on television was a sort of victory.

“I see you brought a friend,” Cora said quietly.

Eden smiled. “Yes. A
friend
.” But that news would get around. Hence why she usually gave her extra ticket away
 
—bringing a date to a Blue Ox game might be akin to going steady.

The team skated out under thunderous applause and began to warm up. Owen circled by her numerous times but didn’t glance her way. She sort of expected that, but it tied a knot in her stomach. Fine. She would still pray he had a safe game.

They stood for the national anthem, and she noticed Russell didn’t remove his hat. He did, however, place his hand over his heart, so maybe that made up for it. Still, it wasn’t that chilly in the arena.

When they sat, Eden turned her attention to the ice as the announcer introduced the forward line, then the defensemen.

She didn’t see Russell unzip his jacket, or she might have stopped him. Might have gotten up right then and climbed over him, abandoning him in the stands. Or maybe scrounged up the courage to tell him to leave.

At the very least, she would have had a moment to prepare before turning to him and seeing
 
—

No. Oh
no
.

She thought she even let out a little scream, but in the roar of the crowd as Jace Jacobsen and Owen Christiansen took the ice, no one but herself could hear it.

Still, any second the camera would turn her direction, zero in on her crazy bare-chested date, painted in two-toned blue and white over his entire upper body. He must have spray-painted himself because even
 
—and she averted her eyes
 
—his chest hairs were a bright blue.

She shot a glance at Cora, who looked back at, then past, Eden. She wore an appropriate expression as she met Eden’s eyes again. Eden shook her head quickly, like,
Please tell me this isn’t happening.

Cora took her mittened hand and squeezed. “Go Blue Ox!”

Right.

Next to her, Russell was flexing what little body mass he had, shouting at the Denver players as they circled the ice. And then, whooping it up, he took off his hat and waved it in the air like a lasso. He flung it at the glass, nearly hitting someone in the front
row. The big guy with a beer and a Blue Ox jersey looked back at her, then at Russell, and frowned.

She didn’t want to look. But like a train wreck, she couldn’t help it.

Blue hair. Russell caught her eyes and smiled big. “This is awesome!”

Oh. She wanted to dissolve into the floor, but really, what could she do? Trapped in the middle of her row, she’d have to climb over him and make an even bigger spectacle.

Brendon Sharpe gave her a sympathetic smile from the row below. That’s right; he’d brought a crazy fan to the game once
 
—his date had dyed her ponytails blue and worn a too-low Blue Ox fan shirt, one that made the Thomas family shuffle their grandchildren out of viewing range.

Like Brendon, Eden would never live this down.

At least the Blue Ox scored early on a power play and went into the second period one up over the Blades.

“Would you like a hot dog?” Russell asked.

She shook her head, praying he’d leave for the vendors, but instead he stood up like an idiot and waved his hands above his head.

Oh, please, let the arena cave in right now.

The team returned for the second period, and she shot a glance at the box, saw Owen leaning on his stick, itching to get in. He’d been more aggressive tonight, already doing time for charging. He climbed over the wall to change lines, coming out hard and fast, scooping up the puck and racing down the ice.

One of the Blades clipped him, and he went head over end, landing hard. The crowd erupted in fury, cheering when Jace slammed the Denver player to the ice in retribution. He skated
away, though, instead of following with a punch, and the crowd seemed deflated.

Owen got up hot, and it turned him reckless. He spent two precious minutes in the penalty box for slashing.

Eden had never seen him play so dirty. By the end of the game, he’d spent more time in the box than Jace, who’d managed to emerge from the game without a punch thrown.

Russell seemed angry. “Not even a fight. Who goes to a hockey game and doesn’t get to see one fight?”

She’d give him a fight if he wanted one. “Please put your jacket on,” she said, picking it up from where it had fallen to the floor. “You must be cold.”

“No. I’m hot.” He grinned at her. What, did she miss something? Like a shot to the head from a wild puck? Where was nice, pedestrian Russell? The mortician?

“Yeah. Right. Let’s go.”

“I thought we were going to see Owen.” Russell took his jacket and flung it over his shoulder.

She did want to see Owen
 
—just to talk to him. Smooth things out. But
 
—“Put your jacket on first.”

He frowned at her but slipped it on, even if he didn’t zip it.

“See you at the next game,” Cora said.

Eden nodded, still wanting to die on the spot.

They followed the crowd out, and Russell did an impressive job of staying on her tail, despite her attempts to distance herself. She flashed her pass to the security guard and took the players’ tunnel outside, the cool air sloughing off the frustration of the game.

She would just apologize to Owen, make things okay between them. It was probably her fault he’d spent so much time burning off penalties tonight.

She watched her breath coil in the air, hoping she could talk her brother into giving her a ride home.

“So when’s the next game?” Russell was leaning against the wall, his shoulders hunched, his jacket still unzipped. She hoped he was freezing.

“There is no next game. At least not for us.”

“What?” He came off the wall. “Why? I thought we had a good time.”

She looked away.

“Listen, you want to go out for dinner or something first? We can do that. I get it
 
—it’s not all about hockey. But we have a good thing going, and I think it could be something special.”

She just stared at him. “I didn’t think you were so into hockey. I dropped hint after hint
 
—even invited you to the Blue Ox party.”