Instacrush (A Rookie Rebels Novel)

  Instacrush

  A Rookie Rebels Novel

  Kate Meader

  This novel is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 by Kate Meader

  Cover by Michele Catalano Creative

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Epilogue

  Wrapped Up in You

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Kate Meader

  Prologue

  Theo Kershaw was the luckiest guy alive.

  With the best hands in hockey and the world at his skates, he had a career anyone would envy. Number three draft two years ago, all the more remarkable because he was a D-man. Defenseman. Thunder thighs—that’s what Coach called him. Rock freaking solid in the back third. No one was getting by him.

  The LA Quake suited him, even if it felt strange for a Michigan boy to be skating during warm weather. He liked how laidback California was. The team practiced that West coast, earthy-crunchy lifestyle: yoga, meditation, nutrition plans that involved fruits and grains and ingredients Theo had never heard of until a year ago.

  Another thing rocking his world? This year, they had a real shot at going all the way. Knocked out of the playoffs during the first round last season, that was about to change. Only five more games to go in the regular season and they were in second place in the conference.

  Tonight they were playing Vancouver, the team one spot ahead of them in the table. You could say they were the team to beat.

  Screw that. The Quake was the team to beat and Theo was the D-man to pass.

  They were two goals up by the end of the first period, so happy, happy. Theo had defended like he was paid to—which he was. Handsomely.

  The second period started, and three minutes in, a killer headache was dragging him down. A migraine, maybe, though he didn’t think he’d ever had one. Was it my-graine or mee-graine?

  Distracted, he missed a pass. One second the puck was barreling into his strike zone, the next he’d completely whiffed it. Macker, their goalie managed the block, but what the hell happened there?

  The lights glowed brighter, like they were inside his brain, flickering on and off. The contents of his stomach—a very tasty chicken wrap—surged and his mouth watered with that telltale signal: he was going to puke.

  Koz, the Vanouver center smashed him against the boards. Standard checking procedure yet Theo lost his balance. He should have been up in half a second, but something was keeping him on his very fine ass. His helmet felt like a crown of pucks.

  He tried to push up off the ice, but his head wanted to stay down. Pressure behind his eyelids was pushing, pushing, forcing the ball out. He could already imagine the mess it would make on the shiny white ice, rolling away like a Halloween horror freak show.

  “Kershaw, you okay?”

  “Yeah,” he lied to Gunnar Bond, his captain. “Never better.”

  Gunnar was looking at him strangely, his blue eyes troubled. Someone pulled Theo’s helmet off, which was good because crown of pucks, but bad because he needed that bucket to hold his brain inside his skull.

  More people loomed over him: Bond, the ref, looky-loos, all peering at him like he was a circus show weirdo.

  “Give him room,” Bond said. The ref knelt, and something about what he saw freaked him out. “Medic! We need a medic here.”

  Suffering Jesus, it’s just a headache, people. He tried to tell them he’d be okay in a minute, but the words sounded like garbage from his mouth. Not garbage. Garbled? Garbled garbage. He didn’t know, only he never wanted anyone to look at him again like this zebra with the sad-dog eyes.

  “Theo, stay with us,” Gunnar said, his voice soothing, his eyes really fucking blue. The guy was a great captain, one in a million, and if anyone could stop Theo from going somewhere, it would be Bond.

  Besides, where would Theo go? They had a game to win, a series to start, a cup to lift.

  The lights were bright, but suddenly not. Suddenly they were dim, dimming, dimmer.

  Suddenly they were gone.

  1

  Two years later

  @TheTheoKershaw Are you ready for the holidays? Check out my recs for the hockey lover in your life #TheoDoesChristmas #WrapItUp #HoHoHockey

  Elle Butler had a morning routine. Coffee, strong, a dab of creamer, half a Splenda. A slice of cinnamon toast (no raisins because ugh). Sleeping in until 8 a.m., a luxury after her stint in the military, but necessary given she usually closed out the Empty Net bar, her current place of employment.

  Little things, no harm to anyone, and hardly likely to throw the universe’s balance out of whack. Elle was big on balance. For four years in the army she’d added entries to the credit side of the ledger. She’d supported her team. Saved the lives of her guys in the field. Served her country with honor.

  All so she could atone for a previous lifetime of entries on the debit side.

  It was a never-ending task, though. Balance had yet to be restored and on occasion, she slipped, such as this morning.

  Fine, most mornings.

  Anyone who spied her gazing at her phone, complete with a (usually) shirtless man reporting on his morning routine through the magic of Instagram Live video, would be rightly confused. Because Elle Butler was not a hockey fan. She barely knew how the game was played despite working in a sports bar within spitting distance of the Rebels Center, home of the local franchise. Even crashing at the apartment of a player for the team—Levi Hunt, army buddy, former Special Forces, and now the Chicago Rebels latest rookie—hadn’t provided any special insight other than that they ate, slept, and banged a lot. Like sharks.

  She did not like the sport and she most certainly did not like Theo Kershaw, defenseman for the Rebels. But she liked looking at him. He and his “Imma-doing-laundry-shirtless” videos were her guilty pleasure.

  And she would die before she admitted it aloud.

  This morning was no different. Coffee in hand, toast mid-chew, Elle tapped the icon for Instagram (user name: PuckLover21, the height of sneaky irony) just as Kershaw began to broadcast. He didn’t always archive the videos to his regular feed so it was best to catch him live before he headed off to practice.

  “Morning, hockey fans! It’s another fabulous day in Chicagoland!”

  Grrr. He wa
s already irritating her. Why must everything out of his mouth be punctuated with exclamation points? The guy was so extra which was probably why people adored him. As for Elle? She was here for the pretty.

  Black, wavy hair that had clearly undergone some sort of finger-rake attack topped his ridiculously handsome head. His full, sensual lips were perfect for mouthing ludicrous opinions that had invariably bypassed his brain filter. Those cheekbones must have been carved by malevolent angels determined to make every man suffer by comparison, then stumble through the rest of their miserable lives when they realize perfection is unattainable.

  But the kicker was the eyes. She’d read somewhere that less than 2% of the world’s population had green eyes. Theo’s were emerald chips raised to unstinting magnetism by flecks of gold, which was probably even more rare. (Because, Theo.)

  Barely ten seconds into the video, and Theo seemed to realize that, as awesome as his cheekbones and hair and eyes were, the effect was magnified ten-fold when he repositioned the camera to take in his broad shoulders and defined pecs. A flurry of emojis flooded the screen. He laughed, knowing exactly how that maneuver would be received.

  Elle wasn’t laughing. Her mouth had turned as dry as butterless toast. To think she’d met him in person, had served him drinks in her bar, was less than thirty feet away from him right now—and she didn’t mean the metaphorical distance between his on-screen presence and her hormonal one.

  Because Theo Kershaw, defenseman for the Chicago Rebels, teammate to her roommate, known as Superglutes because of his most excellent posterior, was also her neighbor. As in across-the-hall-hey-how-are-ya neighbor.

  He was over there now, making this damn video and she was watching the show like a creeper.

  Clearly satisfied with the effect his muscles had on his fan base, he brought his camera back in close. “So, we’re two days out to Christmas, friends, and I don’t have a game until two days after which means I have time to … wrap presents!” He flipped the lens to take in his living room, cluttered with wrapping paper, scotch tape, and assorted boxes. Something twanged in Elle’s chest. There would be no presents under her tree this year. Estrangement from one’s family tended to put a damper on the gift exchanges. But she’d made her decision, choosing her conscience over her blood. Now wasn’t the time for regrets.

  Back facing the camera, Theo smiled. Elle swore she heard the thud of thousands of dropped phones the world over. “Anyone want to guess what I’m buying for my gran?”

  The predictions came in hard and fast, ranging from a cashmere sweater to scented lotions to inappropriate items that no guy should be buying for an elderly female relative.

  Theo’s dark eyebrows (probably professionally shaped) lowered as he read some of the messages, then raised as he likely came across the more risqué ones.

  “Hold up there, I don’t know what kind of relationship you have with your grandmother, but we’re not that kind of family!” He chuckled, the sound deep and going straight to her core. She had to give it to him: he knew exactly how to connect with a million plus people and their genitals.

  “Well, I can’t tell you what it is because she’s probably watching right now. Hi, Aurora!” He waved. “She’s always been my biggest fan and I can’t wait to see her in a couple of days. But keep those guesses coming and I’ll pick a winner for a signed Rebels jersey. So, let me see, JennyLuvsARebel is asking …” His perfect brows knit together while he read Jenny’s question.

  “How do you get your skin to glow like that? Great question! Well, I’ve been using Neutrogena Hydro Boost to cleanse every night and morning. It’s really lightweight and creamy and doesn’t leave my skin feeling tight. And it’s incredibly affordable. Thanks for asking, Jenny. I’m going to send you a Neutrogena care package, so get ready for skin that lights up the room! Okay, I’d better get back to it as I have a few more gifts to wrap up. What’s that? I should wrap myself up?”

  He held the phone camera back to take in his entire torso.

  Elle’s tongue turned to rubber. #StopDontStop.

  “You want me to cover this up? Maybe we should take a vote on it.”

  A cascade of comments insisting that Theo remain shirtless flurried like gravity-challenged snowflakes across the screen.

  Never!

  Don’t do it, T.

  That bitch is crazeeee!

  “Didn’t think so,” Theo said with a cheeky wink, and then it was over and out, and Elle’s world was a little less bright.

  Such nonsense! How ridiculous that she would allow a himbo hunk be the highlight of her day, all the more so because she’d met him in person and knew he wasn’t worthy of this strange infatuation. He was just another brainless jock who thought he was all that.

  Two months ago, she’d shown up on Levi Hunt’s doorstep, acting like an unannounced visit to an old army unit-mate was perfectly normal. As if her request to stay in his spare room for a couple of days that had stretched to eight weeks was completely by the book. Hunt had known that she was running from something, but he hadn’t pressed. Instead he’d welcomed her with open arms, their connection strong enough for him to treat Elle’s situation as need-to-know.

  That night, she’d walked in on a Rebels bonding exercise: video games, beers, and pizza with Hunt presiding in that quiet, stoic way of his. Already flustered because she was trying so hard to act like a normal, she’d not been prepared to meet him.

  “I’m Theo, one of Levi’s teammates.”

  Those green-gold eyes had bathed her with an intensity she would later learn he usually reserved for the ice. Words refused to climb her throat. All she could do was nod in response, feeling like the biggest dummy for being tongue-tied by beauty.

  Hunt had made introductions and said something about Theo being a D-man. She didn’t know what that was, but it sounded faintly absurd and on the right side of dirty. She angled for the upper hand with a playful retort that came out much sharper than intended.

  “D-man? What the hell is that?”

  “Stands for defense,” Theo had said. “And other things.” His perfect lips stretched wide into a grin, revealing straight, white teeth and a mouthful of privilege.

  She’d met guys like him in her various walks through life—cocky grunts who thought the only female in the unit would automatically put out. Arrogant Wall Street types who assumed their waitress would gladly serve more than fifty-dollar prime rib to earn that 20% tip. Pro athletes were just another genus of the same species.

  D stands for defense … and other things? Sure.

  She settled on dismissal. “Way to sell it, Dick-Man.”

  He didn’t take offense, which she soon learned was his standard response when poked. It had set the tone between them.

  Ever since, she’d gone out of her way to ignore him (in person). Might even have overcompensated by being rude. Self-preservation was key. Better to enjoy Theo Kershaw from afar, in the privacy of her—or Hunt’s—kitchen. He would never know that she got a kick out of the doofus’s muscles, sparkling green eyes, or knock-em-dead smile.

  He would never know what she truly thought of him at all.

  2

  The knock on the door was loud enough to make Elle jump. She closed her laptop on the search she’d been running. Checking up on her family was a full-time job, and she needed to know they weren’t up to anything—or at least anything she couldn’t scupper before significant damage was done.

  Hunt was out of town for the holidays, and the building he lived in, with a lease set up by the Chicago Rebels, was relatively quiet. Most people had already headed to wherever their holiday plans would take them.

  It might be him. Theo.

  Unlikely, though. Levi had given his teammate-neighbor a key and he liked to pop in and raid their fridge on the regular, which she’d added to the running tab of things Theo Kershaw did to step on her nerves, after looking so fine and placing unreasonable demands on her attention. She paid for those groceries and did he ever return the favo
r? That would be a negative. But Levi made up the difference, so she remained quiet. Guys like Theo Kershaw assumed people were put on this earth to feed and service them.

  The knock came again, louder, more insistent. With a stealthy slide forward, she checked the peephole.

  It was him.

  A glance ceiling-ward held no answers, so she squinted through the hole again. Shiny hair, square jaw, naked … shoulders. It was one thing to view them with the protective distance of Instagram—this was not her preferred method of interaction.

  “Come on, Sergeant Cupcake, I’m freezing my ass off out here.”

  His ass. Meaning that ass, the world’s eighth wonder.

  Hauling in a deep breath, she opened the door, ready to be miffed. Theo Kershaw, hockey god, grocery thief, and possessor of the finest ass she’d ever ogled, stood before her wearing a towel and a frown.

  “About time.”

  He took a step forward.

  She took a step back.

  This little dance was enough to signal invitation to come in but not quite enough to give him space to do it. “I got locked out. Any idea where—”

  “Hold up.” Her instincts to defend her turf and the remains of her dignity caused her to place her hands up awkwardly and graze his chest.

  Heat. So much heat even with that mere brush of a touch. She recoiled.

  He raised an eyebrow. “I’m not radioactive, y’know. If you want to touch, just ask.”