Dear Roomie Page 3

  I am what you’ve made me. “I need to go into practice.”

  “All right. Make sure Coach knows what you can do. When I come down to see you in a couple of weeks, I want a good fight.”

  Reid shuttered his eyes briefly. Henri would be visiting Chicago for a couple of days capped off by a hockey crosstown classic: Rebels v. Hawks. Both of the Durand boys in the cage together where Henri could assess that plan for world domination.

  “Sure, Dad. Gotta go.” He went to hang up but his father had already done so. Typical power move.

  Fifteen minutes before practice, so he headed into the locker room. One nice thing about the Rebels practice facility was that they built the locker room to be just like the real one. It was a good way to ground the players and keep that continuity between the practice and playing space. Reid headed to his cubby and changed into his gear. Most players were superstitious, employing rituals about the order in which they dressed, the number of rounds of tape on the stick’s butt, kissing their holy medals, even for practice.

  Reid wasn’t superstitious.

  Reid was observant.

  The Rebels were a tight team. Sure, most sports teams had a band of brothers vibe, but this team was different. More like family, if your family was modeled on some sitcom perfect TV shit.

  You had the father figures: Gunnar Bond, Vadim Petrov, even Levi Hunt, though he was newer to the NHL after a stint in the Green Berets. Total badass and a great center.

  Then there were the little brothers: Theo “Superglutes” Kershaw, Cade “Alamo” Burnett, both D-men, and Erik “Fish” Jorgenson, their Swedish goalie. Goofballs, the lot of them.

  So, all the standard architypes. What made the Rebels different from other NHL teams was at the top. Owned by the Chase sisters, they had inherited from their father who had been a maverick in the game (read: asshole) and cut from the same ice block as Henri. It should have been a disaster but it worked.

  The Chicago Rebels had den moms.

  And then there was Cal Foreman, a right winger like Reid, and who, also like Reid, had started with the team this season. In the Rebels family unit, Foreman would be the big brother everyone looked up to—or that’s what he aspired to.

  Reid didn’t like Foreman much, though if pressed, he would have a hard time thinking of an exact reason. The Bostonian was beloved by the team, an all-around stand-up guy. No one had a bad word or was ever on the receiving end of his temper, which was so even Reid wondered how the man managed to score any goals. In his experience, anger fueled competitive play. It was the foundation for winning. Foreman and Reid had roomed together for away games this season, someone’s idea of a joke given that they were competing for a spot on the first line.

  Foreman adjusted his shorts then took a seat on the bench to lace up his skates. “You come to any big conclusions out there, Durand? Sitting all alone, gazing at the ice.”

  “Just that I’m going to get to every puck before you in the next hour.”

  “Visualize it and it’ll happen, that kind of thing?” Foreman was smiling, but it wasn’t reaching his eyes.

  “I don’t need to employ my imagination, Foreman. I say it, it happens.”

  Foreman studied him, probably trying to puzzle him out. Reid knew that look. He’d been on the receiving end of it from pretty much every player, coach, and reporter for the last seven years. People were usually confused about why he didn’t try harder to make friends with his teammates. If he made more of an effort to get along with people, surely he’d integrate better, be more of a team player.

  Maybe. Or maybe the next time he came across one of his former teammates on an opposing team, he’d let up and go easy on him, all because they were friendly. Not worth the risk.

  The game is half won before the puck is dropped.

  Words of wisdom from the Book of Henri. His stepfather instilled it in both Reid and his brother but only Reid took it to heart. Bastian didn’t need it, not with his abundant talent, but Reid had to rely on other stratagems. If he could earn a slight advantage by getting inside an opponent’s head, then he would.

  Such as now. “How’s Mia?”

  Those unsmiling eyes of the nicest guy in the NHL turned to dark slits. “Why do you want to know?”

  “After your purchases yesterday, I assumed she was under the weather.”

  Foreman was currently engaged in supposedly-secret affair with Mia Wallace, sister to the captain who was also Foreman’s best bud. Reid had run into Foreman yesterday at the drug store where the man was buying tampons. He didn’t need three guesses to figure out who those were for. Dog food, too, for Mia’s Pomeranian, the cutest bundle of fur this side of the Mississippi.

  Foreman hadn’t liked it when Reid tried to give advice, on the tampon purchase and the idiot’s love life. I mean, ya try to be a guy’s friend … If you wanted to be with someone, why would you let an asshole like Petrov stand in your way?

  This was why having buddies on the team was a mistake. Foreman wanted a woman but was deferring to his Russian bestie. So fucked up. All these ridiculous social contracts merely got in the way of progress.

  “Don’t you worry about Mia,” Foreman gritted out. “Just worry about your game.”

  “Sure, Foreman. See you out there.” Point to Reid.

  Satisfied he’d added a burr to his competition’s skate boot, Reid headed out to start practice.

  Kennedy was mixing up a batch of coffee frappe, marveling that people actually wanted to drink this frigid, sugary junk in November, when her co-worker Elena spoke up.

  “Your boy was in earlier. Hot Jerk himself in the flesh.”

  Kennedy should never have shared her nickname for her least favorite customer. Though she had to admit a twinge of disappointment at having missed his visit, especially after their semi-decent connection the other day.

  “Did he scowl from door to bar?”

  “You know it. But he also—get this—said “thank you” when I handed him his drink. And he kept looking toward the back office door as if he was expecting someone to walk through it.”

  Kennedy’s pulse drummed a little harder. Surely she shouldn’t read anything into that.

  “He was in on Sunday and he actually spoke to me,” Kennedy said. “I’d just got off the phone with the realtor from hell and my damage could be felt in earthquake aftershocks all the way to Navy Pier. He asked if I was all right.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, and I promptly spilled his drink because, bam, he opened his mouth.” A hot mouth it was, too. His lips were a perfect pink and had a sexy pout to them, even as the eyes rocked ye old Wild West squint. “I told him it was his fault because he’s usually such a grouch.”

  “You didn’t!”

  “It had to be said. If I can impart a little wisdom while I’m in the serving trenches, then I’ll do it. For the little people everywhere.”

  Elena laughed. “Brave woman.”

  Not really. She wasn’t one for tip-toeing around men, grumpy or otherwise. It had taken her time to assume this armor and she made damn sure it was polished bright.

  Elena popped a sleeve of cups from their plastic wrap and stocked the empty spot beside the bar. “How’s the house hunt?”

  “Ah, yesterday was a bust. The guy wanted me to feed his pet snake when he went on overnight trips. He even showed me the cage of live mice.”

  Elena looked appropriated horrified. “How long can you last on that sofa?”

  “Oh, I’ll be fine.” She had lied and told Elena that she’d landed at a friend’s for the last few nights. Elena wanted to help but she had two kids, her mother on the premises, and a cheating ex to worry about.

  Edie was right. Kennedy needed, if not a bucket list, at least a clear set of goals.

  An interrupting cough drew their attention. Laura the manager stood at the door to the office, her mouth set in a grim seal. “Kennedy, could you come in back for a second?”

  New to this store as of three weeks ago,
Laura had already admonished Kennedy for her pink-streaked blond hair (technically against the dress code but she kept it largely hidden under her baseball cap) and her occasional lateness (Edie’s Ford Focus took a while to warm up in the morning, not unlike their caffeine-deprived clientele.) Their previous beloved manager, Aditi had gone on to better things at the corporate office, so now Laura was in charge at Store No. 1436 in Riverbrook, just north of Chicago.

  Elena cut her a quick look and mouthed “what?” to which Kennedy shrugged. Every time Laura asked her to come “in back,” it was usually for something ridiculous—like the time she’d enquired if her tattoo was “one of those fake ones that she could wash off” because it was “in a foreign language and might be profane.” You know, the usual managerial harassment.

  Kennedy stepped into the back office-slash-stockroom and hovered near the desk while Laura hit some keys on the computer keyboard. She did that a lot—called the staff for impromptu meetings then made them wait like she was Christian Fucking Grey. Then she would look up, either feigning surprise that the summoned staff member was there or annoyance that they’d arrived as summoned but hadn’t let her know.

  Today was surprise. Sure, Jan.

  “Oh, Kennedy, there you are! So, uh, Corporate has been in touch.”

  “Okay.”

  “There was a complaint about service here this past weekend.”

  Kennedy’s heart did a dead bounce on the floor. “A complaint?”

  “A customer called about the store counter being left unattended because a staff member was on a loud, personal phone call back here. And that staff member was …” She took a deep inhale. “Swearing.”

  Kennedy could lie. Or deny. But obviously she was in the frame for this one because she was here “in back.”

  “I might have been talking to someone. Okay, arguing, and I might have left a customer waiting for a few seconds too long. But I apologized and he was okay with it.” As for swearing, no might about it. She had definitely let out a NSFW word when she spilled his drink.

  “Apparently not. Because he called and complained, Kennedy. And it’s not as if it was just any old customer, is it? That’s Reid Durand, the hockey player.” Said in a hushed tone like he was the Dali Lama.

  The asshole complained after she had been thinking charitable thoughts and musing on his sexy, pouting lips? They’d had a moment! He hadn’t left pissed at her, she knew that much.

  “According to the email I had from Corporate, his name was mentioned. Not that it matters. All our customers are important, and this is merely one in a long line of examples of where you’ve disregarded customers. Only a couple of weeks ago, you were disrespectful to him and refused to re-make his drink.”

  There’d been a quick exchange a while back where she had forgotten to say the full name of his drink per company policy when she popped it on the counter. Hot Jerk had taken issue with her possibly missing the extra shot, which she hadn’t.

  No one that good-looking should be that bad-tempered. As a pro-athlete, he had the world at his skates: looks, talent, money, and the adoration of every person in this coffee shop. But that wasn’t good enough. He had to strike a blow for entitled jerks everywhere to keep the 99% in their place.

  “I didn’t refuse! I assured him I’d made the right one.”

  “And then made a rude gesture.” So she had stuck her tongue out at him when he walked away, which admittedly was childish and unprofessional. “This can’t go on. We have to let you go.”

  Kennedy’s heart popped into her throat. “You’re firing me?” She hadn’t even been here long enough to get the health insurance. That was her whole reason for putting up with this shit. She’d hoped to get an annual physical and have all her plumbing checked before she went traveling again.

  “You’ve left me with no choice. You’re disrespectful to customers, you’re frequently tardy—”

  “Twice!” Since Laura had arrived, anyway.

  Laura glared at the interruption. “You don’t do your job, and your appearance, while technically within the dress code, has always been shoddy. And don’t think I haven’t noticed you giving out your dog-walking business card. Touting for customers on the clock? You can pick up your tips and final paystub on Friday.”

  “Laura, surely we can talk about this.”

  But Laura’s face had cemented to finality, looking like she’d just eaten a sour lemon and was considering asking for seconds. She and Reid D would have beautiful, crabby-faced children.

  That was it. No talking, no finagling, no job.

  Hot Jerk had gotten her fired.

  4

  Reid finished stretching on the sand of Riverbrook Beach and took off for a run toward the rocky outcrop about a mile off. He didn’t usually spend much time running on the beach, partly because this small band of land fronting Lake Michigan just north of Chicago barely met the definition of one. Behind him was a playground, a concession stand and shacks closed for the season. Up ahead a couple walked hand-in-hand, trying to convince themselves that a November day beside a large body of water in the Midwest was romantic. Right.

  His jaw still stung where Foreman had hit him.

  It had felt good, leaning into the punch, taking that beating as Foreman pounded his frustration into Reid. The hungover idiot had fallen out with his girl at the Rebels charity auction last night and was late to practice after having his ass chewed out by management.

  It didn’t take much to set him off. Reid merely lit the match of that raw-nerved kindling. If it messed with Foreman’s mind and got Reid more ice time then he was prepared to suffer a little bruising.

  The worst part was that Foreman tried to apologize. To Reid.

  He had almost felt sorry for the guy in that moment. He was a man in love and his world—a world currently revolving around a woman—was imploding. Reid didn’t know what that felt like and hoped he never would. How could anyone focus with that kind of distraction? For a man like Foreman, so used to everything going his way, it had to be rough to suddenly find that someone didn’t want you.

  Maybe Reid would lay off the Masshole for a while. Let that broken heart do its holy work.

  The wind made his eyes water. He picked up the pace, overtaking the couple without a sideways glance. Not that they would automatically recognize him, but he didn’t want to risk it. Hopefully they would have turned around by the time he reached the rocks and came back.

  The sound of a yapping dog, or maybe more than one as the pitches were slightly different, carried on the stiff breeze. He couldn’t see any animals but the beach was close to a wooded area, where people probably walked their dogs.

  He was supposed to see Bastian tonight. Reid knew he’d been avoiding his brother. “All the better for our rivalry,” he had joked, though Bastian had frowned, taking it seriously. And maybe Reid had meant the dig. After all, that was all the Chicago sports press cared about, wasn’t it? The Durand brothers, playing hockey in the same city at last. Whoop-de-do. It was ridiculous how the journos assumed they didn’t get along when they got along fine.

  Mostly fine.

  No doubt Henri was responsible for putting a bug in some reporter’s ear about his sons’ rivalry since birth. Pitting them against each other was merely grist for his grand scheme to make them winners instead of sniveling little pussies.

  His words.

  But Bast already had his Cup win when the Hawks grabbed the brass ring three years ago. The way he was playing this season he had a good shot at another.

  Reid kicked up his legs and moved faster, the water to his right, the rocks his destination. His eyesight blurred with the frigid air, the wind like sharp blades though his running hoodie.

  Something snagged his attention. A coat in the water or a piece of carpet. He kept the same pace—or tried to, but the coat insisted on drawing his gaze. Buffeted by the waves, it was covered in frothy frills of surf. Then the oddest thing happened.

  It transformed into a face.


  With ears.

  That’s no coat. There was a dog in the water!

  About thirty feet out, this dog was valiantly trying to keep his head above the waterline. The beach at this point was more of a break bordered by jagged rocks that extended a shelf of about six feet overhanging the water. Reid could climb over and … what? Jump in?

  The current didn’t look particularly strong, but definitely strong enough to cause trouble for a dog and any man who might think taking a dip in sub-zero temps was a good idea.

  Why was the animal even here? He looked around. The couple was still far behind. The dog didn’t belong to them. No one else seemed to be in the vicinity, but that yapping sound still carried over the wind from the woods. Perhaps his owner was looking for him.

  He scanned ahead. The current might carry the pup to the rocky outcrop about three hundred feet out, where Reid could reach out and grab him.

  He went under again. No no no.

  This helpless creature was fading fast.

  Reid stripped off his running jacket, but kept his shoes on because those rocks looked tricky. The last thing he needed was to break his damn ankle. His very expensive ankle. Henri would love that.

  He climbed over the rocks, feeling his way to the flatter sections until he reached the edge. A voice behind him called out some sort of warning, but he’d already committed to action.

  Into the water, and pray there wasn’t a murder of jagged rocks just below the surface ready to fuck him up.

  He jumped in feet first, rather than risk his hands or head. His feet didn’t touch the bottom and he started swimming through the icy water.

  The fucking freezing water.

  It’s Lake Michigan in November. Did you think it would be tropical?

  Reid didn’t care. He didn’t have time to care.

  Five feet, ten, at twenty-five feet, he reached the dog who had somehow sensed help was on the way. His head popped out of the water and Reid was sure that was relief he saw in his big brown eye because only one was open.