Rafferty
I’m yanking off my sweat-soaked jersey, reveling in the shakiness in my legs that tells me I worked my ass off. Practice today was a beast, and Coach wasn’t pulling any punches, especially after our too-close-for-comfort win over the Nashville Badgers. My muscles ache and I’m starving, again more signs of giving a hundred and ten percent to my team.
The locker room is alive with chatter, as it usually is. This group has developed such a camaraderie over the last two years since the original team was lost to a plane crash. Even though this is my first season with the Titans, I’ve become so immersed in the brotherhood of these men who share the ice with me, I can’t really imagine playing anywhere else ever again.
The low rumble of voices mixes with bursts of laughter—guys unwinding after being put through the wringer and happy like me to have had another successful practice. Everything is coming together for us this season and this team is the talk of the hockey world. I imagine the odds in Vegas are heavily in our favor of winning the championship at our current trajectory, but none of us look at stuff like that. Every day we put forth every bit of blood, sweat and tears to make ourselves the best hockey team we can be.
I lean back against my locker, towel draped over my head, trying to catch my breath. Atlas Karolak, our second-line left-winger, is recounting a moment from last night’s game.
“Seriously, man, you should’ve seen your face!” Atlas cackles, punching North lightly on the shoulder. North Paquette is his line mate and right-winger. “Thought you were about to take that puck to your grill.”
North rolls his eyes, grinning. “Yeah, right, as if I’d let that happen. My mom always said I had a face for cameras, not stitches.”
I chuckle, sliding the towel off my head and joining in the banter. “Better keep that pretty smile intact. We can’t all rock the rugged look like I do.”
Foster chimes in, nodding toward me. “Raff here doesn’t need any more scars. Aren’t a couple of them from your junior league fights?”
“Guilty as charged,” I admit, running a hand over a faint scar above my eyebrow—a memento from a fight that earned me more than just a few stitches but a story worth telling.
The laughter grows as we continue to rib each other, the camaraderie a stark contrast to the intensity on the ice. It’s moments like these that I remind myself why I love this sport, why I push through every punishing practice and game. It’s not just about the thrill of competition; it’s about these guys, this brotherhood.
After an ice bath for a sore knee and a shower, I pack up my gear slowly, not particularly eager to head out just yet. I love the atmosphere of this place and would just as soon be here than at my condo.
As I zip up my duffel, my phone buzzes and a reminder pops up.
Grocery run.
I curse under my breath, forgetting that I’m pretty much out of food except for protein bars, and I need more than that after such an intense practice.
I hate grocery shopping.
Any shopping for that matter, but it’s a necessity in this instance. I make mental calculations on general items I need because I’m not the type to write a proper list, as well as what I’ll eat for dinner tonight. I consider indulging my sweet tooth because I can easily justify it after the calories I burned today. Chocolate chip cookies would hit the spot, but I’ll probably talk myself out of it by the time I’m cruising the aisles. I’m pretty diligent about not putting processed sugar into my body unless it’s a special occasion, and having a really good practice doesn’t pass muster.
In the players’ garage, I toss my bag into the back seat of my Escalade and head toward the grocery store closest to my North Shore condo. The day is fading, the sky a canvas of oranges and purples as the sun sets. It’s beautiful, in a postcard kind of way, and the cityscape across the river is magical.
By the time I walk into the store, my thoughts have left the practice session behind and I’m focused on our home game tomorrow against the Seattle Storm. I stroll the aisles, pulling stuff off shelves without any great thought since I’m so lost in game brain.
I round the canned goods aisle to head into the international foods and nearly collide with a store worker who is stocking the shelves. My cart bumps her flatbed and I mutter a curse. “Shit. Sorry.”
Her head swivels my way and she gives me a smile that pops out a dimple on each corner of her mouth. “No worries. Hard to hurt this thing.”
I’m struck dumb for a moment by the straight teeth and full lips set on a face that is insanely pretty—gorgeous actually. Vivid green eyes set against caramel-colored hair pulled up in a ponytail. Sure, the grocery store uniform is a horrid shade of mustard yellow and made of what looks to be polyester, but it can’t hide a slamming body.
Suddenly, thoughts of the game are gone and I have a strong desire for Thai food, even though I’ve never cooked a Thai dish in my life. I scoot past her and peruse the shelves right beside where she continues to stock cans of coconut milk.
I’m considering how to ask her for help so I can strike up a casual conversation when movement catches the corner of my eye.
I glance left and nearly do a double take at the woman walking my way.
Tansy Carmichael.
Her blond hair is impossible to miss, her stride determined as she makes a beeline right for me. Panic flares in my chest.
This woman has turned from an annoyance to a concern, not just because I slept with her one time over a month ago and have since tried to brush her off, but because she’s Brienne Norcross’s cousin and works for the Titans’ organization as the director of marketing.
I’ve tried to be polite and gentle in making my lack of interest clear to her, but I’ve apparently not been doing a good job. She seems to pop up wherever I go and I’m wondering if I have a real stalker on my hands.
Of course, I can’t go to HR about it because she’s freaking Brienne Norcross’s cousin, and Brienne Norcross is my ultimate boss, given she owns the Pittsburgh Titans.
In a split-second decision that I hope won’t get me kneed in the nuts or arrested, I grab the beautiful store clerk and pull her into me. One hand at her waist and the other to the back of her neck, I see a flash of shock in her green eyes before I put my mouth on hers.
It’s reckless and impulsive, but desperate times call for desperate measures.
She gasps against me, tries to pull away, but I whisper against her lips, “Please… Just go with it. I need to be saved from a crazy woman.”
I lift my head, find her green eyes more confused than anything but then to my surprise, she puts her arms around my neck and kisses me back. I can’t even be impressed that she’s crazy enough to play along because holy fuck, can she kiss. Soft lips, brazen tongue.
I’ve got no choice but to engage back, sealing a blistering kiss between us that has my body reacting embarrassingly, but for the life of me, I can’t care right now.
“Rafferty, who is this?” Tansy’s voice has an edge, her tone penetrating the languid bliss as I explore the stranger’s mouth.
I pull back slowly, staring into the woman’s mossy eyes that sparkle with what looks to be amusement. My gaze drops to her chest and I see that her name tag says Temperance.
Taking Temperance by the hand, I slowly turn to Tansy and put in place a fake expression of surprise to see her there.
“Tansy… hi,” I say, giving the small hand in mine a reassuring squeeze. “What are you doing here?”
She narrows her cold blue eyes at me. “I asked who this woman is.”
Before I can answer, Temperance steps forward, extending her free hand and with a polite smile says, “Hi, I’m Temperance Martin, but everyone calls me Tempe.”
Temp-ee.
I love that.
Tansy ignores the greeting, eyes lasered onto me. “Why were you kissing her?”
Again, before I can even open my mouth, Tempe slips her arm around my waist, leans her head against my shoulder and says, “Rafferty and I are dating.”
Tansy’s eyebrows shoot up and then her eyes glitter with malice as she looks to Tempe. “Oh really? Did he tell you he slept with me recently?”
My stomach flops over because while Tempe seems like a very cool chick who might even be enjoying this, that sounds damning. “Over a month ago,” I clarify. “Once.”
The beautiful woman named Tempe, who’s holding on to me like I’m the love of her life, merely shrugs. “We were on a break. I was sowing my wild oats too, truth be told.” I nearly choke with laughter but manage to keep it down and my face bland. “But now we’re back together and stronger than ever.”
I can see that Tansy doesn’t buy a word of it and her facade frosts over to cool composure. “If you say so,” she croons and then winks at me. “But I know better. You saw me walking toward you and grabbed this stranger to kiss. I know your game and I’m here to play it. See you around, Rafferty.”
As Tansy walks away, I release the breath trapped in my lungs. Tempe’s arm drops from me and she turns back to the shelves as if a stranger accosting and kissing her in the international foods aisle was just a usual occurrence in her everyday life.
“Thank you,” I murmur, turning to face her. “You were amazing and I owe you one.”
Tempe smirks, giving me a side-eye. “Happy to help a customer.” She picks up a can, then seems to consider something and turns my way. “It was kind of fun, actually.”
Chuckling, I rub at the back of my neck. “Yeah, that was kind of fun.”
Her smile turns knowing, the dimples muted. “One-night stand gone bad?”
“You could say that,” I mutter, my face flushing with chagrin. “Tansy’s been… persistent. Stalkerish, almost, and when I saw her headed my way, I panicked and pulled you into the scheme. Thanks for not kicking me in the balls, by the way.”
Her brow arches, and she gives me a curious look. “You don’t look like the type who needs saving.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Looks can be deceiving, I guess. But really, thank you. If there’s anything I can do to make it up to you—”
Tempe shakes her head, her golden-bronze ponytail swishing. “Just doing my part to keep the grocery store drama-free.”
And it hits me at this moment—I don’t think she knows who I am. She hasn’t alluded to it, nor has she acted starstruck, and I have to admit, the anonymity is refreshing. I’m considering asking her out for a drink when a man comes around the corner, dressed in the same mustard-colored shirt and khaki pants. His name tag says Dale, Associate Manager.
“There you are, Tempe. I need you up at register five. We’ve got a bit of a rush and two of the self-checkouts are down.”
“Of course,” she says with a deferential nod before handing the can of coconut milk to me. “There’s a great curry recipe on the back.”
“Oh… yeah, um, thanks for your help. I appreciate it.”
Tempe smiles at me and walks past Dale, who glances at her only a second and then back to me. His eyes go round with recognition. “Oh my God… you’re Rafferty Abrams.”
“That I am,” I say, offering my hand to him. His palm is damp as we shake and I resist the urge to wipe the shared moisture on the leg of my track pants. I then nod past his shoulder in the direction Tempe walked off. “Your employee… she was very helpful. You should give her a raise.”
Dale laughs, as if that’s the most absurd thing ever, but admits, “Yeah… Tempe is one of our best.”
“Well, I better let you get back to work,” I say, adding the coconut milk to my cart.
The manager bobs his head and I turn in the opposite direction. I continue up and down the aisles, a game plan in place to get in Tempe’s line and then ask her out for a drink.
But when I get there, she’s not at any cash register.
I consider walking around the store to see if I can find her but ultimately decide against it. The last encounter I had with a woman—Tansy—didn’t end up so well and I’m fine with just lying low for a while and concentrating on hockey.
