Penalty (Penalty Duet #1) Read online

  Now I'm laughing. "Slick Steve? What kind of dog is he?"

  "Obviously a Chihuahua." He looks behind him at the road and then takes his cell phone out of his jeans pocket. I can't help but stare at his giant biceps, the thick cut of his arms. He must work-out for a living, he seems immovable, like a tree. No wonder I immediately felt safe with him.

  "Listen," he says, tapping on the phone, "if we keep walking north and get to a better area where the road is clear, I can get you a ride home."

  "How? All the taxis have to be full."

  "Don't worry about it," he says.

  Okay, even though this handsome stranger has been charming the proverbial pants off of me, I have to think twice about this. Strangers are fun but not when they make plans for you to get into a car and don't give you any details. I may have made a big mistake thinking I could come down to my train stop and go home, despite the riot, but I'm not going to make an even bigger mistake by getting into a mystery car.

  He must read this on my face because he says, "Hey, don't worry. It's a car service, like a limo. I don't have to go with you and the driver will show you all his credentials."

  "Car service?" I repeat. He doesn't strike me as Mr. Fancy Pants. In fact, he strikes me more of a hotwire a car and drive into the mountains so he can go and wrestle a bear, and then play with the bear afterward to show there are no hard feelings, type of guy.

  He nods, squinting at me slightly. "Is that okay?"

  "Sure. But I mean, you just don't seem..."

  "Like I would have that at my beck and call?" He shrugs. "Good. Because that's the last thing I want people to see when they look at me. Now are you in or aren't you?"

  I blink at him, surprised that the ride isn't a given. In a way it makes it all credible.

  "I'm in. I live in East Portland, if that's okay," I tell him.

  "Fine with me." He grabs my hand and a shudder runs through me, the spark of heat and excitement running from his palm to mine.

  He leads me north along the river path, passing a row of homeless people who are watching the riot unfold like it's their evening entertainment, until finally we reach an area where traffic is passing through and the crowd has thinned out to a few bewildered stragglers.

  We stop by the side of the road, underneath a tree, and watch as the sky continues to darken.

  "Fuck," he says softly, shaking his head as he watches the helicopters and the flames and the downtown lights twinkle. "I had no idea. No idea."

  He seems almost hurt by this. I guess I should be too, it's my city as well.

  "Have you lived in Portland your whole life?" I ask him.

  "Me? Nah. I'm from Canada actually. Moved here a few years ago."

  "What, really?" Now I didn't see that one coming. I wonder if that's where he gets his rugged good looks from.

  He nods. "Job prospect," he says, but nothing more. He clears his throat and shoots me a sideways glance. "You?"

  "Yup," I tell him. "Born and raised. Well, kind of. I grew up not far from here but as soon as I was old enough, I left home and headed for the city. It helped that my sister was already here. I haven't looked back since."

  "And what do you do?"

  I smile quickly to myself as I try and think of the right answer. If I tell him I basically read romance novels for a living, he'll probably think I'm an airhead, like everyone else seems to think when I tell them that.

  "I'm a journalist," I tell him. A little white lie but technically still the truth. “Freelance, mostly."

  He nods at that and texts someone on his phone. “What kind of articles do you write?” He pauses, a twinkle in his gorgeous eyes. “Obviously not sports.”

  “Hey, just because I don’t like hockey doesn’t mean I don’t like sports.” I would just rather read about them in a romance novel than watch them, I add to myself.

  “Fair enough,” he says. ‘So what are your interests?”

  “Books,” I blurt out and stop myself before I tell the truth. I clear my throat and give him an awkward smile. “All kinds. I’m a book reviewer.”

  And ding, ding, ding. I see his dimples. Hot guy is impressed.

  “Really? Favorite genre?”

  “Any, as long as the hero wins at the end.”

  His smile falters. “We need more stories like that these days. Especially on a night like tonight.” He looks back to the city and sighs. It should be a crime for a guy this good-looking to look so darn sad.

  “There’s always next year,” I tell him feebly, trying to cheer him up.

  He nods though I can tell my words have done nothing to lift his spirits.

  A black Town Car pulls up to the curb just then and the hot guy’s attention is brought back to the vehicle. “Here we are,” he says, gesturing to it.

  “Aren’t you coming with me?”

  “Do you want me to?”

  Hmmm. Do I want this strange man who rescued me from the riot to accompany me home? Well, actually, the more I think about it the more nervous I get. It’s not that I think he’ll try anything and maybe I’m being naïve, however, I don’t think his driver is going to murder me and dump my body in the Willamette either. But I haven’t been alone with a guy in a long time and this one is too good-looking to even share my air.

  “Hey, I’ll take you home,” he says grabbing my hand so my palm grows warm and sparkling and leads me to the car.

  We get in the backseat and I’m conscious of the space between us as we put on our seatbelts. For a moment it looks like his hand is going to brush over mine but it doesn’t and I’m left with acute anticipation.

  “Chuck,” the guy says to the driver. “Thank you so much for coming. Oh, this is…”

  “Brandy,” I quickly say, hoping that mystery man will give his name.

  “Nice to meet you,” Chuck says.

  “We were in a bit of a pickle,” hot dude says.

  “I can see that,” Chuck says, eyeing us in the rear-view mirror. He’s older with a wise twinkle in his eye. “If I didn’t know better, I’d blame you for the pickle.”

  The stranger stiffens beside me and shoots Chuck a sharp look. “Let’s not talk about that right now. This lady needs a ride home. Where do you live?” he asks me.

  “Uh, 2275 Willowbrook Lane,” I say. “I know it’s a bit out of the way.”

  “Not a problem,” Chuck says and we drive off, heading north along the river until we can cross away from the crowds.

  The stranger talks the entire time, in a way that makes me think that he’s nervous. Our conversation is pleasant, if not innocuous, maybe as a way to forget the riot and what’s happening right now. We talk about movies and music and I’m pleased to find out that we have many overlaps, particularly for our love of 1940’s film noir. It’s not every day that you can find someone to discuss Orson Welles and Rita Hayworth with you.

  Even with heavy traffic it feels like we reach my apartment in no time and the happy little heart flutters I’ve had turn to disappointment. I don’t want this to be over. I don’t want to say goodbye.

  And yet I know, deep down, that this is the way it’s supposed to be. There’s no way that someone like this mystery man could even be interested in me beyond the damsel-in-distress scenario and just like I’m Cinderella, my night at the ball is over. This Town Car has become a pumpkin.

  I give the guy a shy, grateful smile. “This is it. Thank you so much for saving me tonight. And the ride home. Really, you’ve been more than generous.”

  “No problem,” he says. “I’m glad I was able to help. We could all use a little help these days, especially on a night like tonight.” His words kind of hang in the air, his eyes downcast.

  As I undo my seat belt, he leans in toward me and for one horrific, wonderful moment, I think he’s going to kiss me good night. In fact, my eyes are starting to close when I hear the latch of the car door. He’s just opening the door for me, like he can’t get me out of there sooner. Boy do I feel dumb.

  I smile anx
iously and quickly get out of the car. I wave at him. “Bye. Thanks again.” And then shut the door before I do anything else foolish.

  I hurry toward the front door of my building, chiding myself for thinking he was actually going to kiss me when in fact he just wanted me out of his car.

  To his credit, the Town Car stays at the curb, the exhaust fumes sucked up into the dark sky, as if he’s waiting to see I get in safely. Or maybe, my heart foolishly wishes, he’s coming up with an excuse to get my number.

  But before I can watch that idea fall, I get in the elevator and I’m whisked away, out of sight.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Brayson

  Tonight was the night.

  I mean, every night is supposed to be the fucking night.

  Every night my job, my career, sometimes my life, is on the line. But tonight was the night, a dream of mine that I’ve been chasing ever since I was seven years old and growing up in buttfuck nowhere, Alberta, sneaking over to my neighbor’s pond to skate.

  It was the final game of the Stanley Cup.

  Game seven.

  On our ice, in our city, surrounded by our fans.

  And I lost it all.

  We were all nervous. The whole team has been crackling livewires since the playoffs started and that’s no surprise there. This is what every hockey team works so hard for during the season, why the sleepless nights and the sore muscles and broken noses and cracked bones and ruined relationships and the endless fatigue and the loneliness – my god, the loneliness – have been worth it.

  The Cup.

  That beautiful cup.

  I honestly don’t know what’s wrong with me. I knew that I hadn’t made it easy on the team, that even though my moves saved us many games, allowed us to plow ahead while I was slamming players into the boards, I still never ran with that advantage. I found some way to fuck things up.

  It’s the self-saboteur in me, the part of me that’s tucked away deep down inside that tells me that my mother left me for a reason, told me that my father could never love me. It says I should give up, that I’m worthless, useless. It says that every day, when I wake up and when I go to bed. It tells me that guys like me aren’t supposed to get very far in life.

  And I’ve worked my ass off to try and shut the voice up. It’s worked well enough. I’ve gotten this far. I’ve been able to channel my rage into hits, I’ve taken my anger and made it into a skill. My career isn’t luck, it’s bitterness and rage that I’ve turned into fuel. The ice is a path to absolution, always just beyond my reach.

  Yet, tonight I let that rage get the best of me. I let my ego run amok, like I’ve had all season. I hit a few guys on the other team for fun. Sure, there was a purpose for it. But it didn’t have to be so hard, so rough. It didn’t have to happen that many times. I’m not the only defenseman on the Cougars, I could have pulled it back, let someone else handle it, someone who wouldn’t take things to heart.

  But that’s not what happened. I made stupid moves because deep down inside I told myself I don’t deserve happiness. Love. Adoration. Money. This career.

  I told myself I didn’t deserve the Cup.

  I listened.

  Now the city is burning because of me. My selfishness and self-loathing cost Portland something great. Something that could have unified this city, given it a chance to stand out. Often parodied, regularly overlooked, habitually underrated, winning the Stanley Cup would have given Portland something new to be proud of it. A beacon of hope on the wild West Coast.

  All I know now is that the team’s future is uncertain.

  As is mine.

  Or at least it was.

  Until I met her.

  Maybe absolution isn’t found on the ice at all.

  Maybe it’s found in a stranger’s big, beautiful eyes.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Brandy

  A loud knocking breaks up my dream. For a moment I'm trying to recall what it was - a handsome face, soft lips, undeniable warmth – but my brain is already pushing it out and taking in the new information. Mainly, who on earth is at my door??

  And then everything comes flooding back to me. Last night. The riot. The hot as sin dude who saved me from being trampled. The escape from the mob and the ride back to my place.

  And I never even knew his name. I can't even thank him.

  Or do other things, I think glumly. Even though being around a guy that far out of my league was intimidating, there was something so easy about talking to him. I should have asked for his number, should have done something to ensure that I would see him again. Instead I chickened out and talked myself out of it, as I always did. Didn't matter if it was at a dog park or in a hired car of the guy who rescued me, my issues with the opposite sex were getting severe.

  "Brandy!"

  My sister's voice sounds from outside the front door. "Open up right now!"

  Oh shit. It's Friday, which means it's my day to take care of my five-year old nephew, Sam. She's a single mother and in order to save money on daycare while she holds down her two jobs, I volunteer to take Sam every Friday and any other time I can fit him in too.

  "Coming!" I yell, throwing the sheet off me and slipping on my robe as I head into the apartment and to the front door. My body aches from the fall last night and I hope I have enough Advil.

  Charlie Dog is already on the other side of the door, wagging his tail happily. He knows Sam is here and loves it, usually because I let Sam give him extra treats and we often go to the playground and dog park several times.

  "Hey sorry," I apologize as I open the door.

  Instead of seeing Daisy's face though I'm looking right at a copy of the newspaper. My eyes skirt over it, seeing a headline about a riot, and clearly I'm not interested. Been there, done that. I push the newspaper away and look at my sister. She's the spitting image of me, albeit thinner and with messy bangs that are always in her eyes.

  Her eyes are wide now, staring at me in disbelief.

  "What the hell is this?" she asks, shaking the newspaper.

  "Mom," Sam whines, holding onto her hand. Sam is the swear police, something I taught him, and Daisy hates me for it. If she uses any of the "big" swear words, he gets 25 cents in his piggybank.

  "What?" I ask as she shoves the paper back in my face and then pushes past me, leading Sam into the apartment.

  I close the door behind them before Charlie Dog can run out into the hall, and lean back against the doorway as I look at the paper again.

  This time I take my time.

  It's today's. The headline says Cougars Lose! Riots Sweep Downtown Portland.

  The picture isn't of the team but of the riot police on the street. In the middle of the photo a girl lays collapsed in the street. A man is crouched on the ground beside her, holding her up, his hand behind her head, leaning in close.

  It takes me a moment to realize it's me. Me and hot mystery dude!

  And then a quick sweep of the text beneath the photo puts an end to the mystery.

  It says, Despite a penalty that cost his team the cup, Cougar's defenseman Brayson Rockwell saved an unknown woman last night during the hockey riots that besieged the city.

  Wait.

  What?!

  "What the hell did you do last night?" Daisy says, whirling around.

  "Mom," Sam warns once more.

  "I, uh," I say, unable to wrap my head around it. I hold up the paper. "This is me."

  "Yeah, I know, I recognized you," she says, nearly glaring at me. "Why are you holding out on me?"

  "What?"

  "Yeah. You and Brayson Rockwell? Brandy! I would never have guessed that, it's insane!"

  "Look, I don't even know who Brayson Rockwell is."

  "That's you, right?" she says, coming over and jabbing the picture.

  I nod, swallowing hard. "Yes."

  "And that's Brayson Rockwell."

  "You know I don't know hockey."

  "Oh my god!" Daisy says incredulously. "Please explain ho
w this happened then. I mean, what is this?"

  I absently go and sit down on the couch, feeling like I'm going through the motions as I try and understand. "This...last night I went with Lauren for drinks,” I eke out. “Downtown. The riot started as I was heading home. I got caught in the middle of it. It was...terrifying. I thought I was going to get trampled to death. Crap was blowing up, the riot police showed up, there were mobs of people, panic everywhere, tear gas I think. I don't know. Next thing I know I'm running to get away from the flames and I fall. Then this man, this...horribly good-looking man comes and saves me. Takes me home."

  Daisy is staring at me, her eyes narrowing a bit, making her eyelashes stick together. "Likely story."

  "I'm serious!" I exclaim. I pull down the edge of my robe to look at the shoulder that took the brunt of the fall. The skin is scraped with faint bruising. I did my best to clean it up last night with rubbing alcohol and Polysporin.

  "Ouch!" she says.

  "Yeah, ouch. That's when that guy came. That's when that picture was taken."

  "So he was a stranger to you?"

  I nod.

  He still is.

  "But he's Brayson. You would have recognized him."

  "Brayson?" I repeat. "You're on a first name basis with him or something? Just like every time you refer to George Clooney as George?"

  "Well that's his name, ain't it?" she fires back. "And Brayson is everywhere. On every local magazine and newspaper, on the news. I mean, he's the hottest guy in the NHL and you didn't recognize him?"

  I shrug, feeling kind of stupid. "I guess not. It was dark and I honestly don't follow these things, you know this."

  "Yet you can remember every single name of a fictional book boyfriend."

  I glare at her. "Hey. It's called priorities, okay? Anyway..." I look back at the paper. It's quite a stunning image, the way we are in focus with the flames lighting us up from the side and the wall of riot police in the distance. "At least I have a name to the face now. Poor guy. No wonder he was so upset about the loss of the game."

  "You think?" she says, blowing her bangs out of her eyes. "Anyway, I better go to work or I'll be late. Charge your phone, I've been calling all morning. And enjoy your newfound fame." She gets up and says bye to Sam who is already sitting beside Charlie Dog and petting him profusely.