Penalty (Penalty Duet #1) Page 4

  "Newfound fame?" I repeat. "You can barely tell that's me, first of all, and second of all, I'm called unknown woman. Which is just the way I like it."

  "Suit yourself," Daisy tells me. "But the next time something like this happens, tell me, okay? We're all we've got."

  I know Daisy is being somber with those words but I can't help but say, "The next time I nearly get swept away in a riot, or the next time I'm rescued by someone famous?"

  She opens the door and seems to think about it before she says, "Both." She waves goodbye and then she's gone.

  I sigh and look over at Sam.

  "You're in the paper," he says, his expression so grave that I can't help but smile.

  "Yes, I guess I am."

  "It looks scary."

  "It was scary," I tell him, coming over and sitting down beside them both. Charlie Dog gives me a lazy thump of his tail, happy to have Sam's attention. "But I'm okay."

  "Is that man your boyfriend?" Sam asks.

  I let out a soft laugh. "No, no. I didn't even know him. He helped me. I guess the photographer thought it would make a good image."

  "Good," Sam says, his brows furrowing. "I hate mom's boyfriends."

  This is a new one. Daisy got pregnant with Sam with her first husband, David, when she was twenty-one. David only stuck around for a year before he took off with another woman and Daisy's been on her own since, no child support or any support of any kind aside from me. Or my aunt, who practically raised us. Our parents died when we were young and my aunt had to struggle to take care of both of us.

  "Who are your mother's boyfriends?" I ask him. Daisy and I are close –we have had to be –

  but because of the nature of her life, we don't talk about fun stuff and relationships and things like that.

  He shrugs. "I don't know. They seem okay. But they're here and then they're gone and then mom cries. I don't like them. They must be mean."

  "Oh Sam," I tell him, pulling him into a little hug. "I'm sure they're not mean. Your mother is very busy and you know that can't be easy. You're her number one priority, remember. You're the most important. I think she would just rather spend her free time with you. And that's a good thing, don't you think?"

  He nods and I tell him that we'll go and take Charlie Dog for a walk, something they both get excited about.

  Before we exit the apartment I take one last look at the newspaper. A small smile creeps across my face, a warm glow in my chest. It sounds dumb but I feel special for the first time in my life, more special than when I won an award in journalism school for copy-editing. How funny to think that my words aren't in any major publications yet my picture is.

  Unknown woman, I think to myself. And one very known man.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Brayson

  "Brayson Rockwell, you son of a bitch," a voice barks on the other end of the phone. "I'm not sure if it was your plan all along to redeem yourself but for today, you've probably stymied a thousand death threats."

  "What are you talking about?" I ask as I fry around some bacon and eggs in the pan. It's nearly noon and I've been sleeping all morning, ignoring all the texts, phone calls and emails that have been dinging my phone all day. I just wanted to pretend the world didn't exist but when I saw a call from Lucas, our goalie, and the closest person to me, I knew I'd have to answer. I was actually afraid that no one from the team would talk to me ever again.

  "Your little plan," he says, as if I know. "It seems to be working a hell of a lot better than admitting you fucked up and apologizing."

  I still don't get it. "What plan?" I ask as I scrape the eggs and bacon onto the plate. Normally I would blot the grease out (hell, normally I'd be using turkey bacon) but since the season is over, I couldn't give a rat's ass if I have a heart attack from clogged arteries.

  "To rescue the girl. From the riots."

  I pause, leaning over the counter. "How did you know that?"

  "How did I know that?" he repeats. "It's all over the news, buddy."

  The news?!

  I walk over to the TV and flick it on, quickly flipping through the channels to find something. When I see footage of the riots, I stop and watch. The sight of Portland going up in flames again makes me feel sick. I can't believe this was all my fault.

  "So you didn't leak it to the news?" Lucas asks.

  "No," I tell him and now I'm wondering about the mystery girl. Brandy. I got her name but she never got mine. Was it that she forgot to ask or did she secretly know the whole time? Was the whole "I don't care about hockey" thing a rouse? Did she play me?

  I don't want to think that. I know it was just a short time I had with her last night and nothing happened between us, but it felt like it should have been...more. Maybe it was the situation, the flames, the riot police, the dangers, the contagious panic of the mob, or maybe it was my own self-hatred and guilt that made me more vulnerable, but whatever it was, last night was different. And even though I didn't know the girl, when I stared into those big, gorgeous eyes of hers I knew I was looking at the truth.

  And then I see it. The news flashes a photograph of the riot on the screen.

  A photo of me on the ground, cradling Brandy in my arms. It looks like I'm about to kiss her.

  "Now the most unusual news of the night," the newscaster says, "is that the defenseman whose penalty may have lost the team the game, Brayson Rockwell, became a hero when he rescued a woman who was trying to escape the riot. According to Marvin Lund, the journalist who took the photo, the crowd started panicking as the police came forward armed in their riot gear and more cars were exploding. As he was snapping the riot, he saw one girl running and then fall. Seconds later, Brayson showed up and appeared to be helping her or comforting her. He says it was hard to say if Brayson knew the girl or not but at this time, the journalist has no idea who the mystery woman is. Rockwell's publicist has no comment on his client’s involvement. Perhaps he's in mourning, just like the rest of the city."

  Holy shit. I could have done without that last snide little sentence the newscaster added but...holy shit.

  "Hello?" Lucas calls out in a tinny voice. I'd been holding the phone away from my ear in disbelief and slowly raise it back.

  "Hey," I say to him absently.

  "So, did you see it?"

  "Yeah, I saw it," I tell him.

  "And, so...that wasn't your plan? Become a hero so the city wouldn't hate you? Because you know that's not going to mean jackshit to anyone else on the team. Dude, Trevor is pissed."

  Trevor, the team captain, was always pissed at me. That was nothing new. But this time, I think it might be unrepairable.

  "No," I tell him slowly. "That wasn't my plan. I was just...after the game I didn't know where to go. I couldn’t handle the interviews. I left. I started walking the streets, got caught up in the riot."

  "That's a death wish," he says. "You're lucky you're alive."

  "Well, maybe I wanted the punishment."

  Lucas sighs. "Oh god. Listen, Bray Boy, I know you take things to heart but I mean, maybe next time, if we ever get a next time, you think twice before you act. I know you have your reputation to keep up but you have to put your ego to the side for the sake of your team."

  "Next time," I snort. "There is no next time. This is it and I blew it."

  "Hey, we all knew your penalties weren't helping but we managed to deal with it all season long. It's not just you. I hate to say this because you're such an easy scapegoat, but you didn't lose the game. You're going to get blamed for it, for sure, but even Trevor knows that the rest of us, we just weren't ready. We've only been a team for three years. There's a long way to go and this is just the beginning. Luck got us to the finals. One day it will be skill but this time it was luck. And hell, I could have played better last night, too. The damn home ice, I think it made me lazy. We all got cocky."

  Lucas Dimagio is one of the best goalies in the league so the loss definitely wasn't on him. If anything, he's been saving our ass all ye
ar. But if it's one of those games where I don't incur too many penalties and we still lose, all the blame goes on him. Maybe that's why we get along so well, we're the biggest scapegoats and are used to having every loss pinned on us. Whether we deserve it or not.

  "I don't know," I tell him, knowing full well that it was my stupid actions that cost it. "But I didn't plan this. I just saw a woman fall and had to help her up. I wasn't thinking, just acting."

  "Well it's resulted in people thinking you're a hero and also the team thinking you're trying to make up for the loss. Either way though, you need to take advantage of this. You should do an interview and get it across that you're sorry, it'll hurt to say it but it will make the rest of the year much easier on you."

  I consider that. Maybe I will.

  "And get that girl on camera too. She could paint you in a really good light."

  "I don't know her," I tell him. "Just her first name. Brandy."

  "Is she a stripper?"

  "No," I say defensively, as if Lucas and I don't spend every weekend at the strip clubs. "She's a writer. No, a journalist. Reviews books and shit."

  "Sounds smart."

  "She was smart. She didn't even watch the game. She hates hockey."

  "Shit man," Lucas says. "She sounds even smarter now. She's not a puck bunny? You need to hang onto her."

  "If I knew her number." But the fact is, I know where she lives. At least Chuck could tell me where she lives, he'd remember. Some areas of Portland are still totally new to me.

  "Anyway, glad to see you're okay," he says.

  "For the moment."

  "Well moment by moment is how I live too, buddy. You need to when you're on goal. I'll talk to you later. Remember to call Trevor or Alan when you get the nerve."

  He hangs up. I'd kill for Lucas' enthusiasm and positivity right now, especially when it comes to dealing with Alan, our General Manager. But for now, I'm going to work with what I've got. I text Chuck and tell him to swing by.

  We're going to pay someone a visit.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Brandy

  I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again: I don't know how moms do it, let alone single moms. They’re nothing short of the modern day superheroes. Batman might be able to use a grappling hook and sound like he’s got rocks stuck in his throat but I’d like to see him try and take care of a five-year old for a few hours. He wouldn’t stand a chance.

  I've only had Sam for three hours so far and have the rest of the day with him and already I'm exhausted. I know the fact that I'm tired from last night doesn't help. I just want to run a warm bath and relax with a glass of wine, put on some Banks and let my troubles melt away.

  We've gone to the dog park and the playground and gone around the block twice because Sam wanted to practice walking Charlie Dog. The minute we get into my apartment, I down some more Advil and a bunch of water. My side still aches and I think the excessive walking has made it worse.

  "Okay Sam," I tell him as he starts looking around the apartment. I know that look. It's the "what kind of trouble can I get myself into" look. "How about we put on one of your favorite movies." I pick up the remote and flick on the Apple TV while he reluctantly settles on the couch. "Since it's so hot outside, how about Frozen or Ice Age?"

  "Ice Age!" he says excitedly. Thank god because I can't listen to "Let It Go" one more time.

  He gets himself comfortable while I open the kitchen window to let more air in. It’s funny how different the atmosphere outside is compared to yesterday. Yesterday, love it or hate it, there was a tangible buzz in the air, an electric quality you could feel. Today it feels like the whole city is not only hungover but hanging their heads in shame. There’s nothing worse than getting your hopes up and having things fall flat. It reminds me of every time I get in a relationship hoping, foolishly, that it might go somewhere but in the end it never does.

  It’s still hot as balls though and the tiny breeze barely helps to keep the heat down.

  I'm rifling through my cupboards trying to find some iced tea or lemonade mix I can make for the kid with copious amounts of ice cubes but there's a sudden knock at my door, scaring the crap out of me.

  "Is it mom?" Sam says even though his eyes are glued to the TV, watching every move of those wacky squirrels.

  "I don't think so," I tell him, walking over to the door. I had charged my phone like Daisy asked but there hasn't been any texts or calls. From anyone. Which is kind of sad when you think about it, so I'm not going to.

  I press my hands against the door and peep through the hole, not sure who I'm expecting to see.

  But even though my imagination is known to run away on me, what I see makes a legitimate gasp escape from my lungs.

  "What is it?" Sam asks.

  "Nothing," I squeak. "Just a…friend of mine."

  Which is a lie. Because on the other side of that door is a tall, built, terribly good-looking man who hasn't lost any of his hotness through the distorted fish-eye lens.

  Brayson Rockwell.

  Stranger danger turned into media sensation.

  Oh, and also an apparently famous hockey player.

  Well, answer it, I tell myself, aware that I'm just on the other side of the door and gawking at him and he probably knows I'm here in all my awkwardness.

  I clear my throat, slide the chain across and open the door.

  Holy hell. The sight of him again in the flesh makes me feel like I've been thrown in a pit of fire and it's not just the weather talking.

  "Hi," I manage to say, my words coming out all thick and jelly-like.

  "Hey," he says, flashing me a blindingly white smile. How on earth has he managed to keep all those teeth? I thought most hockey players had puffy noses and a smile that would make a hillbilly feel superior. "Sorry to just drop in like this."

  I blink at him, trying to get caught up in the situation. My life has done a 180 in the last 24 hours and this is just the latest loop.

  He goes on, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand, making his large, thick biceps stand out beneath his navy t-shirt. "I know I didn't get your last name or number but I remembered where we dropped you off. I was wondering if you had a moment to talk."

  "Uh," I say, glancing behind me at Sam who is still watching the movie. Bless his obsessiveness.

  "Oh, sorry," Brayson says, following my gaze. "I didn't realize you had children."

  "No," I cry out, a little too loudly. I flash him a smile. "No, I don't. He's not mine. He's my nephew. My sister's kid. I don't have any kids. I'm single. Just me and my dog."

  Brayson looks down at Charlie Dog and his face lights up. I nearly melt. I didn't think it was possible for his eyes to get more blue but they somehow do, so vibrant against his tanned skin. He has me itching to reach out and touch him, see how he feels. Make sure he's real. I mean, this could be a dream.

  "So this is the famous dog you had to return to last night," he says, crouching down at Charlie Dog's level and holding his hand out for him to sniff. Charlie Dog seems somewhat indifferent, giving a lick before he turns and goes back to Sam, flopping at his feet at the foot of the couch.

  "That's the famous Charlie Dog." I pause. "And you're the famous Brayson Rockwell."

  He stands back up. "That's part of the reason why I'm here," he says. "Can I come in?"

  "Of course," I say, jumping back a bit and opening the door wider. "Come on inside. Sorry it's so hot in here." He walks past me and into the room. I quickly gesture to the couch. "Brayson this is Sam. Sam, this is Brayson."

  Sam waves at him but doesn't turn his head. I shrug in response. "What can I say, he loves his Ice Age."

  "Ray Romano as a squirrel, can’t get much better than that," he notes wryly.

  "Here," I tell him, walking over to the table. "Have a seat. Want a drink? I was just about to find iced tea."

  "Do you have any beer?" he asks.

  I grin at him. "I've got amber ale, coconut porter, IPA sessions, golden lagers, Belgian Trap
pist."

  He raises his brows, impressed. "Wow. Do you have a brewery in your apartment?" He pretends to look around.

  "No, but it is hot out and I do live in Portland. If you're not drinking local craft brews, I don't even want to look at you."

  "Well lucky for me, I do. I'll take a golden lager, babe. And you have my permission to look at me."

  Babe? I have permission to look at him? This guy is smooth. And different from what I remember last night. More playful, which isn't a bad thing.

  I bring out two lagers from the fridge, opening them, and plunk them down on the wood table, taking a seat across from him. For a moment, I wish I had the money to have nice furniture instead of this table and chair set I bought off Craigslist years ago. A nicer apartment wouldn’t go amiss either. It's funny how you never really notice the shortcomings of your life until you have to look at them through someone else's eyes. I bet someone like Brayson is not only rolling in the dough but is also used to being surrounded by the finer things in life.

  "So," I say to him as I sip back the beer. "What brings you to my neck of the woods?"

  "Well," he says, palming his beer and giving me a deep look I can feel all the way to my toes. "First of all, I don't know who this neck of the woods belongs to. What's your full name?"

  I laugh, feeling my cheeks go red for some reason. How silly this all is. "It's Brandy Cooper."

  He nods, as if he guessed my name all along. "I like it. You look like a Brandy Cooper. Reminds me of Betty Cooper. You know, Archie Comics?"

  "Oh I know, I was called Betty Cooper all through high school."

  "Were you as wholesome as Betty?" he asks, a devious glint to his eye.

  I shift in my seat. In high school me and Daisy didn't have much of a life. We lived on a farm with my aunt and were too busy helping. But he doesn't need to know that. "As wholesome as apple pie," I tell him sweetly.