“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Are you?”
“Hell, yes.” What happened to the smooth Bad Boy?
“So that’s not a puck in your pocket?” She brushed her fingertips gently across his forehead. “What about your face? It must hurt.”
Jake wanted to deny it, but mentioning his gashed cheek made his face pulse with pain. He gave a disgruntled shrug.
“It doesn’t have to be tonight,” Maggie soothed.
“But starting tomorrow we play three games in four nights, then head back out on the road for a week.”
“It’ll be worth the wait.”
“For sure.” But he didn’t want to wait.
“You’re pouting again, Jake.”
“I don’t pout.”
“Of course not.” Damn woman was making fun of him.
“When do you get back?”
“The twentieth.”
“Then it looks like we have an extra-special date on the twenty-first.”
The most important date of his life.
* * *
“TONIGHT’S HEADLINES AGAIN...AUTHORITIES raided the Arkansas pharmacy allegedly behind an internet steroid ring. It’s believed a number of big-name athletes from football, basketball and hockey will be implicated.”
Jake set aside his paperback thriller and frowned at the TV in his hotel room. No matter how many times they said it, he couldn’t believe any player he knew would take performance-enhancing drugs. Hell, most of them refused to take cold meds and painkillers.
As the anchor signed off, Jake realized that the end of the news meant it was almost midnight. If his roommate—a sophomore defenseman called Taylor “Mad Dog” Madden—wasn’t here soon, he’d be in big trouble.
The team had flown into Tampa yesterday to prepare for tomorrow night’s game against the Lightning, the last on their road trip. With a strict midnight curfew, most veteran players had opted for a quiet night. But the younger guys had headed out for a little excitement.
A familiar double knock sounded on his door. He rose and answered.
“We’ve got a problem.” Tru strode into the room. “Blake’s not back yet.”
“Neither’s Mad Dog. This isn’t like him. He’s a good kid.”
“Blake, too. I have a bad feeling about this.”
Jake did, too. “Were they both with JB?”
“Yeah. Your warning to Larocque to cool it didn’t work.”
Damn know-it-all rookie. “They miss curfew and Coach will bench them.”
His friend paced the room. “Do you know where they went?”
Before Jake could reply, Tru’s cell rang.
He answered. “Where the hell are you, Blake?” Tru’s expression turned grim as he listened. “We’re on our way. Hang tight until we get there.” He hung up. “Damn Larocque.”
“What the hell has JB done?” Jake put on his Timberland boots, grabbed his leather jacket and followed Tru out.
“Mouthed off at some girl’s boyfriend. Got into a fight.”
Jake swore as he jabbed the elevator button. “The Cats will suspend him. Worse, if the League finds out.”
“The nightclub manager’s threatened to call the cops. If he does, the media will be all over it. Let’s hope no one’s tweeted it yet or put a video on Facebook.”
“It’ll take some sharp skating to get this to go away quietly. Despite his dumb-ass behavior, the team needs Larocque.”
Luckily, there was a cab waiting and traffic was light. On the way to the trendy nightclub, they hammered out an action plan and checked out the social-media sites. Nothing had shown up yet, but it was only a matter of time.
There was no sign of the media when they arrived. The security guy recognized them and opened the door.
“I hustled them out of there and upstairs to the manager’s office as soon as the trouble started. Didn’t want a YouTube video of the kid’s behavior going viral. Hope you can get this done—I’ve got money on the Cats for the Cup.” The heavyset man lowered his voice. “The other guy’s an ass.”
They thanked him for his help and promised him tickets for the game.
The scene in the manager’s office was tense. Too much drink. Too much testosterone. Mad Dog and Blake had JB pinned to a chair.
“What’s the problem here?” Jake asked pleasantly.
An overweight man in a Rangers shirt said, “I’ve got no beef with you, Bad Boy.”
The guy had recognized him. At least Jake’s reputation was good for something.
Jake jerked his head toward JB. “His problems are my problems.”
“He made a pass at my wife,” the man blustered.
“Yeah.” A skinny bleached blonde stood. She smoothed her painted-on jeans and adjusted her low-cut top deliberately to give him a prime view of her spray-tanned cleavage. “He called me a bitch when I said no.”