Quick Trick (A Rough Riders Hockey Novel Book 1)

C
opyright
© 2015 by Skye Jordan

T
his book is
a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locations are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real.

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ll rights reserved
.

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o part
of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in encouraging piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

G
rant Saber peered
through the wide plate glass windows of St. Nicholas Hardware, searching the darkness for signs of life.

He cupped his gloved hands around his eyes to cut the glare from millions of Christmas lights reflecting off the snow and searched the shadows. This crazy-ass little town was dressed up for Christmas three hundred sixty-five days a year. As a kid, that had seemed fun. As a teen, it had seemed just plain stupid. As an adult… Well, he’d bailed on this place as soon as humanly possible.

And he sure as shit didn’t want to be here now.

“I know you’re in there, dammit.” He could see a light burning somewhere in the back.

His breath created a billow of condensation, obscuring his view. He shifted from foot to foot, as if that would keep the blood from freezing in his veins. He might spend half his life on the ice, but the exertion and adrenaline of hockey always kept him dripping in sweat. Now he was just freezing his ass off.

Grant yanked off a ski glove and rapped his knuckles against one of the double glass doors again, then blew into his palm to warm it and raised his voice to yell, “Hello?”

No movement. No sound. Nothing.

Grant pulled out his phone and checked the time. One minute after six p.m. They’d closed early. Typical.

“Damn hick town.”

He shoved his phone back into the pocket of his jacket and his hand back into his glove, then turned and looked both directions down Main Street. It was deserted on this bitterly cold night just a couple of weeks before Christmas. Not much had changed about the storybook setting—one that belonged at Santa’s workshop in the North Pole. But Grant had been gone long enough for the sugary-sweet gingerbread on every building to make him gag a little. And he was sure Holly dominated ninety percent of North Carolina’s power grid from Halloween through New Year’s with all the additional lights and moving decorations residents added for the holidays. As if they needed more.

Across the street, a lone human figure dressed in a dark parka emerged from the shadowed storefronts and shuffled across the street. “Whatcha need there, son?”

That was just like this place—everyone up in everyone else’s business.

The voice identified him as an older man, and as he approached the sidewalk, Grant caught a look at his face beneath the hood of his jacket, confirming he was in his sixties.

“Christmas tree,” Grant said. “If I go home without it, my mama’s gonna be pissed.”

The man harrumphed and narrowed his eyes. “Which mama would that be?”

“Hazel Saber.”

The man stopped and straightened out of the cold hunch that populated the streets of Holly this time of year. He pushed his hood back with a gloved hand. “Grant? That you?”

The weathered face looking back at Grant flooded him with a rush of great memories. Some of the best he had of his youth here in Holly.

“Mr. Lowry?” Mike Lowry was the father of one of Grant’s best friends and teammates all through school. Grant laughed and stepped forward to hug the man he spent so many years wishing had been his father rather than the man he’d been born to. “How are you?”

Mike gave him the same bear hug he’d always shared, and nostalgic warmth softened a few of Grant’s rough edges. “Good, good.” He stepped back with a big smile creasing his face. He’d probably aged more than a decade over the last ten years, but he still looked great to Grant. “I’ve been watching all your games, you know, since you went pro. Even sprung for cable so I could watch the ones on those oddball channels.”

Grant laughed at the farmer’s rough language and made a mental note to pay the man’s cable bill into perpetuity. “That’s great. How’s Bobby doing?”

“Oh, real good.” The freezing temperatures didn’t quicken Mike’s lazy drawl. “Got himself a farm of his own in Bonnettsville. Married Becky Snell ’bout four years ago. They’ve got a three-year-old little girl and another baby on the way. Bobby’s hopin’ for a boy this time. One he can take out on the ice with him.”

“He can take a girl on the ice,” Grant said, working to engage in the conversation. Every word reminded him of why he’d been so anxious to get out of this town. The whole stuck-on-a-farm-with-a-wife-and-kids scenario was making invisible walls close in on him.

“Aw, well, he don’t get out on the ice much anymore anyway. But wait until everyone hears we’ve got a star in our midst this Christmas.
Did I hear you’re gonna be working with Dwayne and the high school team?”

“Yeah.” Remembering the positive half of what had brought him back to Holly helped smooth the frustration he’d met up with upon arriving—his mother. “I’m really looking forward to it.”

“Bet he is too. Since MaryAnn passed, he’s real lonely. Bends the ear of anyone who will listen. Those kids keep him going, you know? It’ll be real good for him to see you.”

Mike kept talking, and Grant was reminded of how many people in this town loved to bend an ear. He just kept nodding while Mike talked about Dwayne, the high school hockey team, his granddaughter, and Bobby’s farm until Grant could find a spot to cut in.

“Well, say hi to Bobby for me, would you?” Grant said. “I’ll be in town for a few weeks. I’d love to have a beer with him if he’s around.”

“Oh, he’d like that. Say, how’s your shoulder? It’s been keepin’ you off the ice, right?”

“Yes, sir, but not for much longer. Surgery was a success, and I’m done with PT. Just waiting for the doctors to clear me. I should be back in the game after the holiday break.”

And, God, he
could not
wait
. He’d been going stir-crazy. There was only so much working out he could do. So many training tapes he could watch. So many soft practices he could participate in. So many wanna-be Rider Girls to coach through riding lessons.

Okay, there was an endless supply of wanna-be Rider Girls. But in truth, Grant wouldn’t mind a little variety. Though he wasn’t exactly in a place where variety was bursting at the seams.

“Bet your parents are glad to see you,” Mike said.

Grant thought of his mother’s demand to fetch the Christmas tree less than an hour after he’d arrived home and clenched his teeth. “Highly debatable,” he muttered and glanced toward the store again. “And definitely not if I don’t come home with a tree. They closed early.”

“Aw, you just missed her. Saw her leave ’bout fifteen minutes ago from my sister’s shop across the street. She ducked into Yuletide Spirits. Can probably still catch her. No doubt you could sweet-talk her into coming back to reopen and get your tree. She’s great like that. And still the prettiest, sweetest little blonde in town.” He slapped Grant’s arm before moving on. “Welcome home, kid. See you around.”

“You bet.”

Grant moved to the SUV he’d left running and slid into the driver’s seat. He turned the heat on full blast to thaw his face and fingers. When he’d warmed up, he turned the car off and started up the block toward the local bar.

Snow padded the cobblestone streets, but Grant could still feel the familiar roll beneath his feet. Snowflakes drifted from the sky, and he pulled the brim of his ball cap lower. He hadn’t sweet-talked a woman in quite a while. In fact, by the way he was drawing a blank, maybe never. Since he’d signed with his first NHL hockey team at twenty years old, he hadn’t needed to. And he liked it that way.

Every iron lamppost on the street was wrapped in greenery and lights, throwing a rainbow of dappled color across the snow. Every building flashed in a variety of patterns, adding a certain cheerful chaos to the surroundings, and despite his reluctance to return home, the sight brought great memories of long winters on the ice with his buddies. Pickup games of hockey to stay away from his parents’ critical eyes. Hours and hours and hours of practice—for club teams, for the high school team. For any team who would have him.

He passed some businesses and stores that had been in town forever and some that were brand-new. All had Christmas-themed window displays, each more ornate than the next. A flower shop, chocolate shop, gift shop, bookstore, and coffee shop, and, of course, what would Holly be without a Christmas store?

As he reached the door of Yuletide Spirits, he paused, thinking of who he might run into.

“Wait until everyone hears we’ve got a star in our midst this Christmas.”

Mike’s words helped Grant’s sliver of apprehension melt away, and he grinned. No more hiding his acne-laden face. No more fighting to put on enough weight to keep his feet on the ground in a stiff wind. Now, everyone could see how far he’d come, surpassing everyone who had ever ignored, teased, or bullied him in the past. The only thing that kept him out of fights was hockey. Even the bullies stayed away from a guy who was crazy enough to thunder guys against the boards for a three-inch puck.

“All that practice paid off,” he murmured to himself. He’d never intended it that way. He’d always played hockey because it gave him a sense of belonging. A brotherhood. Something to strive for. A way to stay away from his fucked-up family. And because he was good at it. But, yes, his practice and perseverance had paid off. In big ways too numerous to name.

Back then, he’d melted into the crowd, followed the pack, and observed. Now, people recognized him everywhere. Now, he led.

Grant smiled, realizing just how far he’d come in eight years. Maybe coming home for the holidays wouldn’t turn out to be so bad after all.

At the pub’s front door, he stood aside as three people stepped into the night, bundled against the cold. Voices and music, laughter and the clink of glasses spilled out with them. Grant kept his head down, hoping no one would recognize him. He’d have plenty of time to catch up with old buddies if any were in town. Right now, he wanted to get that damn tree, get home, and fall into bed. The NHL might be keeping him out of the games, but they couldn’t keep him out of the gym. And between working out, strategizing with teammates from the sideline during practices, and auditioning Rider Girls, Grant needed some heavy-duty Zs.

He stepped into the bar, taking a minute to let his eyes adjust while he searched for this “prettiest little blonde in town.”

The space had been upgraded over the years. Now a mahogany bar stretched along one wall, complete with antique brass footrests. Behind that, bottles of alcohol lined the mirrored wall. The seating area combined booths and tables in dark wood that gave the place that true Irish pub feel, rivaling some of the most authentic pubs Grant had visited during his travels in Boston, Philly, and Chicago.

Too bad they’d gone and fucked up a good thing with all the Christmas crap—on the walls, on the tables, art, figurines, decorations…

The only blonde who caught Grant’s eye sat at the bar, chatting with a brunette woman about the same age. But this blonde was beyond pretty, and Grant instantly recognized Faith Nicholas, and not someone he’d expected to see back in Holly. She was probably visiting for the holidays, like half the other people in town.

From where he stood, she looked even prettier now than she’d been back in high school—if you liked the girl-next-door type. Grant might have been into Faith back then, but the “sweetest little thing in town” was definitely
not
what he wanted in a woman now.

Her hair was cut shoulder-length and styled straight and sleek, but that was where her sophistication ended. She sported the typical small-town country girl look with worn jeans, a thin tweedy sweater, and low-heeled, knee-high, tan suede boots. Grant had only been here an hour, and he was already missing the refinement of the city.

The sooner he got that tree for his parents, the sooner he could go to bed. The sooner he got to bed, the sooner he could hit the ice with the kids in the morning. And as the daughter of the man who owned the hardware store, Faith Nicholas would be the most likely person to know how he could find the girl running it.

He stepped forward just as a man strolled up to the bar beside Faith. He leaned his elbow on the shiny mahogany, and whatever he said drew the gazes of both women, giving Grant a better look at Faith.

With one of the bar’s spotlights spilling over her, Grant got a better look at her cheekbones, the shape of her face, her smile… She was a real beauty. If she were decked out in a formfitting dress, four-inch fuck-me heels, and a little makeup, she’d be the kind of woman Grant would have locked on to at a party. The kind he would have worked his way toward until he’d started a conversation and held her complete attention.

But they weren’t in DC. And she wasn’t decked out. Still, that smile of hers sure lit up a room. And even from yards away, Grant could feel its warmth seeping into his belly. She slipped off the barstool and turned toward the man who’d approached. Grant’s gaze rolled down her backside.

“Damn,” he muttered under his breath. “That girl rocks her jeans.”

Maybe a little bit of country was just the variety he was looking for. Only, last time he’d seen Faith Nicholas, it was beside Dillon Brady. The high school football star had carried Faith on his arm all four years. They’d been slated for marriage and kids immediately after college.

Grant glanced around the bar again, this time searching for Faith’s other half. But no one even resembling Brady caught Grant’s eye. Nor did any other pretty blonde. He returned his gaze to Faith, but that guy was still there, trying to make headway. He was an all-around average guy. Average height, average build, average dress, average looking.

Grant glanced at his watch, crossed his arms, and leaned against the wall. If she was still the same Faith she’d been in high school, this wouldn’t take long. She’d brush off Mr. Average within minutes. She’d been the valedictorian, the head of half a dozen different clubs, the star of the swim team, the homecoming queen, and the girlfriend of the most popular guy in their class, if not the school. She’d certainly never taken a second look at Grant, who’d been as average then as the Joe chatting her up now.

While he waited, Grant glanced at Faith’s left hand, surprised to find it bare.

“Wonder what happened to Mr. Football Star.”

But he didn’t have much time to wonder, because Average Joe had just been shot down and returned to his table, while Faith and the brunette started talking again.