Delayed Penalty: A Pilots Hockey Novel
Read Delayed Penalty: A Pilots Hockey Novel Online
Authors: Sophia Henry
Delayed Penalty
is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A Flirt eBook Original
Copyright © 2015 by Sophia Henry
Excerpt from
Power Play
by Sophia Henry copyright © 2015 by Wendy Bennett
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Flirt, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
F
LIRT
is a registered trademark and the F
LIRT
colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.
This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book
Power Play
by Sophia Henry. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.
eBook ISBN 9781101887196
Cover design: Diane Luger
Cover photograph: Valua Vitality/Shutterstock
v4.1
ep
Contents
Chapter 1
When you’re twenty years old, there’s nothing music and a drink can’t cure.
At least that was my best friend’s response when I told her I’d been cut from Central State’s women’s soccer team that morning.
The overzealous stylings of two drunk chicks bellowing “It’s Raining Men” wafted through the air, and I’d just received my vodka club from the bartender, so why did it still feel like someone scratched my heart out with a serrated shovel?
Maybe “It’s Raining Men” wasn’t the right song?
Or maybe my friend’s remedy lacked one vital piece. Like, five minutes locked in a bathroom stall with the crazy-haired hottie approaching me. His head was buzzed short on the sides, leaving a thick patch of dark locks, gelled into a neat pompadour in front. Sort of like 1920s gangster, except less slicked, more height.
Every muscle in Crazy Hair’s body rippled under his clothing as he walked. He had to be over six feet tall, with a broad chest and massive arms stretching the seams of his long-sleeved black Henley. His skin was smooth and pale, a contrast to the thick dark eyebrows resting above his jump-in-and-drown-in-me blue eyes. From the scar on his left cheek to the smug smirk of his lips, he was exactly my type: dangerous, confident, and totally lickable.
I flipped my long blond hair behind my shoulder and glanced to my left, pretending Crazy Hair’s advance had no effect on me. In reality, I’d checked to make sure that he wouldn’t pass me up on the way to some beautiful bombshell I hadn’t noticed standing in the vicinity.
Like when you see someone wave, so you wave back. Then you realize they weren’t waving at you but the person behind you. So you try to play off your lame wave like you were batting away mosquitoes, which aren’t there because it’s December in Canada. Just trying to avoid an awkward situation like that.
Crazy Hair continued to close in, before stopping just inches away.
I’d opened my mouth to ream him out for stepping too far into my personal space, but the sweet scent of clove cigarettes flooded warmth through me like a sip of hot chocolate on a January morning in the Upper Peninsula.
“You work at post office?” he asked in a thick Slavic accent.
“Um, no.” I took a swig of my drink. Though I was unsure where he was going with that line, he was hot enough for me to stick around.
The left corner of his mouth curved into that sexy little smirk. “Because I see you check out my package.”
Carbonation stung my nose as I snorted and choked trying to hold in my laugh. Without time to turn my head, I sprayed vodka club and saliva across the front of Crazy Hair’s shirt.
Awesome.
“Weak!” I heard from somewhere behind me.
I turned to see who had yelled, still coughing as I noticed a group of guys and girls at the high-top table behind me. Shaggy blond hair bounced against one guy’s forehead as he snickered. The dude next to him held his fist in front of his mouth in a horrible attempt to hide his laughter. A brunette in a tight red sweater didn’t look amused. At all.
Crazy Hair threw the guys not one but both of his middle fingers.
“That girl’s a fucking smoke show. Why’d he use a shitty line like that?” the blond one said.
Smoke show? I bit down hard on my lip to fight back a smile. The last time I’d heard that phrase was in high school from my hockey-playing best friend, who’d informed me that “smoke show” was player lingo for “hot girl.”
Unsure of how to recover any semblance of cool after spitting my drink across Crazy Hair’s muscular chest, I spun around and shuffled back to the table my friends occupied in front of the karaoke stage.
It felt weird to drink in public, though we’d been to Canada on multiple occasions. As lifelong residents of Detroit, Michigan, we thought of Windsor—the Canadian city connected to Detroit by a bridge and a tunnel—as the next town over, rather than a foreign country. Nineteen was the legal drinking age in Windsor, so it made sense for underage Americans like us to cross the border for some legit cocktails.
My butt had barely brushed my seat when I heard my name, and my name alone, called over the speakers. I lifted my eyes to the outdated popcorn ceiling, as if the voice resonated from the heavens beyond, rather than the karaoke host.
“Why is he calling my name?” I asked Kristen.
“I picked you a song,” she responded, taking a swig of her beer.
“You picked
us
a song, you mean?” Emphasis on the
us,
because I’d never sung alone in my life—not counting the shower and car, of course.
“Nope. Just you.” Kristen placed both hands on my back and pushed me toward the stage. “You need to sing it out. Keeping shit bottled up never works.”
I had no problem singing it out if I was singing with other people, but not when it was just me. Hadn’t I been embarrassed enough today?
My short-lived “smoke show” happiness vanished, and the embarrassment of making a fool of myself in front of Crazy Hair returned. I tried to reverse, but Kristen’s trampoline-like hands propelled me back toward the stage.
Climbing onto the stage, I snatched the microphone out of the host’s hand. I almost felt bad about taking my anger out on him until I saw the lyrics to “Proud Mary” light up in white against the teleprompter’s blue screen. Fuck.
What the hell?
I exhaled and lifted my eyes to Kristen.
“Girl power!” She saluted me with her glass.
Was “Proud Mary” a girl-power song? I thought it was about a boat.
“Do you have ‘Good Feeling’?” I asked the karaoke host. He was around my age, with big brown eyes matching his neat, trimmed beard and his shoulder-length hair.
“Flo Rida?” he asked, as disapproving wrinkles formed on his smooth forehead.
“Oh, no,” I said. “The Violent Femmes.”
A smile spread across his lips, and he nodded. “Give me a second.”
While waiting for my song, I took in the scenery at Mickey O’Callaghan’s Irish Pub. The space itself was cozy; small and narrow with red and beige brick walls and mahogany overkill. The dark wood was everywhere: the long bar, the wainscoting, the narrow beams on the ceiling, even the tables and chairs. Evidently Mickey’s was the place to be for Friday-night karaoke, because bodies occupied every seat, and the bar was two people deep all the way across.
Instead of looking toward the table that Crazy Hair had thrown double birds to, I watched the karaoke host fiddle with his machine. After a minute, the screen glowed with the lyrics to my request.
My face burned when my voice cracked delivering the first note. My eyes stayed glued to the teleprompter, even though I knew the words by heart. After the first few lines, I got my vocals on track, and I heard some clapping, which surprised me. Halfway through the song, I raised my eyes to see people on their feet, people other than the friends I had come with, although my friends were on their feet as well. By the time I finished the song, the crowd was hooting and whistling. Someone yelled for me to sing again, but I just smiled as I refastened the microphone to the stand.
“You were amazing, Aud!” Kristen squeezed me when I got back to the table.
“I didn’t know you could sing like that.” Lacy raised her hand for a high five.
“I didn’t either,” I admitted, skimming my palm against hers, sure I’d zap her with the electricity tingling through my limbs. Being on stage felt like overtime at a soccer match: exhilarating and exciting.
“Hey,” someone said, tapping my shoulder. I spun around to see the karaoke host.
“Greg.” He thrust his hand at me.
“Auden,” I said, taking his outstretched palm. “Thanks for switching songs.”
“Tina Turner didn’t seem like your thing.” Greg might’ve had a cute face hiding under his beard. Still not my type, though. Too monotone. Even the plaid flannel hanging off his lean frame was brown. His style screamed Eddie Vedder, nineties grunge rather than today’s hipster cool.
“Oh, I can rock some Tina. Just wasn’t feeling ‘Proud Mary’ without my backup dancers.” I pointed to Kristen and Lacy.
Greg laughed. “Need a drink?”
“I already have—” I searched the table for my drink, spotting it in Lacy’s boyfriend’s hand. “Actually, I do.”
Ignoring Kristen’s megawatt smile, I followed Greg to the bar. She better not have set him on me to boost my spirits. She knew he wasn’t my type. Douche bags like Crazy Hair and the guys he’d flipped off got my motor running. Douche bags and I were on the same wavelength. Neither of us wanted more than the other could offer.
Greg moved to the side so I could order. “Club soda with three limes, please.”
“And a Steam Whistle.” Greg pointed to a beer I didn’t recognize in the stand-up cooler behind the bar. The bartender nodded and extracted a bottle.
“You’ve got a killer voice,” Greg said.
“Well, there’re no Tina Turner–type vocals in that song.” I blew off his compliment.
“No, but it’s hard to sing that soft and keep your key.” His mouth curved into a wide, kind smile. “You from around here?”
