Wicked Games (Denver Rebels) (2 page)

First Period

1

Present Day

“A
re you sure
this won’t take too long?” Nadia Warner asked, following her twin brother toward the entrance to the ice rink where the Denver Rebels were practicing that evening.

Nelson laughed, glancing over his shoulder at her. “How many times are you gonna ask me that question?”

“I just—” Nadia broke off as a man strode past and jostled her without bothering to apologize.

“Excuse you,” she tossed after him.

He didn’t even glance back.

She scowled.
Obnoxious hockey fans.

At the entrance to the ice rink, Nelson flashed his press pass to the security guard, who smirked and waved them through. The smirk raised Nadia’s hackles, although her brother was undoubtedly used to it. As a sports reporter for one of the smallest newspapers in Denver, Nelson didn’t command the same respect as his peers at
The Denver
Post
. Even in an industry plagued by declining circulation and shrinking profits, reporters at obscure newspapers would always rank the lowest on the totem pole.

As Nadia and her brother entered the ice rink, she was surprised to see the crowd of spectators that had come out to watch the team practice. She had never attended a professional hockey game and knew next to zilch about the sport. So she couldn’t imagine caring enough to willingly sit through an hour or more of practice. If it weren’t for her brother, she wouldn’t be there at all.

She and Nelson had been on their way to a bar to meet some friends for drinks when his editor, Tanner Corrigan, called to tell him that the reporter who usually covered the Denver Rebels had had a family emergency. So it was up to Nelson to attend the team’s final practice before their season opener against the Minnesota Wild.   

Nadia wasn’t happy about the sudden change of plans. After a long day of visiting high schools as a college recruiter, she’d been looking forward to unwinding over cocktails with her friends. Watching a bunch of overpaid jocks chase a puck around an ice rink wasn’t her idea of a good time. But she’d suck it up and be a good little sport for her brother’s sake. After all, what were twins for?

They found first row seats in one corner, which gave them an unobstructed view of the entire rink. The players were going through some sort of passing and scoring drill on the ice. They looked huge in their helmets and pads and black jerseys. Huge and intimidating.

Since Nadia didn’t watch hockey, she didn’t know any of their names or the positions they played. Well, except maybe for Reid “The Rocket” Holden, the team’s star defenseman and resident bad boy. Every Coloradoan knew who he was. His ruggedly handsome image was plastered on billboards and banners across the state. On the ice, he was celebrated for his explosive speed, scoring prowess and ruthless physicality. His reputation for delivering fierce body checks and bone-crushing hits had earned him the adoration of fans and the grudging respect of opponents and critics.

Nadia found herself scanning the ice rink for the superstar’s number six jersey. Or was it number nine? She couldn’t remember.

“Who’re you looking for?”

“No one,” she lied with a shrug, watching as her brother pulled out his trusty reporter’s notebook.

With his baby-smooth brown skin, black-framed eyeglasses, angular jaw and wiry build, Nelson was handsome in a nerdy sort of way. He’d never been popular or outgoing, but he had a dry wit that made people laugh and put them at ease. While Nadia was prone to bouts of pessimism, her brother could find humor in even the most serious situations. He and Nadia had been inseparable since birth. He was her wombmate, her best friend, her better half. She couldn’t imagine her life without him.

Smiling softly, she reached over and brushed a hand over his misshapen Afro. “You need a haircut.”

“So you keep telling me,” Nelson said distractedly, watching the hockey players on the ice. “You know how busy I’ve been since football season started. I haven’t had time to go to the barber. Today was the first day I’ve had off in weeks.”

Nadia smiled wryly. “And look where you are. Sitting rinkside at the Rebels’ hockey practice instead of knocking back half-price mojitos at happy hour.”

He chuckled. “What can I say? Duty calls.”

Nelson covered high school and college football for the
Denver
Dispatch
. It was the perfect gig for a guy who’d always loved sports. Growing up, he’d dabbled in everything from baseball to hockey to soccer. Unfortunately for him, enthusiasm was no substitute for talent. When he reached high school and failed to make the football or basketball team, he’d been forced to face the hard, cold reality that athletic stardom simply wasn’t in the cards for him. Since he would never achieve fame and glory on a playing field, he did the next best thing: He became a sports reporter. And he was a damn good one too. As far as Nadia was concerned, the
Denver
Dispatch
didn’t deserve him.

Glancing around the arena, she marveled, “I can’t believe this many people showed up for practice. On a weeknight, at that.”

Nelson smiled. “You know the Rebels have a diehard fan base. And they usually practice in the mornings, not evenings.”

“So why are they practicing tonight?”

“It’s a special tradition. Several years ago, there was a water leak in the arena that forced the team to postpone practice until the evening. It happened two days before the regular season started, and a lot of fans showed up for practice that night. It must have brought the Rebels good luck, because they went on to beat the Bruins in the first game. I mean they
destroyed
them,” Nelson recalled with a grin. “As a result, the team began holding a light evening practice two days before the start of each season. And since then they’ve won every season opener.”

Nadia chuckled. “Superstitious much?”

Nelson grinned. “I’ve never met a hockey player who wasn’t.”

“Hmm. I’ll take your word for it.” Nadia sighed, leaning back in her seat and crossing her legs. “Not to sound like a whiny brat, but are you absolutely sure we won’t be stuck here for hours?”

“We won’t,” Nelson assured her with amused patience. “Once practice is over, I’ll need to interview some of the players and get a few quotes for my column. Then we can go grab dinner. My treat.”

Nadia grinned. “Now you’re talking.”

While Nelson watched the Rebels run through their practice drills, Nadia took out her cell phone to check her email. Since she was stuck there until the team finished practicing, she might as well make good use of her time.

She had several work-related messages, including one from a colleague who had questions about one of her design job requests. She responded to his message, then hopped on Snapchat to remind her student subscribers about an upcoming college fair.

Suddenly she felt an odd sensation over her skin, a prickle of awareness that made her glance up.

That was when she saw Reid Holden skating up the ice toward her.

Her mouth went strangely dry. Phone forgotten in her hand, she stared at the Rebels’ star defenseman.

He was skating along the boards, pushing his puck out in front with the blade of his stick. Locks of thick dark hair poked out from under his helmet. His square jaw was shadowed with dark stubble that gave him a gritty appeal. He looked tall and imposing on the ice, and his shoulders were so broad they would have stretched the fabric of his jersey without the pads.

Six
, Nadia noted absently.
His number is six.

As he came closer, she could see the piercing blue of his eyes.

And then suddenly he lifted his head and looked right at her.

Her breath caught in her throat.

Reid visibly slowed down, his eyes locked on hers.

A few seconds.

That was how long the connection lasted.

The space of three heartbeats. Maybe four.

It wasn’t long. But it affected Nadia more profoundly than anything she’d experienced in a very long time.

As she and Reid stared at each other, she felt an unmistakable pull between them, an invisible cord drawing them together. She was breathing too hard, she realized, and her heart was doing a weird little tap dance in her chest.

And then he smiled.

A slow, purely wicked smile that had her thighs clenching together.

It was only when he looked away that she was able to breathe normally again.

As he skated past her, she swallowed hard and glanced over her shoulder. She half expected to see a gorgeous blonde or brunette with big blue eyes and big breasts sitting behind her. Those were the types of women Reid Holden preferred, the types he was photographed with at black-tie events and the wild parties he attended. Busty bimbos were what caught his eye, not conservatively dressed college recruiters.

Surely he’d been looking at someone other than Nadia. But when she glanced behind her, all she saw were two middle-aged men with beer bellies and receding hairlines.

Not exactly Reid’s type.

So he
had
been looking at her.

Blushing at the thought, Nadia reached up and self-consciously smoothed a hand down her ponytail. She wondered what Reid had seen when he’d looked at her. She wondered if he’d found her attractive in her white blouse, tailored gray slacks and sensible low-heeled pumps. Was that why he’d smiled at her? Because he liked what he saw?

Why do you care?

I don’t,
she told herself.

She wasn’t into jocks. She preferred sensitive intellectual types who shared her love of books and indie films. The first jock she’d ever dated was the second-string running back on her high school football team. They’d met in U.S. history class and struck up a rapport. Greg was cute and funny, and unlike most of the other athletes who’d strutted around school like they owned the place, he’d seemed like a genuinely nice guy. But she should have known better.

One day after school while they were studying for a major history test at the local library, Greg had reached under her skirt and roughly groped her through her panties. She was so shocked and appalled that she’d jumped out of her chair and slapped him across the face. He hadn’t taken her rebuff very well. The next day at school, he’d started a nasty rumor that she was an undercover freak who enjoyed violent gangbangs. Every time she’d passed his friends and teammates in the hallway, they’d leered at her, made kissing noises and crudely propositioned her. She was so hurt and humiliated, she thought she’d never live it down.

The harassment stopped only after Nelson got suspended from school for fighting Greg, which caused their outraged parents to intervene. As a result, Greg was kicked off the football team, and he and his comrades were warned to stay away from Nadia.

After that painful experience, she should have sworn off jocks for good. But, no, she’d had to go and date a popular basketball player during her sophomore year in college. Once again, he’d fooled her into believing he was a nice guy who could be trusted. As soon as she gave up her V card, he’d dumped her, leaving her heartbroken and humiliated beyond belief.

A glutton for punishment, it would take one more nightmarish experience to serve as her wakeup call.

Now, at twenty-five, she was a little older and wiser, so she knew better than to fall for a hard body and athletic prowess. Give her brains over brawn any day.

“Man, I’d kill to get an interview with him.”

Nadia swiveled her head around to stare at her brother. She’d almost forgotten he was there, and apparently he’d missed The Moment between her and Reid. Thank God.

“Who are you talking about?” she asked him.

“Reid Holden,” Nelson answered. “I’d love to get a quote from him for my column. My editor would be impressed as hell, and Garrett would have a damn fit.”

Garrett was the
Dispatch’s
hockey beat writer, the guy who should have been there tonight instead of Nelson. “Why would he have a fit if you quoted Reid Holden in your column?”

“Because Reid doesn’t talk to reporters.”

Nadia raised an eyebrow. “Ever?”

“Ever.” Nelson grinned. “It would shock the shit out of everyone if a lowly writer from the
Denver Dispatch
got a quote from Holden. Hell, Corrigan might even give me a promotion for accomplishing such a feat.”

Nadia laughed. “Really?”

“Hell, yeah. No reporter has gotten a word out of Reid in over three years. He hates journalists. He doesn’t even give interviews to
Sports Illustrated
. Getting him to talk to me would do wonders for my career.” Nelson had an almost dreamy smile on his face as he imagined the possibilities. Although he enjoyed covering high school and college football, he was ready to move up to the major leagues—namely hockey, which was his favorite sport.

Grinning, Nadia bumped her shoulder against his. “So do it.”

Nelson blinked at her. “Do what?”