Wicked Games (Denver Rebels) (4 page)

3

“S
o what’s the
story with the reporter?”

Reid glanced up from his beer to find his teammate and best friend, Viggo Sandström, eyeing him curiously.

After practice, they’d hit their favorite sports bar and grill with several other Rebels players. After inhaling platters of barbecue ribs and burgers, the others had wandered off to play pool while Reid and Viggo chilled at the table, nursing their beers and shooting the breeze.

The two men had been friends since getting drafted by the Rebels six years ago. During their rookie season, they were assigned as roommates for the team’s first road trip. Although Viggo spoke very little English, they’d hit it off right away, falling into an easy camaraderie that defied any language barrier. Over the next several months, they’d survived rookie hazing together and pushed each other to work hard and kick ass every time they stepped onto the ice. While Viggo’s private tutor taught him English, Reid supplemented the lessons by teaching him American slang and how to swear like a trucker. And when the Swede was feeling homesick, Reid took him to strip clubs to watch hot blond exotic dancers that reminded him of his countrywomen.

Six years later, Viggo spoke perfect English and was one of the Rebels’ top scorers. Nicknamed “The Sandstorm” for the way he obliterated defenders on the ice, he was hands down the best center Reid had ever played alongside.

He was also persistent as hell. Like a dog with a bone, he just couldn’t let shit go.

“Well?” he prompted when Reid took too long answering his question.

“Well what?”

“What’s up with the reporter?”

Reid played dumb. “What reporter?”

“The one you were talking to after practice.” Viggo raised one blond eyebrow. “Since when do you give interviews to journos?”

“It wasn’t an interview,” Reid countered. “I just answered a couple questions.”

“Something you haven’t done in over three years,” Viggo pointed out.

Reid shrugged a shoulder. “I was feeling charitable.”

Viggo snorted. “Bullshit.”

Reid grinned and took a swig of his beer. Viggo was right, of course. There’d been nothing altruistic about his motives for talking to the
Dispatch
reporter. He’d done it for purely selfish reasons—to meet Nadia Warner.

The moment he laid eyes on her, he’d wanted her. She was beautiful, a fallen angel with silky brown skin, luscious bee-stung lips and big dark doe eyes a man could drown in. When their gazes locked, he’d felt a sharp jolt of electricity that nearly knocked him off his skates. For the rest of practice, he’d found himself distracted by her presence. He couldn’t help watching her in the stands, willing her to look his way again.

Leaving that arena without meeting her hadn’t been an option.

All the way over to the bar, his thoughts had been consumed with her. He wondered where she lived, where she worked, where she played. He wondered if she had a man, a lover who warmed her bed every night.

Frowning at the thought, he drank more beer while letting his gaze roam around the bar. Even on a Tuesday night, the place was packed. Located in the heart of LoDo, Sullivan’s was a popular spot for sports fans to watch games, shoot pool and rub shoulders with the professional athletes that hung out there. Flirty waitresses in tight jeans bustled between tables shuttling drinks and serving food. Several flatscreen televisions were mounted in the corners and above the long bar, where Rebels captain Hunter “HD” Duchene sat swigging a beer while debating politics with the bartender.

On the ice, the Canadian left winger was all business, leading power plays, scoring clutch goals and keeping defensemen on their heels. Off the ice, he could often be found reading weighty tomes by the likes of Sun Tzu and Noam Chomsky. He was known to enjoy a good vodka martini at black-tie functions, where he engaged in spirited intellectual conversations, debunking the stereotype that all hockey players were meatheads.

“So again I ask, bro. What’s the story with the reporter?”

Reid shifted his attention back to Viggo. “Jesus. You really don’t give up, do you?”

Viggo chuckled. “C’mon, man. You despise reporters. For the past three years, you’ve all but told them to fuck off every time they even glanced your way. You’ve turned down every single one of their interview requests. And now all of a sudden, you’re chatting it up with some reporter from the
Denver Dispatch
, of all papers. Can you blame me for being curious?”

“Guess not.” Reid chuckled, leaning back in his chair and stretching out his long legs under the table. “The reporter was there with a woman I wanted to meet.”

“Ahh.” Viggo nodded wisely and grinned. “I should have known there was a chick involved.”

Reid saw no point in trying to deny or defend his womanizing tendencies. His reputation preceded him.

Viggo gave him an amused look. “So did you meet her?”

Reid grinned. “I did.”

“And?”

“I told her brother to bring her to the game on Thursday.”

“Wait a minute.” Viggo stared at him. “The woman you met was the reporter’s sister?”

“Yup.”

Viggo leaned forward. “So she’s…”

“Black?” Reid nodded, smiling. “She is.”

A slow grin curved Viggo’s mouth. “I think I saw her. She had her hair in a ponytail, right? And the way she was dressed…she had that whole sexy librarian vibe, minus the glasses.”

Reid chuckled. “Yeah. That was her.”

Viggo’s grin widened to show off straight white teeth. “I can definitely see why you’re interested.”

Reid’s smile faded as he narrowed his eyes. “Don’t get any crazy ideas. I saw her first.”

Viggo laughed. With his dark blond hair, vivid gray eyes and chiseled features, he lived up to the stereotype of good-looking Swedes. Not only was he a dominant scorer on the ice, he was also considered one of the NHL’s best dressed players. He had endorsement deals with several corporations, including nearly every major Swedish company. He frequently appeared in magazine spreads wearing custom-fitted suits and his trademark rakish grin. Women went crazy over him, screaming his name during games and practically chasing him down when they spotted him out in public. He took all the attention in stride—smiling, flirting and charming them with his accent, which he’d learned to turn on and off at will.

Like Reid, he was intensely focused on hockey and winning the Stanley Cup. Where the two friends differed was that Viggo wasn’t allergic to commitment. Although he enjoyed his share of one-night stands, he’d also had a few long-term relationships over the years. Unlike Reid, he could actually see himself settling down and starting a family someday. He just hadn’t met the right woman yet.

Lifting his beer to his mouth, he eyed Reid over the rim of the glass. “So what’s the librarian’s name? And is she single?”

Reid scowled. “None of your damn business.”

Viggo burst out laughing.

Shaking his head, Reid downed the rest of his beer and glanced across the room. The rest of their teammates stood around the pool table laughing raucously and talking trash to one another. A group of puck bunnies hovered nearby, giggling flirtatiously and running their fingers through their hair to get the fellas’ attention.

Reid watched in amusement as Logan “Bruiser” Brassard, who played right wing, leaned over the table to take his shot. He was tall and muscular with buzz-cut black hair, deep brown eyes and a square jaw darkened with stubble.

Without breaking a sweat, he sank one ball after another, running the table to take the win. As the others let out a collective groan of disgust, one of the groupies sashayed forward and boldly kissed Logan on the mouth. As a roar of approval erupted over the table, Logan grinned broadly and patted the beaming blonde on her ass.

A waitress hurried over, bringing a shot of whiskey to the triumphant victor. Logan knocked back the shot in one gulp, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and thumped his broad chest to a round of cheers. The guy drank like a fish, but he was a beast on the ice with slick puck-handling skills and a cannonball slap shot.

He looked across the crowded bar and pointed to Reid. “Get your ass over here, Holden!” he called out. “I need some real competition, and you owe me a rematch.”

Reid grinned before calling back in a lazy drawl, “No, thanks. I’m good.”

“What’s the matter?” Logan taunted. “Afraid you’ll lose?”

“Nah, see, after I kicked your ass last time, you played like shit the next day. I just figured I’d spare you another beatdown for the sake of the team.”

As a hearty rumble of laughter swept through the bar, Logan grinned and flipped Reid the bird before turning his attention to the simpering blonde at his side.

Viggo grinned, shaking his head at Reid. “He’ll never learn.”

Reid chuckled. “Nope.”

From his stool at the bar, Hunter Duchene raised his beer in salute to Reid, his green eyes glinting with humor as he called out, “Well played.”

Reid flashed a crooked grin and saluted the team captain.

Just then his cell phone buzzed. He pulled it out of his pocket and looked at the screen. His agent, Kyle Dornan, had sent him a cryptic text:
Got something brewing. Call me.

“Everything okay?” Viggo asked.

“Yeah. It’s Kyle. Be right back.” Reid rose from the table and threaded his way through the crowded bar. Several women gave him come-hither smiles as he walked past, but tonight, for the first time, he looked right through them.

Striding out the door, he started down the narrow hallway leading to the restrooms. It was too noisy inside the bar, and he wanted to be able to hear what his agent had to say.

Kyle’s young assistant answered the phone and greeted Reid with her usual enthusiasm. “Kyle had to take another call,” she explained, “but he really wants to speak to you. He promised he’d only be a minute. Can you hold?”

“Sure.” Reid propped a shoulder against the wall next to a framed photograph of John Elway hoisting the Lombardi trophy after the Broncos won the Super Bowl in 1998.

While he waited for his agent to come on the line, he mentally replayed the conversation they’d had three months ago.

“Guess who just received a major endorsement offer from Gatorade?” Kyle crowed when Reid answered the phone. “You, that’s fucking who!”

Reid grinned. “Seriously? That’s awesome.”

“Damn right it is! They’re rebranding the original Gatorade Ice and turning it into a product line of extreme endurance drinks. They want you to be the face of the new brand. They’ve had their eye on you for a while now. After your performance this past season, they’re more excited than ever to sign you. Listen to this. Their marketing director described you as the quintessential tough guy, an ‘assassin on the ice with a take-no-prisoners attitude.’ They think you’d be the perfect spokesman for the Ice Series.”

Reid had been thoroughly stoked. There wasn’t a pro athlete breathing who wouldn’t give his right nut for a major endorsement deal with Gatorade. It was a huge fucking coup. And since hockey wasn’t as popular in America as football, basketball and baseball, it was harder for NHL players to be seen as hot commodities. Lucrative endorsement contracts given to players such as Viggo and Sidney Crosby were the exception, not the norm.

At that moment Kyle came on the line, breaking into Reid’s reverie. “Holden, my man, how the hell’s it going? You hyped about the upcoming season?”

“Always,” Reid drawled.

“Good, good. So, listen, I have some great news. I got a call from Nike, and they’re interested in signing you.”

“For real? Nike?” Reid grinned. “Damn, Kyle, you’re on a roll, aren’t you?”

Kyle laughed. “Gotta earn my keep, right?”

“Never hurts.”

As Kyle began explaining the terms of the potential deal, a leggy blonde wearing Reid’s jersey brushed past him, coyly trailing her fingers along his arm. When their eyes met, she licked her lips provocatively and crooked her finger for him to follow her. Before tonight he probably would have done just that. But now the idea of hooking up with some random hot chick held zero appeal.

So he just chuckled and shook his head as the blonde sashayed off to the restroom.

“…definitely love to have you on board,” Kyle was saying, pulling Reid’s attention back to the conversation. “They’re even thinking about featuring you in a crossover commercial with Mason Wolf from the Atlanta Falcons.”

Reid grinned. “Hey, that’d be cool.”

“It sure would. I know he’s a good friend of yours, and appearing in a commercial with one of the NFL’s top wide receivers would expose you to non-hockey fans and increase your visibility.” Kyle was always thinking strategically, which was what made him so good at his job. “Anyway, I just wanted to give you a heads-up about the Nike offer. I’m supposed to be meeting with them later this week to hammer out the details. So it’s not a done deal yet, but we’re close. I’ll keep you posted.”

“Sounds good. Thanks, Kyle.” Reid hung up and tucked the phone back into his pocket, then headed back inside the bar. He had just rejoined Viggo at the table when their waitress appeared, depositing two fresh beers in front of them.