The Secret Hook-Up

I try not to watch as security lets Duncan and a young woman into our roped-off section.

A very young woman.

The itch gets itchier.

“Addie?” Waverly whispers. “You okay?”

I slam the rest of my second drink while the soccer coach excuses herself to go talk to one of the rugby guys.

Would be nice if my drink had alcohol in it, but see again, this is a work function. “Shoulder itches,” I murmur to her.

“Want me to⁠—”

“Waverly.” Cooper joins us, and fuck.

He has Duncan with him.

“Have you met my hockey buddy, Duncan?” Cooper says. “And this is his niece, Paisley. She’s a big fan.”

“Of yours?” Waverly asks with a cheeky grin.

“Of yours.” Cooper’s grin back is even bigger.

The one person not grinning?

Paisley.

She’s pale and barely audible as she whispers, “Huge fan.”

She’s an inch or two taller than Waverly, but an inch or two shorter than me, wrapped in a red dress that matches her lipstick. Dark curly hair, just like her uncle. Green eyes, just like her uncle. But unlike her uncle, she is absolutely overwhelmed as she stares at Waverly.

“So nice to meet you, Paisley.” Waverly smiles at her, hands her drink to Cooper, and takes the girl’s hand. “Do you live here in Copper Valley?”

Paisley shakes her head. Then nods. Then shakes her head again.

“She’s heading into her first year at Copper Valley University,” Duncan supplies.

I remember him talking about his older sister and how much he adored his niece. He must be happy that she’ll be close.

And that is none of my business.

Friendly isn’t a word I would’ve used to describe our interaction the other day, which is for the best.

Waverly keeps smiling her kind smile. “Oh, how wonderful that you’ll have family nearby. What are you studying?”

“Sports management.” Paisley’s voice is still barely more than a whisper.

“No. Way. For real? You have to meet Addie. She’s a coach for the Fireballs.” Waverly turns her smile on me.

I used to think it was her pop-star smile, but it’s not.

It’s her normal smile. She doesn’t hold anything back when she smiles.

“Hi, Paisley,” I say with a smile of my own, though mine is definitely more reserved.

“Duncan, you know Addie?” Cooper asks while Paisley whispers a soft, “That’s fire,” and shakes my hand.

“We’ve met,” I say shortly in answer to Cooper’s question.

Fucking Cooper.

He knows we’ve met. And the mischief dancing over his face says he’s about to have fun figuring out why Duncan dropped me off at the ballpark a few days ago. With my arm in the shape it was in, Cooper didn’t push for details.

That courtesy is apparently over now.

“Was it a nice meeting?” he asks.

“I’m the reason she’s in a sling,” Duncan says.

Even Paisley snaps out of it to look at him.

“He is not the reason I’m in a sling,” I say to Cooper.

“I am.” Duncan’s voice is so cool it could freeze antifreeze.

“Odds are extremely high that I would have dislocated my shoulder regardless of who was in the vicinity.” I’m still talking to Cooper.

Pretty sure Duncan is too. “I pulled too hard trying to get her out of the dress.”

“In a dress store while I was trying on a dress that I knew was a bad idea.”

“I had a pocketknife on me that would’ve been more efficient.”

For the love of the baseball gods. I snap a look at him. “You can’t just cut up a dress in a store.”

He shifts his gaze to me, cool as ice. “Why not?”

“It went on. It could come off.”

“Clearly not.”

“And then you have to pay for it.”

“Oh, dear me. How would I have ever afforded to pay for a dress that I cut off a woman in a dress store? I’m so broke. It would’ve left me destitute and homeless.”

“Stop being an ass.”

Yep.

I just said that with an audience.

While I was provoked into this conversation, it’s starting to feel like my mouth has taken on a life of its own. Confident, capable, in-charge baseball coach Addie has left the building, and Addie who finally says all of the things she thinks has taken her place.

Stop talking, I order myself.

A giggle in the back of my brain is the only answer I get.

What the hell?Exclusive © material by Nô(/v)elDrama.Org.

“Maybe if you’d let someone help you for once in your life, the people around you wouldn’t feel the need to be asses.” Duncan’s icy tone has turned sunburn hot.

“Oh my gosh, Addie, your shoulder was itching!” Waverly exclaims. “Which shoulder was it? I’ve got it.”

“Good luck with that,” Duncan mutters.

Like that was our problem. That I wouldn’t let him do enough for me.

When the real problem was that I liked him more than I’ve ever liked any man in my life, and it was terrifying.

I liked him enough that I kept agreeing to see him even while that little alarm in the back of my head was reminding me that the longer you go, the harder it is to extricate yourself. That the man he showed me every day likely wasn’t the man he’d be for the rest of his life.

Everyone’s on their best behavior when you first start dating. But what about three years down the road? And five? And fifteen? When you have kids together and one of you is carrying the entire load of doing everything for the kids and her husband while trying to have her own career too and she’s so tired and worn down that when she says she wants to go on a Caribbean cruise and he says no, I won’t be stuck on a boat with that many people, so she just says okay and drops her dreams and desires instead of going by herself or with a group of friends instead, and then she never gets to go because he always told her no and she always listened.

Shit.

Get out of your head, Addie. This isn’t about Mom.

Waverly scratches at my spine just above my dress.

Both of my shoulders hitch, sending a jolt of pain through my left shoulder that I actively ignore.

Cooper’s looking between me and Duncan, wide-eyed and clearly amused. “Can you make sure your uncle doesn’t have any glitter bombs at his house?” he murmurs to Paisley.

Freaking Cooper. I channel some inner take no bullshit and look him square in the eye. “I thought you were never saying the word glitter again after what Waverly did to your house to prove to you who’s top prank dog.”

“Desperate times require interventions.”

“I don’t do pranks with players. On any team.” Even if I sometimes want to. That’s one line I still don’t feel comfortable crossing. Despite how comfortable I feel with the entire Fireballs staff.

Cooper’s eyes are absolutely sparkling with mischief. “Yet. Everyone has a tipping point.”

“I—oh yes, right there. You’re a goddess. Thank you,” I say to Waverly.

She’s found the itch, and she’s scratching it.

It’s not helping as much as I’d like, probably because the source of the itch is still standing there beside me. Doesn’t matter that I’m not looking at him.

He’s still there.

He’s still staring at me.

And his niece is staring at me too.

One of Waverly’s security detail takes my empty glass and hands me a refill.

“Better?” she asks me.

“Yes. Thank you.”

“I had an outfit for a photo shoot once that wouldn’t let me move my arms higher than this.” She holds her arms out about six inches from her sides, demonstrating. “Getting itches was the worst when I was in it.”

“I would’ve scratched your itches,” Cooper tells her.

“You scratch all of my itches now.”

They’re so cute that they’re gross.

I didn’t know that was possible. I’ve definitely never thought that about any of my brothers and their wives.

If Cooper doesn’t carry an equal load in their domestic household, I will⁠—

Nope.

Not my marriage. Not my place to have any opinion.

I need to get out of my own head here.

“Are you offering anything tonight, Duncan?” Waverly asks.

I slide a look at her as I try not to gulp the drink like it’s liquid tolerance.

I don’t need liquid courage. I need liquid tolerance. Patience. Something to help me resist the lull of being provoked.

Because I’m at work.

And at-work Addie doesn’t bicker with hockey players.

Even if it’s easy.

“He plays guitar,” Paisley blurts, her voice finally above a whisper.

“Acoustic or electric?” Waverly asks.

“Acoustic,” Duncan answers.

“And he sings,” Paisley says.

“Not as well as some people.”

“He’s really good,” she insists.

“It’s just a hobby.”

Just a hobby. He’s fucking amazing. And I say that as someone who didn’t go to see him play, but as someone who was completely blown away by how sexy he looked on that stage the first night we met.

“You’re auctioning off a private concert?” Waverly asks.

“A night out with me at one of my favorite bars while I’m playing,” he answers.

Fuck me.

I think I’m seeing red.

Or is it green?

Shit.

It’s green.

Which is stupid. First, he left me. I can take being rejected, even if it hurt. I’m grateful that he rejected me. Made it easier to move on. Second, it’s been four damn years. And third, he has no say in who I see or sleep with, so why should the fact that I’ve seen him twice in a little over a week now mean I get any say in who he sees or sleeps with?

I’d question why I think it’s a foregone conclusion that any woman who wins a night of being a groupie while Duncan’s playing at a bar would end up in bed with him, except it’s obvious.

A strong, tall, green-eyed, curly-haired, dimple-cheeked hockey player strumming a guitar while that voice comes out of his mouth?

He’s sexy as hell when he’s playing.

Of course they’ll end up in bed together.

Maybe she’ll even be the marrying type, and they’ll settle down together and he’ll retire from hockey to support all of her hopes and dreams and goals and they’ll have three perfect children and two perfect dogs and one perfect cat and they’ll live perfectly ever after.

And what is wrong with me?

I don’t care.

Or, I’m not supposed to care. I do a very good job of actively not caring most of the time.

Tonight, I care. It’s like all of the feelings and longings that scared the shit out of me when I started to feel them toward Duncan four years ago have sprouted new wings, tumbled free of their cages, and are flopping around this ballroom on full display.

I picture them like flying fishes and I almost giggle.

Again, what the hell is wrong with me?

A microphone screeches, and we all look toward the stage. “Ladies and gentlemen, please refill your glasses, visit the buffet if you need any more food, and then take your seats,” Levi Wilson, tonight’s emcee, says. “The bidding will begin in fifteen minutes.”

“Oh, wait,” Waverly says. “Paisley, let’s get a picture before you go sit down.”

I shift away.

I’d like to shift farther away, but the VIP section has gotten more crowded than I realized as the night’s gone on.

And I finally let myself steal a full look at Duncan while he snaps a photo of Waverly and Paisley on a pink-cased phone that I assume belongs to his niece.

His rugged jawline is clean-shaven.

Fresh haircut that only hints at how curly his hair will be when it grows out another half-inch again.

Dark blue suit that fits him like a glove, right down to his powerful hockey thighs and ass, built up from a lifetime of being on skates.

Tie featuring the rocket-powered bratwurst mascot of the Thrusters hockey team. And I’d bet the socks match.

Soft smile on his face as he looks at the phone.

He’s not just hot as hell, he’s also a good guy.

In the short time we spent together, I would’ve said he was one of the best men, in fact.

Until he couldn’t handle my utter terror at the idea of my life becoming what my mother’s was. I couldn’t explain it to him either.

Not that I tried.

And I don’t know if I kept it to myself because I was afraid of what other truths would tumble out of my mouth if I’d started with that one or if I was afraid he wouldn’t understand.

Probably both.

Waverly hugs Paisley, then lets her go and slips to my side as we’re led to a set of tables near the back of the ballroom just outside of the VIP section. “Don’t disappear. You’re sitting with us, okay?”

“Sure.”

“Have I told you how much I love this color on you? You are absolutely sparkling tonight.”

I blush. “It’s my favorite,” I confess quietly.

As if liking the color pink is something to be embarrassed by.

Of course it’s not.

I love wearing dresses when I get the chance. I love wearing pink when I get the chance.

But I don’t admit it out loud to other people.

The last time I said it—back in college, before a dinner with the athletic director and several talent scouts—my softball coach cornered me and warned me to never say it again.

If you’re going to be a woman in a man’s world, you cannot be feminine. Not yet. Prove yourself before you let them remember that you’re a girl.

Her advice offended me to the core.

And then I learned the hard way in my first few jobs after college just how right she was.

Wearing a dress to the Fireballs’ first championship dinner celebration was among the scarier things I’ve done, but everyone—players, fellow coaches, admins, board, and owners—treated me no differently than if I were in my baseball uniform.

It was surreal.

And while I’ve let my guard down regularly with the team since then, that paranoia still holds a grip on me.

While I’ve started wondering if this is a me problem, if the Fireballs truly are different enough as an organization that I’ll be judged on my merits as a coach when I interview for Santiago’s position, I can’t fully drop my barriers.

I don’t want to set myself up for failure by ignoring all of the lessons life and my fellow lady coaches have taught me over the years.

No matter how much I want to believe what you see is what you get with the Fireballs.

“Loving what you wear is why you glow.” Waverly squeezes my good arm. “It just feels good. So how long ago were you and Duncan together?”

The way I want to answer that question so badly and ask her opinion on which of us was right and wrong all those years ago…

But instead, I take a swig of my drink.

“I still don’t know you well enough yet to know if that means recently or a long time ago,” she murmurs.

“It means it’s irrelevant,” I reply.

“Hmm.”

“No hmm. It’s irrelevant.”

“Was he a dick?”

“No more than any other man.” I slide a look at her, then add on a grumble, “Probably less than any other man.”

She squeezes again. “Did he hurt you?”

“I…I think we hurt each other.”

“Cooper hurt me once,” she says softly.

“I know.”

“Giving him another chance was worth it.”

“I can regret that we hurt each other and still not want to give him another chance to hurt me again.”

“Because you love your life the way it is, or because you’re afraid the potential hurt will be worse than the potential joy?”

Did you let him go because it was easier to face the temporary hurt of a breakup than it was to be brave and admit to him that you were afraid he’d hurt you even worse the longer you stayed together?

It’s the question that haunts me when I let it. “This is not a conversation I’ll ever have when I’m sober.”

She grins at me. “Then I’m glad you’re drinking tonight.”

“I’m not—” I freeze.

I am.

I look at the drink in my hand. “I wanted what you’re having. You like cranberry seltzers. You liked cranberry seltzers at Cooper’s retirement party.”

Her mouth forms an O. “I was pregnant.”

My mouth forms an O right back. “And you’re not now.”

“I’m not even nursing. It hurt too much and I couldn’t make enough milk.”

“I can’t get drunk.” I stare at her in horror as I realize exactly what picturing my emotions as flying fishes means. It means I’m tipsy. “I can’t get drunk at work.”

She grabs me by the cheeks and goes up on her tiptoes. “Listen to me, Addie Bloom. You do not have to hold yourself to such high standards that you can’t enjoy your life. If anyone tries to use anything from tonight against you, they’ll have to go through me. Understand?”

I try to nod, but it comes out as a shake of my head.

Am I drunk?

I don’t think I’m drunk.

I tend to hold my liquor pretty well.

But I haven’t had much to eat. Just a few bites off of the hors d’oeuvres trays the servers have been passing around.

But I also had a massive argument with Duncan by way of staring at Cooper for most of it.

I would not have done that if I were totally sober.

Would I?

How did that argument start again?

I try to nod once more. “Can you just make sure I don’t do anything stupid tonight? I have to get up on stage.”

“You’re constitutionally incapable of doing anything stupid. Just relax and have fun, and everything will be fine.”

Everything will be fine.

I hope she’s right.