The Secret Hook-Up

I’m playing with fire.

Dating? I don’t do it.

Flinging? Hooking up? Yes.

But dating? No.

However, dating is exactly what it feels like when Duncan asks if I want to hit a bar for the best smothered fries in Copper Valley before he drops me back at my place.

“Is this a trick to get me to eat poutine?” I ask when I should tell him I have things I need to do.

Which wouldn’t exactly be a lie.

The things I need to do are to not spend the afternoon with him when he’s so damn likeable.

My mother used to tell me my father was so damn likeable when they first met too.

And then she spent thirty-five years losing herself to try to make him happy when the truth was that nothing would make him happy.

He didn’t want to be happy.

But he certainly seemed to enjoy the power he had over her to make her try.

“You’d love poutine,” Duncan says as he steers his SUV around a corner. “But this isn’t a trick to get you to eat it. These are your typical American loaded fries. Cheddar, onions, bacon, and you can even smother it in ranch dressing if you want. They’re delicious.”

“Hmm.”

“Is that a no, or is that an I’ll be the judge of how good these fries are?”

“I can spare an hour for loaded fries.”

“The Stingrays will appreciate it when you order this next time for breakfast.”

I actually laugh at that.

“You ever order breakfast for the Fireballs?” he asks.

“No.”

“No Coach Addie question-and-answer time with the starting lineup?”

“Pro baseball players don’t need the same thing as college athletes on the women’s teams.”

He hmms back at me.

“Hmm what?”

He shakes his head.

“No, really,” I say. “What?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Wash, rinse, repeat. For a whole block.

I twist sideways in my seat and stare at him, and he finally shrugs. “You looked happy.”

Not what I was expecting him to say.

I thought I’d get you’d be surprised how dumb rookies can be or even veteran players need to know they’re heard sometimes.

And I do hear my players.

All of them.

It’s why Cooper Rock asked for my advice before he retired. Why Diego Estevez sometimes pops in with relationship questions. Why Brooks Elliott and Luca Rossi ambushed me two weeks ago to talk about concerns they have about the batting order we’ve been using.

It’s why my brain has been swimming since Tripp’s comment that the guys had noticed a change in me this year, when I know I’ve clammed back up.

And I know I need to fix how I’m presenting myself if I’m going to get Santiago’s job.

Mostly, I need to come to terms with the paranoia that my history before the Fireballs brings out in me.

And I had all of those arguments ready to go, then Duncan hits me with you looked happy.

“I enjoy mentoring young women,” I say.

“It shows.”

I tilt my head, watching him. It feels like there’s something more he wants to say, something more on his mind, but he doesn’t elaborate.

Nor do I goad him into saying it. What would be the point?

It’s not a discussion I’m ready to have. Not with him.

That would be too personal. Too close. And I’m still feeling out what this friendship between us means.

After another block, he switches on the radio. We ride the rest of the way to the bar with him quietly humming along to the music.

Once we’re inside, it’s clear he’s a regular. The hostess greets him by name with a warm smile that she extends to me as well. “You playing today?” she adds, which is weird, since it’s not hockey season.

His cheeks take on that ruddy hue again. “Nah, not today. Just hungry.”

“Barry’ll comp your order if you play.”

“I brought a sugar mama. She’s paying today.”

It’s so unexpected that I crack up.

“I hope you’re as loaded as our fries,” she says, taking him completely seriously. “I’ve seen this guy put some food down.”

“I think I can afford him,” I tell her.

He’s getting ruddier in the cheeks, which is pinging my something’s off meter.

And when we’re seated in a booth along the wall, I kick him lightly under the table to pull his attention away from the menu. “When they say play…”

He nods toward the stage set up along the closest wall.

And it clicks. “They don’t know who you are here, do they?”

He shakes his head.

You’d think that wasn’t possible, but while Copper Valley is a sports town, it’s so much more than just a sports town. Go out to eat near the arena or the ballpark, and yes, it’s inevitable that someone will recognize the players. Sometimes me too. But I’ve also been out with the whole Fireballs team before and seen the looks of people around us who clearly realize the team is a big deal but couldn’t name a single person on it.

Outside the city, we’re known more for being the birthplace of Bro Code, the boy band that Tripp, Levi, and three of their friends played in for years before I met any of them.

“Think our PSA will blow your cover?” I ask Duncan.

He grins. “Only if I ever walk in here in a helmet and skates.”

“You like being anonymous?”

“Sometimes. I get a high off of playing for a crowd that isn’t predisposed to telling me I’m awesome.” He winks at me. “Sort of like I’m more inclined to go home with a woman who clearly doesn’t know I’m the shit for other reasons than how well I play a guitar.”

“I’m not touching that.”

“Suit yourself.”

“Hey, Duncan. You both know what you want, or should I give you a minute?” Our server is a smiling young man with a ponytail and a scruffy beard. He takes our drink orders along with Duncan’s request for loaded fries, then slips away.

“How often do you come here?” I ask him.

“Few times a month. It’s my new regular spot. Switch it up every summer.”

“Because you do get recognized.”

“Eventually.”

“And then it gets weird.”

“Yep.”

“Do your teammates know you come here?”

He shakes his head.

“Retired teammates?”

He shakes his head again. “Can you imagine Ares or Zeus showing up here and not blowing it?”

I smile. “Ares would be quiet.” It took a few years, but I eventually had reason to meet a few of the Thrusters through various opportunities. I’m still shocked I was in the city for over a year before I saw Duncan again. But I was pretty focused on baseball and only baseball those first two years.

“Felicity wouldn’t be quiet,” he says.

I haven’t met Felicity Berger in person, but I’ve seen clips of her using her ventriloquism skills between periods at Thrusters games before.

She’d out him in a hot second.

He half smirks, then shakes his head.

I lift a brow.

“Don’t tell her brother, but I dated her for a hot minute the season I got here.”

A shocked “No” slips out of my mouth.

A heavy dose of something green floods my vision.

Not my business. Not my business. Not my business.

“Just kissing,” Duncan says. “Nothing more. Long time ago.”

“Isn’t her brother⁠—”

“Nick Murphy. Yeah. Dude does vengeance like the Berger twins do pranks.”

It’s disturbing how much I want to have helped Nick Murphy teach Duncan a lesson for kissing his sister.

I should’ve had Duncan take me home.

He snorts with what looks like absolute glee.

“What?” I say.

“You look mad.”

“I’m not mad.”

“I didn’t say you are mad. I said you look mad.”

“I have resting bitch face.”

“You have resting pretty face.”

I frown at him.

He leans back in his seat and glances at our server, who’s arrived with our drinks. “Chuck, my dude, does my companion have resting bitch face?”

“No way.” He jerks his head toward the small stage in the corner of the room. “Those three guys over there asked if you’re brother and sister. They want to give her their phone numbers.”

“That’s a them problem,” I say. “Also, I don’t believe you.”

Regret sinks in immediately as hurt flashes through Chuck’s brown eyes, then disappears like he’s used to being abused at work.

“I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “I didn’t mean to imply you’re a liar. I believe you. Mostly. Kind of. I—I’m going to stop talking.”

“She’s not used to believing she’s pretty,” Duncan adds. “It’s like her mirrors don’t work.”

I’m blushing.

Furiously.

“Suppose it’s not likely the Fireballs are telling her she’s pretty every day,” Chuck says to Duncan. “Probably crosses lines with their coach.”

My lips part.

Duncan’s brows hit his hairline.

Chuck slides my iced tea in front of me on the smooth black table, his long sleeve pulling up just enough to show off a Baby Ash tattoo on his wrist. “Don’t worry. I won’t let your secret out.”

“Thank you,” I breathe.

“Also, I think you can do better than an unemployed guy who hangs out playing bars for free. No offense, Duncan.”

I choke on air.

Duncan’s grinning widely. “None taken.”

Chuck leaves Duncan’s bottle of sparkling water on the table too, then slips away.

“I can’t decide if I’m mortified or amused,” I whisper.

It’s obvious which one Duncan is. He’s barely holding in a laugh. “You’re more famous than I am.”

“He was joking about you being unemployed, right?”

“Nope. I told them I was living in my parents’ basement, waiting for my musical career to take off.”

“Long commute from Calgary every day.”

He laughs again. “Very draining.”

“You think you’ll stay in the US when you retire?”

I cringe and wish I could take it back the minute the question leaves my mouth.

But if he reads into it, he doesn’t show it.

Just shrugs instead. “Dunno. I’d like to be local as long as Paisley’s in college here. After that, suppose it’ll depend on what my life looks like then.”

“Think you’ll stay in hockey?”

“Maybe. Just as likely to be a real unemployed guy playing bars for fun though. Sometimes…sometimes I’m ready to slow down.”

I feel that.

Being a professional athlete—or coach—means long hours, lots of travel, being on when you’re spotted in public. Sometimes the break between seasons isn’t enough.

Especially if you’re using it to get in better shape before the next season. Or showing up as the conditioning coach the guys want to work with in the offseason.

I’ve done that most winters, usually up in Shipwreck, Cooper’s hometown in the mountains just outside the city. It’s easy to relax there. The entire Rock family is genuinely kind, and the locals are used to having baseball players and sometimes bigger celebrities coming around.

“Just a break or a forever slow down?” I ask.

His green eyes land on me, and my stomach dips.

“Either,” he says. “Depends on what my life looks like then.”

Depends on if you want a lazy-ass retired hockey player in your life.

That’s what I hear.

Not that I’d ever call Duncan lazy-ass. Far from it. If he takes a break when he retires, he’s earned it.

But I can hear him calling himself that.

And I can see him washing dishes in his house. Studying cooking videos and whipping up ever-more-delicious masterpieces. Folding laundry. Getting a dog. Spending his evenings eating popcorn at Duggan Field or nachos at Mink Arena.

Dammit, why are my eyes getting hot?

“I don’t do long-term relationships,” I tell him, which shouldn’t be news to him. And if I’m reading this wrong, I’m calling a ride and leaving all of the mortification of the past fifteen minutes behind me.

But Duncan takes the statement in stride, like he’s expecting me to go there. “Why?”

“That’s none of your business.”

He leans forward. “You ever talk to anyone about it?”

“Again, none of your business.”

“My sister’s first husband was the biggest dick in the history of dicks. They were high school sweethearts. Got married their final year of college when she got pregnant with Paisley. He started telling her she needed to lose weight faster after she gave birth. That since he made ten percent more than she did, it was her job to do the cooking, cleaning, shopping, bill-paying, laundry, taking sick days when the baby was sick…”

I flinch.

Cannot help myself.

Because that was my mom, but instead of one baby, she had five.

Duncan’s still watching me. “She left his worthless ass before Paisley was two, and she swore she was never dating again. It was easier being a single mom than it was depending on him for anything. Or taking care of two kids instead of one, since he was a big baby himself. And then Jordan happened.”

“Who’s Jordan?”

“He’s the guy who earned the privilege of being in her life by being a partner and not a leech. And I’ve never seen my sister happier.”

I reach for my tea and pretend to sip it.

“I know you like your life,” he says quietly. “I like my life. Doesn’t mean it can’t get better though. And you never know where better will come from when you quit standing in your own way.”

“Are you saying you’re supposed to be my better?”

“I’d let you take me for a test drive.”

“We’ve already done that.”

“Between the two of us, that was a bunch of championships ago.”

“Duncan—”

“I don’t want to just like my life. I want to love my life. So I’m going to open myself up to whatever the world wants to throw at me and look at every moment as an opportunity. This? Us? Here? This is an opportunity. Life put me in that dress shop last week because I was supposed to be there. Because I’m getting a second chance to do this right, at whatever pace you need.”

He shifts in his seat, making it squeak. “If you don’t see it that way, I can’t make you, just like I can’t go back four years and make you feel like we were as serious as I thought we were. But I know this much—there will always be another chance for me to find what I’m supposed to do. Who I’m supposed to be. Who I’m supposed to be with. And I’m not afraid of what happens on the way.”

My hand is shaking so badly that the ice in my cup rattles. My heart is pounding and there’s this thick sensation of being in a cloud all around me.

But it’s not a stifling cloud.

Not a dense fog that’s too thick to drive through.

This cloud is all lust.

Why is it so damn attractive when a man—no, when this man—tells me he’ll leave me in the dust and find someone even better?

That shouldn’t be attractive.

But he’s activated something deep inside of me.

Something that wants to know if he’s right. If he truly gets it. If he could be the one man in the world who could make my life better instead of sapping away the essence of who I am and what brings me happiness.

I liked him four years ago.

I liked him so much it scared me, much like I’ve retreated into badass, take-no-prisoners Addie recently at work because it terrifies me to think that being myself will keep me from the biggest professional dream I’ve ever had.

It’s easy to like him again. To forgive him—and myself—for how we ended.

But I don’t know what that means for our future.Ccontent © exclusive by Nô/vel(D)ra/ma.Org.

Beyond absolute terror.

It definitely means absolute terror.

A large oval plate filled to the brim with cheesy fries appears between us. “You’re not unemployed,” Chuck says to Duncan with a frown.

We both jerk back, and it takes me a breath to catch up to the fact that we’re not alone. We’re out in public. Both of us, moments ago, leaning in closer and closer.

Or maybe that was just me.

Drawn in by the hypnotic attractiveness of a man not afraid to tell me he likes me, and it’s on me to decide what to do with that information.

“She’s paying,” Duncan says with an easy grin. “You didn’t have to run my credit report.”

“Those guys say you play hockey.”

Duncan winces. “Might’ve picked up a stick a time or two.”

I wince for him too. That was a weak denial.

“For the Thrusters,” Chuck says.

“Can this be our secret?” Duncan asks.

“Not up to me anymore, friend.” Chuck looks back at the table of guys who were offering to give me their numbers. “They’re Barry’s cousins. Already texted him. He just called and told us to get you booked for Friday night.”

Duncan shakes his head and holds his hands up. “I don’t do bookings.”

“I get it. Enjoy your fries. This one’s on the house, so slip out anytime you feel like it. Nice knowing you, my unemployed friend.” Once again, Chuck steps away from our table.

I stare at Duncan. “What just happened?”

He stares forlornly at the fries. “My good friend Chuck recognizes that I’m not coming back. Barry’s the owner. He’ll put my name on posters if I agree to show up on Friday, and then I might as well be playing Chester Green’s.”

Oh.

The hockey bar near Mink Arena.

He’d be recognized there instantly.

And apparently, he’d be instantly recognized here too now.

He slides the plate my way. “Here. Try these. You need a baseline if you ever go hunting for the best loaded fries in Copper Valley.”

I’m not going hunting for the best loaded fries in Copper Valley.

Not when it’ll make me think of Duncan every time.