Roman (Cold Fury Hockey #7)(66)

“Yes,” she says in complete candor. “Part of it is personal with me, and now that he’s seeing Lexi, it’s become even more so. There’s a part of my irritation that comes from being protective of Lexi because he’s a known player.”

“But maybe he’s changed in that respect,” I point out. “I mean…he dropped a pink teddy bear off to her tonight to let her know he was thinking of her. That doesn’t scream player.”

“I know,” Gray huffs out. “And maybe you’re right, but it’s hard for me to give him the benefit of the doubt when I don’t know him.”

“So get to know him,” I suggest.

“How, when he won’t come to family events?” she counters.

“I bet he’d be willing to perhaps go on a double date with you and Ryker,” I offer. “That’s not as pressure filled.”

“Maybe,” Gray says grudgingly.

“I’ll start reaching out to him more,” Ryker says to his wife. He’s our goalie coach and doesn’t have anything to do with the defensemen, really, but he does travel with the team and is there during all practices. “We should probably try to get to know him if Lexi’s getting serious.”

“She’s getting serious,” I say knowingly. That look on her face said it all, and I can even relate to it more because if I’d look in the mirror when I think of Georgia, I’d have that same look on my face too.

“You two are right,” Gray says in a grudging tone. “I’ll try to figure a way to ease those tensions, but I can’t do it at the expense of my general manager duties.”

“Would never want you to, honey,” I assure Gray as I reach out and put my hand on her shoulder. “That’s still a priority, but I have confidence you can find the balance.”

“I hope so,” she says glumly.

I hope so too, because all of these relationships are so fragile and new, there’s a greater risk they’ll be broken rather than strengthened.





Chapter 24


Roman


Stepping off the bus, I follow my teammates almost single file into the Park Hyatt Hotel, exhausted after a brutal game against the Washington Breakers, but all that matters is we came away with the win. I received a small cut on my right cheekbone due to an “altercation” on the ice, but I’m proud to say the other guy looks worse. He got the first punch, but I got the last.

Best of all, this fight was legit, and Gray Brannon can’t give me shit about it. That douche McClenden dropped the gloves first and I was just obliged to take him up on it. No one can argue with my reaction, and the five-minute major penalty was well worth McClenden needing to leave the ice to get stitched up. I was completely fine with a few butterflies one of our trainers slapped onto my tiny cut.

The minute we hit the lobby, fans start calling out to the players, but my name gets called the loudest and by the most people, because even though I’m part of a team that just beat their ass, I used to play for the Breakers before I came to the Cold Fury.

A quick scan of the crowd and I see plenty of my old Breaker jerseys being worn, and that’s because I was revered here. The Breakers built a reputation on gritty, no-holds-barred hockey, and I was the cornerstone of that philosophy. Even the team management turned blind eyes to my antics because deep down they knew it was a necessary part of the game.

Not so much with the Cold Fury, though.

Or at least I’m coming to learn.

“Roman…Roman…can we get an autograph?” I hear someone call out.

Another, “Roman, we miss you.”

And another, “Roman, please take a picture with me.”

With an internal smile, because I don’t want anyone to see I’m still flattered by the love I have from some old fans, I break off from my teammates as they file to the elevators or head over to the group of Cold Fury fans clustered in the lobby. Most are wearing Cold Fury jerseys, but there’s a good chunk of Breakers’ fans who want some of my time, and I’ve never been one to shortchange people who support me.

I notice other pockets of fans throughout, and some of my other teammates also stopping to indulge in photographs and autographs. It’s pretty much the norm after every game, and many fans will book rooms in the team hotel for a chance to get up close and personal with their hockey idols.

There’s a groove I get into, methodically signing jerseys or scraps of paper. Posing for selfies. Accepting handmade gifts or getting hugs from kids. And yes, getting hit on by women—and hell, twice in my career by men. It’s all part of my job.

I spend about ten minutes doing my duties, and as the last of the crowd starts to dissipate, I turn to the last group patiently waiting and sigh quietly when I see two female Breakers fans, both wearing Sykora jerseys, waiting for me.

And not just any Sykora jerseys.

These are tight and so formfitting they are leaving nothing to anyone’s imagination as to the size of their breasts or the circumference of their hips. In fact, I’d venture to say they were wearing kids’ jerseys. Both women have long, wavy hair and lots of makeup. Both very beautiful and very sexy, the type I’d have signed whatever they wanted in the privacy of a hotel room in my single days.

Now, that makes me smile.

My single days.