Hawke (Cold Fury Hockey, #5)(80)

Chapter 1


Max


I stick the nozzle in my gas tank, depress the handle, and flip the catch down to hold it in place. Letting the gas flow on its own, I head across the nearly empty parking lot to the gas station, which is lit up like a bright beacon out here on Possum Track Road. I’m starved and I know my fridge is empty at home, so I’m going to break down and buy some junk food for my dinner. I just won’t tell Vale about it, as I don’t feel like listening to her bitch at me.

Vale Campbell…pretty as hell and nice to look at, but I dread having to hang out with her. That’s because she’s one of the assistant athletic trainers for the Cold Fury, and most important, working with me on my strength and conditioning. She would most certainly say Snickers, Cheez-Its, and root beer are not on my approved list, and then she’d have me doing burpees, mountain climbers, and box jumps until I puked.

Pulling the door open, I immediately see two guys at the cooler checking out the stock of beer. Both wearing wifebeaters stained with grease and faded ball caps. I, myself, pull my own hat down farther to hide my face, as I don’t feel like getting recognized tonight. It’s late, I want to get my junk food and get gone. We’ve got an early morning practice tomorrow.

I turn right down the first aisle, which houses the chips and other such snacks, slightly aware the other two customers are heading to the counter to check out. I keep my back to them just to be safe and peruse the options.

Funyuns.

Potato chips.

Doritos.

Corn nuts.

Reaching for a bag of salt-and-vinegar potato chips, I hear one of the guys drawl in a typical North Carolina redneck accent, “Hey, sweet thang. How ’bout a pack of Marlboro Reds and how ’bout handing me that there box of condoms. The extralarge size.”

The redneck’s companion snickers, and then snorts. I turn slightly to see them both shoot conspiratorial grins at each other, and one guy nudges the other guy to egg him on. While the clerk turns to get the condoms, the redneck leans across the counter and stares blatantly at the woman’s ass. The other guy says loud enough that I hear, so I know the woman hears, “Mmmmm…that is a fine ass.”

Turning my body full so I face the counter, I see the woman’s back stiffen and she turns her face to the left to look at a closed doorway beside the rack that holds all of the cigarettes. I’m wondering if perhaps a manager or another employee is in there, and she’s hoping for some help.

But she doesn’t wait and turns to face the two *s, squaring her shoulders.

And god damn…she’s breathtaking. Looking past the red and gold polyester vest she wears with a name tag—clearly a uniform—I see her face is flawless. Creamy skin that glows, high cheekbones, a straight nose that tilts slightly at the end, and full lips that look sexily puffed even though they are flattened in a grimace. Her hair is not blond, but not brown. I’d describe it as caramel with honey streaks and it’s pulled back from her face in a ponytail with a low fall of bangs falling from left to right across her forehead.

While she faces the two men resolutely, I can see wariness in her eyes as she sets the cigarettes and condoms on the counter in front of them. “Will that be all?”

Her voice has a southern accent but it’s subtle. She looks back and forth between the two men, refusing to lower her gaze.

Redneck number one nods to the twelve-pack of beer he had placed on the counter and says, “That was the last of the Coors. You got any in your storage room?”

“Nope, that’s it,” she says firmly, and I can tell it’s a lie.

“Are ya sure?” he asks, leaning his elbows on the counter and leering at her. “Maybe you could check…I could help you if you want, and we could make use of them condoms there.”

I’d roll my eyes over the absurdity of that attempt to woo a girl who is way out of his league, but I’m too tense over the prospect that this could be more than just some harmless goofing by some drunk rednecks.

“What do you say, sweet thang?” he says in what he tries to pass as a suave voice but comes off as trailer trash.

“I say there’s no more beer back there,” she grits out, gives a look over her shoulder to the closed door, and then back to the men.

And that was a worried look.

A very worried look, so I decide that this isn’t going any further. Grabbing the closest bag of chips my hand makes contact with, I stalk up the aisle toward the counter as I pull my hat off with my other hand. I tuck it in my back pocket, and when I’m just a few feet from the men, the woman’s eyes flick to me, relief evident in her gaze. I smile at her reassuringly and flick my eyes down to her name tag.

Julianne.

Pretty name for a really pretty girl.

The sound of my footsteps finally penetrates and both men straighten to their full heights, which are still a few inches below mine, and turn my way. My eyes go to the first man, then move slowly to the other, leveling them both with an ice-cold glare. With the power of my gaze, I dare both of them to say something else to the beauty behind the counter.

Because I suspect the only sports these guys watch are bass fishing tournaments and NASCAR, I’m not surprised neither one recognizes me as the Carolina Cold Fury’s starting goalie. Clearly the lovely Julianne doesn’t either, but that’s also fine by me.

The sound of Julianne’s fingers tapping on the register catches everyone’s attention and the two men turn back to her. “That will be $19.86.”