The Rebound: A Rochester Riot Sports Romance Read online

  “Well, he’s in the family now,” Eloise said. “Like it or not. Just hope Mom doesn’t get wind of it, or she’ll catapult him in your direction like one of those human cannonballs we used to see when the circus came to town.”

  “Yeah, he’d look great in a red spandex leotard with a giant “R” splayed across his scrawny chest.”

  Their discussion was cut short as the line of guests offering handshakes and congratulations reached them. Hannah shuddered at the thought of being related to Russ Pomeroy. Would that make him back off or just encourage him to pursue her more? She took the opportunity to warm her arms with her palms until she’d be occupied with Sophia’s guests. She wished she had applied to a faraway college, like El had. But it was too late to have a hope of getting in anywhere now, at least until the next admission period. The idea of being stuck in Columbus for another half year became more oppressing by the minute, suffocating her. She had to get out somehow.

  Hanna-bee. She frowned at the name – one that had stuck after she’d dressed up as a bumblebee for Halloween one year in a padded yellow suit with black stripes. Hannah had always liked all things nature and allowed Eloise and Sophie all the princess fantasies, preferring to stand out from the crowd. How old had she been? Nine or ten? Later, her big sisters took to calling her ‘Wanna-bee,’ especially when she insisted on tagging along with them when she wasn’t wanted. They teased that she always ‘wanted’ something, which was usually true. But deep down, what she wanted most was to be like them – all grown up and pretty and smart.

  And in love.

  Plenty of people told her she was pretty. She liked yellow, but she disliked the infantile reference that seemed to keep her perpetually tied to her childhood.

  Time for Hanna-bee to leave the hive. Time to buzz away.

  Chapter Two

  The ice reflected an ethereal glow in the absence of overhead lights. As he sat on the cold plastic stadium seat, Ryder Martin breathed deeply of the chilled air inside Rochester Arena. The darkness enveloped him like a warm blanket in spite of the temperature. He inhaled, loving the smell of the rink. It made him feel so alive. Like he finally belonged somewhere.

  The exit and emergency lights cast streaks of red and blue across the smooth, translucent surface that spread a hundred feet in either direction from his position at center ice. He imagined himself on the other side of the boards, blades carving and legs striding, waiting for that sweet pass onto the tape of his stick. Carrying. Shooting.

  Scoring.

  Arcing behind the net with his arms raised in victory.

  He’d been there. Done that. Many times over throughout his life.

  But never here, on the most hallowed ground of all. An NHL rink.

  He heard a faint noise from the direction of the press box and roused himself from his daydream. Only the click of an automated switch of some arena control or other, but enough to make Ryder jump to his feet.

  How stupid would he look, if the lights suddenly came on and one of the team or its staff caught him in here alone, communing with the rink spirits and his own elusive dreams? He might as well have been on his knees at a church altar, praying to the hockey gods. Fat lot of good prayer would do him at this point. He felt like a demon with sixes etched into the back of his neck. He was just as much a pariah in the hockey community as Damien had been to the Catholic Church. A nothing. A nobody.

  Even being a fucking has-been would be better than being a never-was.

  He made his way silently through the aisle and down the steps that led to the arena concourse. No one around at this time of day, with the official start of the hockey season still a few weeks away. The Rochester Riot would start another season soon, and then this frozen cathedral would come alive with screaming, rowdy worshipers once more, laying down beer, popcorn, and shreds of their soul to their men on the ice.

  Once more, they’d sway, chant, and dance, hoping to incite a victory, but all their antics did for Ryder was to taunt and agonize him. Remind him of the life that could have been. How he’d been passed over by the big leagues and his youthful hockey dreams crushed to something resembling the pile of Zamboni leavings dumped outside a community rink. Telling him in no uncertain terms that an NHL career would never be his.

  He stomped a sneakered toe into the floor, wishing he could create a divot and send debris flying in his regret. Sure, he could have gone to Europe and played with a national team. There were other ways to make a living as a hockey player, he knew that. But his degree in marketing also provided opportunities to stay close to the game and make a nice living.

  His job as a sales manager with the Rochester Riot still made him an employee of the NHL and therefore bestowed an implied pedigree. The money wasn’t bad either; no seven-figure payroll like his old frenemy Cole Fiorino, but enough to buy him plenty of chicks, Joseph Abboud suits, and his beloved Lexus RC Coupe that he drove to work every day and around town every night, finding sweet pussy to pump and dump.

  But none of that shit could hold a candle to the allure of being an actual player on the team. After making the junior all-stars along with many of the friends he’d grown up playing hockey with, and a notable three-year performance with his college team, he’d thought there was no way the scouts and the system could pass him by.

  He’d thought wrong.

  Dead. Ass. Wrong.

  The NHL had never come knocking. Snubbed in his first draft-eligible year, he held his disappointment inside as best he could, but those around him knew better. He sulked. He moped. He beat the shit out of the bags at the boxing gym. He banged so many hockey groupies with sunflower bangs, he half expected to shoot seeds out his ass. He spent his savings traveling all over the damn country to attend club training camps as a walk-on, but with no success. Though others tried to sympathize, but no one could ever know the depths of his despair or his feelings of betrayal.

  Ryder Martin. Yeah, who the fuck am I? I doubt my own mother even knows.

  He shook off his misty, time-tunneled thoughts and glanced around the steel and concrete cavern of Rochester Arena. This was his life now. On the periphery perhaps, but still part of the dynasty. Better just accept it for what it was and move the hell on with his life.

  He should feel lucky, and he did – most of the time. With his thirties beckoning, he was not getting any younger, and his options were narrowing. The pussy-train he’d enjoyed a few years ago had not made such frequent whistle-stops at his station, either. As a ‘suit’ he’d not captured the interest of the hockey-wife hopefuls, so he’d set his sights on a loftier target. That curvaceous, feisty epitome of female perfection, Eloise Robertson, the Riot’s former Community Relations Director.

  Emphasis on former. After one disastrous dinner date, during which the fetching but frosty Eloise had sliced off his balls in a philosophical debate over labor unions, she’d fallen directly into the arms of the fabled Riot forward Cole Fiorino. Talk about emasculation? That woman made taking a man down a peg look like Romper Room.

  They invited him to the wedding, but he’d graciously declined. He’d conceded enough failures without watching the entire documentary unfold before his eyes in living color. Knowing the woman he’d imagined as the mother of his children sucked Fiorino’s huge cock night after night was soul crushing enough.

  As he walked the curved halls of the arena, he spotted a familiar face. Shane McTaggart, the newly appointed coach of the Rochester Riot, stepped into the corridor from one of the skybox entrances.

  “Shane,” Ryder called as he strode toward the gruff coach, a rare grin tugging his lips.

  Shane’s impeccably-groomed red-haired head with graying temples swiveled in his direction. “As I live and breathe,” Shane chuckled. “If it isn’t Ryde the Pride. I heard you were working out here in Minne-land.” Shane McTaggart extended a broad hand to Ryder.

  “Oh yeah, me and Paul Bunyan go way back,” Ryder answered, receiving the hearty handshake. “Just don’t say I resemble Babe the Blue Ox
.”

  “So you hung up the blades in exchange for a suit, eh?” McTaggart continued, shaking his head. “Who’d have figured? Thought you’d prefer shredding the ice instead of shredding sensitive corporate documents.”

  Ryder smiled, trying to conceal his well-worn but ever present chagrin over his career outcome. His pearly whites ground against each other as he did so. “Luckily, Eloise Fiorino used to run this joint, and she kept us all on the straight and narrow. No shredding of paper necessary. As for me, well… choices, my friend and not preferences. Low risk, high reward.”

  “Totally understand,” Shane agreed, “Hard to melt the ice from your veins, though, isn’t it?”

  “Hey, I still play,” Ryder said in mock defense. He spread his arms wide. “You’re looking at a star beer-leaguer. Don’t knock it until you try it. There’s minimal travel, and booze and floozies at the end.” He’d played for McTaggart once upon a time and was pleased to learn of his appointment to the Riot’s bench. Shane knew everything there was to know about Ryder’s hockey skills. Shane was one hell of a coach and a damn good human being.

  “Yeah?” Shane rubbed a hand across his stubbled chin as he looked Ryder up and down. “This may be jumping the gun,” he said, leaning in a bit. “But if you think you’ve still got what it takes, the league is about to announce a crazy promo. They’re holding open tryouts in September, awarding a one-year contract on each team for a newcomer, to be put on waivers if the team doesn’t pick them up.” He cocked his head. “Publicity stunt for sure. You know how it goes when it comes to that money hungry pain in our ass, Sheehan Murphy. Old coot thought up the scheme all by his little lonesome, and I’ll be damned if he won’t make millions off it. But you still might want to think about it. Get yourself in shape, old-timer.” Shane swatted Ryder in his Armani-clad midsection.

  Ryder jerked on reflex, but even more in surprise. Open tryouts? “Get the fuck out,” he said, unbelieving. “Why would Sheehan do that? I can’t imagine any amount of money means that much to Sheehan and the other owners that they’d have a bunch of rejects skating around their billion dollar facilities, stinking them up.”

  McTaggart shrugged. “Like I said. Publicity stunt. Get the fans fired-up for a hometown hero. Local boy does good and all that. Sells more tickets. And the Riot could definitely use some positive publicity after the Bernie Griffiths incident.”

  Ryder sobered at the mention of Griffiths. Found murdered in the arena parking garage a year earlier, the Riot’s short-term COO and friend of owner Sheehan Murphy had cast an undeniable shadow over last season. They’d fallen short of hockey’s Holy Grail once more and could certainly use a distraction this year like the one Shane described. Maybe Murphy was a fucking genius after all.

  “True,” Ryder said, letting the idea sink in. In the realm of second chances, this was epic. One more shot at the elusive brass ring. Could it be possible? Was he fooling himself to even reach for it? Didn’t matter. Ryder knew he was going to grasp onto it with both hands, and the teasing from Fiorino and Politski be damned. “Where do I sign up?”

  ***

  Hannah flinched as the bouquet smacked her square in the face and dropped awkwardly into her hands. Great, just great. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see her mother clapping with girlish delight and turning to her bridge friends to share her excitement. Instinctively, Hannah grabbed at the offending floral projectile amid mixed squeals of both joy and disappointment from her fellow bridesmaids and Sophia’s single girlfriends.

  Sophia’s toss had gone awry and rebounded off one of the ballroom pillars, sending the damn flowers straight toward her. As if they had caught fire, Hannah flung them back into the air, much to the dismay of her maternal parental unit. If looks could kill, Hannah would have been pulverized. More screams erupted from the female entourage gathered around as they dove and jockeyed for the prize. Hannah put a hand to her face where the stem had struck her, hoping it wouldn’t leave a mark. Crazy women! They swarmed like sharks in a tank over the thing as it fell back to earth. Hannah hated stupid traditions and this one most of all.

  She backed away from the crowd, only to bump into something solid behind her. She turned, and again found herself face to face with Russ Pomeroy.

  “Nice catch,” he said. “Too bad you threw it away. You should never look a gift horse in the mouth, Hanna-bee.”

  Hannah sniffed and tossed her mane of blonde hair, choosing to ignore his use of her nickname. For now. “I suppose you think you’ll do better catching the garter?” she asked, both embarrassed and annoyed.

  Why didn’t he just go find the nearest Star Trek convention and hang out with the other males whose IQs exceed their weight?

  “Well, since you’re bringing it up,” he said, his lips peeling back to reveal his lopsided, gap-toothed grin. “I’m told I’m a very good catch. Why don’t you reel me in and find out? No catching of your sister’s bridal bouquet needed. I’m a sure thing.”

  Her stomach lurched in revulsion. She swallowed hard to keep the bile from rising in her throat then took a deep breath. Yep. Raw fucking meat again. Hannah vowed to become a vegan. She’d never look at animal protein the same way. “Russ, I know you’re Phil’s brother, and I don’t want to cause any family disharmony, but…”

  Russ looked at her blankly, his grin fading. “Yes?”

  Hannah exhaled. “I don’t know how else to say this, so I’ll just say it. Not. Interested.”

  Russ looked genuinely shocked. His expression went from benign to almost menacing. She kept going, before she lost her nerve. “You’re not my type. I-I’m not your type. And I’m going away to grad school so I won’t be around anyway. Please stop following me. It’s creepy.”

  Russ’s brows knit together in anger. “Really?” he said sarcastically. “Well, that explains the bouquet. Looks like you make a habit of throwing away every good chance you get.” He leaned in slightly, stabbing his thumb toward his chest. “I’m a respected businessman in this town. You could do worse you know, little Miss I’m-too-good-for-everyone. And just so you know, you’re not nearly as pretty as Sophia or Eloise. You’d do well to remember it. You’re nothing but the family afterthought.”

  Hannah winced at his words, moving to apologize when she should reach out and smack him. But he’d hit her in her sore spot, and after all, he was… close to being right. She had been an unplanned pregnancy. “I’m sorry…”

  “Forget it,” he spat, waving his hand in dismissal. “Who wants a stuck-up chick who had to work her ass off for a lowly B? Good luck in grad school… maybe it’ll make you smarter than you were in college.” He turned on his heel and stalked away, his rented tux hanging from his gangly limbs.

  Hannah watched him go. Tears stung her eyes, but for what reasons she wasn’t certain. That he’d dissed her intellectual worth? Or that even a guy who sawed cows into steaks for a living wouldn’t want her? Mostly because she already had an inferiority complex, and he’d hit her right where it hurt the most.

  “Hannah, you okay?” her sister’s voice asked from behind.

  “Yeah, sure. Why wouldn’t I be?” Hannah said, deflecting and hiding her pain. It had been her modus operandi for so long, it had become a habit to paint a mask on her face.

  Eloise stepped close and reached to touch her cheek. “Oh, honey. That must have really hurt.”

  Not as much as being trash-talked by the biggest loser in town. This must be what Cole feels like when he has a bad game, and the rabid Riot fans suspend their angry limbs from the plexiglass, trying to get to him.

  “Nothing Russell Pomeroy could say will ever hurt me,” she replied.

  More like lied.

  El’s brilliant green eyes narrowed in concern. “I was talking about the flowers,” she said, her gaze flicking to Russ’s retreating figure. “What did he say to you? Is he bothering you again? All it would take is one steely glare from The Beantown Bard, and he’d run in the other direction.” Eloise craned her neck to search out he
r husband. Hannah stayed her with a tap on the arm.

  “No testosterone needed, El. This is a girl problem.” Hannah sighed, collapsing into her sister’s arms. “What am I going to do? I can’t stay here anymore. I have to leave Columbus.”

  Eloise drew her little sister as close as she could with her conspicuous baby bump creating an infant barrier between them. “What do you mean?” she asked, stroking Hannah’s blonde head that contrasted so distinctly from her sisters’ brunette tresses. “You’re off to grad school in a few weeks. You won’t have to see Russ Pomeroy ever again.”

  “That’s just it,” Hannah cried. “I’m not going to grad school. At least not to Franklin. Not anywhere. Well, maybe I qualify to work at McDonalds. I didn’t get accepted!” Her chest caved in and out in sobbing breaths. “I can’t re-apply until next term.” She looked up with tear-filled eyes. “I haven’t told Mom and Dad.”

  “Oh, Hanna-bee,” Eloise crooned. “I’m so sorry. I wish I could help. Do you want me to send Cole down to the admissions office and…”

  “No!” Hannah leaned against Eloise’s shoulder. Her big sister, the strong one, the one who always knew what to do. She needed her now more than ever, but Eloise had enough on her plate. A new husband and a baby on the way, with a business to run on top of it all. An idea struck her.

  “El,” she said, her voice pleading. “You can help. Take me with you back to Rochester. I can apply to online programs and get a job and…”

  “What?”

  “I can work for you in the restaurant. You’ll need help with the baby coming, and the precautions you said your doctor wants you to take because it’s a high-risk pregnancy. I know you could use the help, El. Please.”