Breakaway - Unedited Chapter 2

Eric didn’t say anything the whole way back to his house.

Normally, I didn’t mind silence. I had a lot of it. It was comfortable to me lately. I lived alone and I didn’t get out much, other than going to work.

Even at work I did most of the talking, not my clients. I was a personal trainer at Love Handles, a gym for women. It was safe for me there—no men. No one to ask me out for drinks after work. No one to smile at me in a way I could misinterpret. No one to trigger a panic attack.

Silence was usually my friend.

This time? Not so much.

This silence allowed my mind to wander too much. Even just thinking about a man touching me could sometimes trigger a panic attack, and the trip from the Pearl District to Alameda Ridge where he lived was a good fifteen minutes. That was way too long to think about the fact that I’d just asked Eric to touch me, and so much more. Hell, I hadn’t even been able to really get the words out. Stuff? That’s what I’d said. I couldn’t even properly ask him for what I wanted—what I needed. I couldn’t say the word sex to him. Not that I was ready for that—not yet. But I hoped I would be before I had to go back home to Providence, back to my job and my isolation and my life as I knew it.

He was bound to think I wasn’t emotionally ready for this, that I wasn’t mature enough. He still called me kid more often than not. That was how he thought of me, how he’d always thought of me. As a kid. A little girl. Not nearly ready to handle the emotional implications of even the smallest forms of physical intimacy or, God forbid, sex.

But that was just it. Emotionally, I wanted that connection. I wanted to be able to have a relationship, to have a boyfriend and go on dates and maybe someday get married. I’d been through enough counseling that I knew I was ready for that. I just didn’t know if I could get to where my body could handle it.

Panic attacks are crazy beasts.

They don’t care what you think you’re ready for. They don’t care what you want. They just take control, and then you suffer.

I’d had enough. I was sick and tired of letting some wacko chemical response in my body determine where I worked or what friends I had or if I could ever allow myself to fall in love—or, maybe more precisely, to allow someone to love me.

This would only work if Eric would help me, though, and he didn’t seem all that happy about me asking him, if his silence the whole way to his house was any indication.

By the time he pulled into his garage, I’d been trying to focus on my breathing for a good ten minutes so I wouldn’t succumb to another panic attack. He turned off the ignition and got out. I’d barely undone my seatbelt before he had opened my door for me.

Instead of going inside, he opened the back of his SUV and reached in for my suitcases.

“You don’t need to bring my bags in. I’ve got a reservation at—”

“Cancel it. I’ll pay if they want to charge a cancellation fee.” He moved past me and inside, one bag in each hand.

I had to follow him if I wanted to argue further—which I did. I wanted his help, but I needed it to go at my pace. Staying in his house? Not ready for that. Nowhere close to ready for that. “I don’t want you to go—”

“I’m not going out of my way for you, so knock it off. You’re Soupy’s sister. You’re not staying in a hotel when you come to visit me, not when I have five guest bedrooms that almost never get used.”

I barely registered the rooms we were going through, the furniture, the things on the walls. It felt like it was all closing in around me, squeezing me through a too-narrow space. He started up a flight of stairs, and I followed because I didn’t know what else to do. He had my stuff, my bags.

At the end of a long hall, he opened a door, set my luggage against the wall, and flipped the light switch. I stayed just outside the room in the hall.

“You’ve got your own bathroom in here, and a closet. That door will take you out into the backyard if you need—if you need more air. There’s stairs on the outside that’ll take you down, and you’ve got a lock on that door and this one. I’m all the way down the hall, and Babs is set up in his own apartment, pretty much. He won’t have any reason to come down here. You’ll just see him in the living room and kitchen mainly.”

“Him?” That was the one word my mind latched onto in everything Eric had said.

“Yeah, Babs—Jamie Babcock. He’s a nineteen-year-old rookie. Made the team out of camp and didn’t have anywhere to live. I offered to let him stay here this season, get his feet under him some.”

I swallowed hard, but it didn’t help. The thought of someone else living here with Eric, another man, hadn’t crossed my mind when I’d decided to do this.

“He’s a good kid, Dana. You’d like him, if you’d let yourself. He’s got some sick mitts, too. A lot like yours, actually.” Eric moved out into the hallway. Without thinking, I squeezed into a corner to allow him as much room as possible, then mentally berated myself as soon as I realized what I’d done. He lifted a hand as though he intended to touch my cheek, but then let it drop back to his side. “Take some time to get yourself together. I’ll be in the kitchen when you’re ready to talk.”

I watched him walk back the same way we’d come and then head down the stairs. Once I couldn’t see him anymore, I went into the bedroom and shut the door. Out of habit, I checked to be sure the lock worked properly. It did.

Then I moved across the room to the door leading outside. It was locked, so I opened it and went out onto the landing. The stairwell looked newer than the outside of the house, sturdy and well-constructed. As soon as I was inside again, I closed and locked the door, then examined the windows. All locked.

Everything seemed safe. Safe enough, at least.

My breathing still hadn’t leveled out, so I cracked open a window to let some cold air in, took off my coat, and lay down on the bed for a few minutes. By the time the air was making me chilly, I could feel that my pulse had returned to a more normal pace and I felt like more oxygen was making its way into my lungs.

I sat up on the edge of the bed and actually looked around the room for the first time, taking in everything that wasn’t strictly a safety concern. It was done in a peaches and cream color scheme, soft and easy on the eyes. Soothing.

It didn’t escape my notice that they were my colors. When I was six or seven years old, I told my parents I wanted a peaches and cream bedroom, and they’d indulged me. Even now, the bedroom in my apartment looked much the same as this bedroom.

The woods were all white-washed, smooth and with a homey, beachy feel. I drew my hand over the top of the nightstand beside me, then opened the drawer. It held two items: a flashlight and pepper spray—two things he knew I’d need to feel secure.

It didn’t make sense. Eric didn’t know I was coming, so how…?

The more important question might be: why?

Leaving the flashlight and pepper spray in the nightstand, I closed the drawer and then crossed over to close the window, looking down at the stairwell one more time as I locked it. It definitely wasn’t part of the initial design. This was an older house, part of a historical district. He’d clearly had a lot of restoration and remodeling done to it. Houses like this one didn’t have outside stairs. They had step leading up to porches and internal stairwells.

Eric had put the stairs in. He must have.

The scents of garlic and lemon met me when I opened the door to my room, and my stomach growled in response. I followed the hallway to the stairs and down. It opened up to a huge open area, living spaces coming together with the dining room and kitchen. This all looked so much more like what I would expect of his house than my room did, with sleek, modern lines, blacks and whites and grays with splashes of bright red tossed in here and there.

Eric was standing in front of the stove with pots and pans going over three different flames. He smiled when he saw me. “I thought you’d be hungry since we didn’t stay to eat at Amani’s.”

“I am.” I hadn’t realized it until the garlic hit me.

He drained a pot of pasta, then tossed it into a sauce. “Lemon, garlic, and olive oil. No red sauce. I know it gives you heartburn.”

“I didn’t know you could cook.” In all the time I’d known him, Eric had relied on his mother or mine to cook for him. Either that, or he’d gone out to eat. It was always someone else cooking, though, never him.

“Living alone for as long as I have, you learn to do a lot of things for yourself. And being a professional athlete this long—it’s hard to eat right if you can’t cook. Gotta fuel the body.” He flipped the two steaks he had on the grill pan. “Medium well?”

“Please.”

He nodded toward a bowl on the bar near him. “Can you toss the spinach?”

I nodded and took a seat on the barstool. Caramelized onions, dried cranberries, and a balsamic vinaigrette were in the bowl as well, and a bit of gorgonzola cheese. It was practically a gourmet meal he’d made for me. Nothing like what I’d expect from a bachelor.

I picked up the salad tongs and started to toss it.

“Babs texted.” Picking up the empty pot from the pasta, Eric moved to the sink to wash it. “He’s going to the Trailblazers game with a couple of the boys. Won’t be back until late. That’ll give us plenty of time to talk without being interrupted.”

I nodded so he’d know I heard him, but I was still pretending to focus on the salad. I’d probably over-tossed it, but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t, any more than I could have stopped myself from picking at my nail earlier until it bled. “That bedroom?”

He set the pot down on the counter and turned off the faucet. “I thought if you ever came to visit—with Soupy or your parents—you’d need somewhere you could feel safe. I never thought you’d come by yourself, though.”

“I didn’t think I would either. The stairs? You had those put in?”

“You always need an escape route.” He said it in a very matter-of-fact manner, like anyone would have thought of it, would have done something like that.

I did always need an escape route. I knew that, and I knew Mom and Dad and Brenden all knew. But I didn’t think Eric knew, or maybe it was more that I didn’t think he would have cared enough to do something like that for me in his home. I might never have come to visit him. I hadn’t once made the journey to Portland in the seven years he had been playing for the Storm.

But he’d created a safe haven for me in his house anyway.

My stomach was full of flutters, unfamiliar and as uncomfortable as they were exciting. I carried the salad bowl to the table to hide my face from him.

He’d already put out two place settings. I felt him come up behind me and fought the urge to slip to the side. He didn’t touch me, though. He set the pasta bowl down beside the salad and then pulled out a chair for me.

“Sit. I’ll bring the steaks over and we can talk while we eat.”

He pushed the chair in behind me, only touching the chair and not me. Then he pointed to my left. “Straight path to the front door. Nothing between you and escape.”

I couldn’t speak around the thickness of my tongue. A nod would have to suffice.

He came back a minute later and put a steak on my plate and the other on his own before sitting down across from me. Tentatively, I reached for the salad and put some into my bowl.

“So,” Eric said, reaching for the pasta, “here’s what I’m thinking. You’ll stay here tonight, and tomorrow morning before practice I’ll take you back to the airport. Put you on a plane to either Seattle, so you can visit Soupy before you go home, or straight back to Providence. Your choice.”

That wasn’t really a choice, though. Not a viable one. I had no intention of going back to Providence for six weeks, and my brother may love me, but this was something he couldn’t help me with even if he wanted to.

I stabbed into my steak, putting all my fears into the effort of cutting through the meat. “Eric, please just consider—”

“You’re not ready, kid.”

Kid. There it was again.

“You think you are. I know it. And you’re frustrated.” He opened a bottle of red wine and poured some for both of us. “I get it, Dana.”

“No, you don’t get it.” I pushed back in my chair, ready to dart out that door, before I recognized my response for what it was. I couldn’t keep running. Running didn’t solve anything. I had to stay. I had to talk to him. “When a woman flirts with you, you don’t feel like there’s a giant ball of fire eating you alive from the inside out. When a woman touches your hand or your arm, you don’t stop breathing, your lungs don’t swell up and close off until your face is purple and someone calls 911. You don’t have blurred vision, you don’t break out in an uncontrollable sweat, your pulse doesn’t race and your chest doesn’t hurt so much you think you’re having a heart attack. Don’t tell me you get it.”

“Fair enough.” Eric sipped from his glass. “But let me tell you what I’ve seen since I got here today. You couldn’t look me in the eye when you were asking me to touch you—and stuff, as you so eloquently put it. You couldn’t say the damn word. Sex. You couldn’t tell me what you wanted. You jumped when I accidentally touched you when I was helping you put your coat on. You couldn’t handle that waitress thinking you were my girlfriend. You tensed up when I forgot and put my hand on your back for just a second. You’re not ready for this, however much you may think you are, and however much you want it.”

Everything he’d observed was right, but he’d fallen short on his interpretation.

“Don’t you see, though?” I kept stabbing my steak, cutting and cutting, breaking it down into pieces so small a toothless baby could eat it. “That’s not going to go away on its own, no matter how much counseling I go through and no matter how much time passes.”

“More time could help.”

“It’s not. It won’t. If time could make this better, or counseling, or prescriptions…anything, I’d be past it already. I’ve tried it all except—”

“Except what? Except asking me to touch you, to force you to experience all of those things even when I see what it does to you? What, do you think I should just hold you down while you freak out right in front of me, because of me, because of what I’m doing to you? You might as well ask me to rape you.” He blanched and pushed his plate away. “That’s not going to happen, I can tell you that.”

“You’re not being fair.”

“Oh, I’m not? Tell me what it would be if not that. Tell me how you think this will play out. I’m all ears.”

“I asked you because I thought—I thought you could be patient with me. Take things at my pace.”

The look from earlier was back. His eyes were so intense, so filled with anger there wasn’t a doubt in my mind that if I was a man, he’d hit me. If we were on the ice, at least.

“Even better. A nice, prolonged form of torture. That’ll sit really well on my conscience for the next fifty years while you lock yourself away from the world in your apartment.”

He took his plate, still full since he hadn’t eaten a bite, stalked back into the kitchen and tossed it all down the garbage disposal. Even from a distance, I could see the line between his brows, could nearly hear his jaw grinding in frustration.

“The cow was dead before it hit your plate,” he said a minute later.

I looked down, and through my tears saw that I’d broken my steak into mush. I set the knife down and tried to eat it, because I was hungry. It’s not very easy to eat when you’re crying though.

I had been so sure Eric would help me.

Always, the whole time I’d known him, he’d told me if I ever needed him, for any reason at all, he’d do anything he could to help me. Not once had I ever taken him up on that, not really. I mean, I’d had him forge my dad’s signature on my report card once in middle school, but that’s not the same. That was me being a stupid kid and thinking I could sneak a bad grade past my parents without them noticing. That wasn’t a real need.

He stayed in the kitchen, washing all the pots and pans, wiping down the counters, cleaning the range top. I ate until I couldn’t make myself take another bite for fear it might come back up. Conflict always made my stomach nervous, and this whole day had been filled with conflict.

“You didn’t eat much.” He met my eyes for a second before taking my plate away. “You used to eat better. Not like a bird.”

“I usually do. Eat better.”

He nodded, then washed my plate, running the garbage disposal again. After he turned the water off and left the dishes to dry in the rack, he dried his hands on a towel and came to sit across from me again. He pushed the towel across to me. “Dry your eyes. I always hate it when you cry.”

I dabbed the towel on my cheeks. “I’m sorry.”

“Soupy’ll kill me.”

My breath caught a little. If Eric was thinking about Brenden’s reaction, then he was considering it.

“The hockey world is small. You know that.” Eric poured himself more wine, then looked at my still-full glass before returning the bottle to the table. “He’ll find out you’re here in no time. And he’ll kill me. It’ll be even quicker this year than it would have before—now that he signed with the Storm to be the captain in Seattle.” The Portland Storm’s minor league affiliate in the American Hockey League was based in Seattle. Brenden had been happy for the opportunity, even though it still wasn’t an NHL team like he wanted to be playing for. “First time someone gets called up or sent down, they’ll be all over telling him. Hell, some of the boys who’ve played up there earlier this year might tell him even before that happens. They might feel like they owe it to him.”

“I could explain it to him.”

“Oh, yeah,” he said through a laugh. “Right. You’ll explain it to him as well as you explained it to me, huh? When I thought you wanted me to pay some crackpot therapist to have sex with you? Good plan. I’m sure that’ll go over really well.”

“Brenden trusts you. And he knows I trust you. You won’t push me too hard, but you won’t go easy on me either.”

“This is about a lot more than just trust.”

I knew that all too well.

“Physical intimacy and emotional intimacy are tied pretty closely together,” I said to her. I still couldn’t believe I was thinking about going along with this, but if I was, I had to be sure she had thought about every aspect of it. “More so for women than for men, and I’m not saying that to be an ass. What happens if you start having feelings for me? This is all going to be new for you. How are you going to handle it?”

And then there was the problem of what if I started having feelings for her. But that was minor, in comparison. I could deal with my own heartbreak if it came to that. I’d gotten by before after having my heart shattered. By her, even.

But for me to be the cause of Dana’s hurt? I didn’t know what I’d do with that.

“I’m not asking you for a lifetime commitment or anything, Eric. I know I might get hurt, but I have to do this. Please?”

It was her eyes that would kill me, not her brother. Soupy wouldn’t like it, but I could eventually make him understand. At least I could make him understand as well as I did, which wasn’t necessarily saying a lot. But fuck, her eyes! Even when she was a little girl, she had this ability to rip my heart out and squeeze it, just with those brown eyes. They’d get so big, too big for her face, and they’d fill with these huge crocodile tears. I’d never seen such big tears, building and building until I was sure they had to spill over any time, but they just kept building. And then when they finally did fall, it made me feel like the biggest asshole of all time, because I couldn’t keep her from getting hurt.

She didn’t have those tears building now, but her eyes were wide enough and so full of fear and hurt and vulnerability, I knew the tears were coming.

I couldn’t handle that again. Not so soon. She’d just stopped crying a minute ago.

“How long do you intend to stay?”

We were over halfway through the regular season, and the Storm hadn’t made it to the playoffs for three years in a row. We were right in the thick of things, but there were no guarantees. We had to finish out the season better than we’d started, at the very least. I couldn’t really afford to lose my focus right now.

But Dana never asked me for anything, not even when she desperately needed help. And she was determined. I knew how determined she could be. It was what made her one of the best women’s hockey players in the world, back in the day. It was what had kept her isolated for seven years. She was going to use that same determination now to get someone to do what she’d asked me to do.

The thought of anyone else touching her wasn’t something I could contemplate. I might not be sure I had the stomach for what she wanted me to do, but if someone was going to touch her, it would damn well be me.

“I took a leave of absence from work. FMLA. I’ve got six weeks. I even found someone to sublet my apartment.”

Six weeks. That would pretty much coincide with all that was left of the regular season. Of course it would.

“You know that my life requires me to be around the guys a lot. Babs lives here. Sometimes the boys will come over and hang out. Practice, work outs, pre-game meals, games, road trips, charity events… It’s not just me you’ll be with. They won’t touch you, but they’ll be around.”

For the first time all day, Dana met my eyes—really, truly looked at me, not just in the general vicinity of me, or somewhere past me, but at me.

“I know. But you’ll be with me.”

I heard what she said. But I also heard what she didn’t say. I’m safe when I’m with you.

Was she? Did she really believe that, or was she just trying to convince herself of it?

“It’ll probably be best if they think you’re my girlfriend. No need for PDA in front of them, but I don’t want anyone thinking you’re on the market. Just in case.”

Norty, in particular, needed to know to keep his mitts to himself. The guy got around, and Dana was just his type—blonde, tall, fit, and curvy.

“Okay.” Dana agreed to that too easily. That should have been a harder condition for her to accept, because of what it implied. Especially considering how she’d reacted to the waitress’s comment earlier.

I dragged a hand over my face, feeling the scrape of stubble on my palm. I’d have to shave tomorrow or it’d start looking like I was growing a playoff beard. I’m not superstitious, but it didn’t seem like a good plan to taunt the hockey gods with something like that.

“Are you sure about this? I mean, really, truly sure?”

“Yes.”

She looked so damn hopeful it made me want to punch something. How could she feel hopeful when she was asking me to torture her?

“Fuck.”

“So you’ll do it? You’ll help me?”

“You’ll have to let me tell you how beautiful you are, things like that.”

Just like that, she recoiled. “I’m not—”

“You are. Beautiful. You always have been, and you always will be, and you need to hear it.”

She was one of the most beautiful women I’d ever known, and it was mainly because she didn’t want to be. Dana didn’t wear makeup. She didn’t dye her hair. She didn’t get fake nails or Botox or think about a boob job or liposuction. The thing she wanted most was to avoid men’s notice, but her efforts had the opposite effect. At least on me. She was all Dana, all natural, no additives or preservatives.

And she was beautiful.

“You have to let me tell you that as much as I want and without brushing it off. And you have to start to believe it.”

She took a breath. “That’s going to be hard.”

Compared to everything else she wanted, letting me tell her she’s beautiful was the least of her worries. For either of us. I couldn’t decide if it was going to be harder on me or on her. Physically, I knew it would be worse for her. But there was a hell of a lot more going on here than just the physical.

“It’s all going to be hard.”

Dana nodded. “Okay. Will you do it?”

I couldn’t let her find someone else to do what should be my job. Hell, even if she didn’t have the panic attacks, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to stand by while knowing someone else was touching her. I didn’t know what that meant, or at least I didn’t want to admit it to myself. “Yeah, I’ll do it.” I already regretted it, and I hadn’t done anything yet.

Dana smiled, a real smile, one of the first I’d seen on her face in far too long. “I wish…I wish I was brave enough to kiss you on the cheek.”

She used to do that all the time, back when she was a little girl. She would kiss her dad on the cheek, and Soupy…and after I’d been around a while, she started to kiss me on the cheek. She’d do it after I’d had a good game sometimes, or to thank me for some silly thing or another. Every now and then, she’d do it for no discernible reason at all.

No one else had ever done that to me. It was so chaste. So innocent. Sweet.

       She couldn’t wish for it nearly as much as I did.

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Sneak Peek - Unedited First Chapter of Breakaway

I thought I'd share the opening chapter of Breakaway with you. This is still unedited, but I hope you enjoy it! Breakaway will release next month.

Amani’s Family Style Italian Restaurant was nearly empty. Not surprising, considering it was three o’clock on a Thursday afternoon in the middle of February. It wasn’t the sort of place you’d expect someone to take a date for Valentine’s Day—more the sort of place you’d have a family reunion. But today wasn’t Valentine’s Day. That was tomorrow. And we weren’t on a date. Far from it.

Other than the two of us and the staff, the only diners in the restaurant were a retired couple seated near the windows. He had his nose buried in a newspaper, and she was knitting an incredibly ugly orange scarf. They were both ignoring the half full bowl of spaghetti and red sauce on the table between them, not to mention each other.

I looked at the door and made note of all the tables and chairs between me and it, mapping an exit path in my mind.

As soon as the waitress dropped off our drinks and walked away, Eric looked across at me. He cocked up a brow and gave me that always ready half-smile I knew so well. “So what’s this about, kid? I didn’t think I’d see you any time soon. Not until the summer, at least.” He left unspoken what we were both thinking: not here.

He took a long draw from his water glass, and I tried to focus on all the familiarities: the loose fitting, long-sleeved, navy blue t-shirt that didn’t quite mask all the muscle underneath; the stubble-lined jaw that proved he hadn’t shaved in a day or so; the dark, almost black hair that should have been cut over a month ago; the recent scar and corresponding bruise just below his left eye from taking a high stick in a game against Chicago last week; the way his left hand always looked ready to deliver an uppercut to a guy on the other team.

Focusing on those things helped me to calm down, to slow my pulse and remember that this was Eric Zellinger, a man who had been my brother’s best friend since they played peewee hockey together back home in Rhode Island. He’d been in my life nearly as long as I could remember.

Eric was safe. I could trust him. He was the only man in my life that I knew that I could trust, at least of those who weren’t family. That’s why I chose him.

“Does Soupy know you’re here?” He set his glass down and opened the linen napkin rolled around his silverware, situating everything just so.

That was another bit of familiarity: Soupy. He’d called my brother Brenden that for forever, or at least it seemed that way. There’s some unwritten rule in the hockey world that if your last name is Campbell, your teammates will inevitably call you Soupy. Girls weren’t exempt from crazy hockey nicknaming rules, either. I’d been called that by some of the girl’s teams I played for, back before it all happened.

Even though I was trying to focus on the familiar, the comfortable, the safe—it was hard to the point of being nearly impossible. My tongue felt three times its normal size, and no matter how much I swallowed, I couldn’t seem to stop the saliva from rapidly filling my mouth. I reached for my water glass to buy time and garner courage, but my hand was shaking like a 6.0 earthquake and I knocked it over.

Eric was on his feet before I could react. He righted my glass and used his napkin to dry the mess I’d made.

“Damn it. I’m sorry.” That was all I could get out. I could feel that all-too-familiar instantaneous heat creeping up my face—not a blush, nothing as simple and understandable as that, but the onset of a panic attack. My breaths came fast, but shallow. I couldn’t get enough air into my lungs. I had to get out of there. I had to leave. I couldn’t—

“Dana?”

Eric’s hand came down over mine. Not forcefully. But firm. Secure.

Safe.

I tried to focus on him, but my vision was blurred. I couldn’t see well enough to be sure that it was him, but it was him. I knew it.

“Just keep talking for a minute,” I somehow got out.

“Okay. I can do that.” He didn’t let go of my hand as he sat down across from me again. “You should have seen Burnzie in practice this morning. He got in against Ericsson on a breakaway, deked twice, and finished with this crazy spin-o-rama move just outside the crease. Tried to shoot it between his legs and go five-hole. It would have been brilliant if he’d scored. But instead, the puck shot off his skate and he tripped himself up. Crashed into the end boards face-first. Broke his nose in two places. He’s going to be wearing a full cage for a few weeks. Somebody ought to remind him he’s a defenseman, not a winger.”

My breathing was starting to normalize, but I was still crazy hot, so hot I was sweating. But at least it was on its way to passing. “Shouldn’t that be you? You’re the captain.”

“Nah. I’ll leave that for Coach to deal with. Scotty’s still trying to make an impression on the boys. Not all of them have bought into his system yet. We’re over halfway through the season.”

He didn’t ever want anyone to see when he was frustrated, but I could always tell. There was a slight crease between his eyebrows when things weren’t going well, just enough to reveal a well-masked tension. I could see it now.

The waitress came back with a bowl of bread. She set it in the center of the table between us and smacked her gum loudly.

“Can we get another napkin and a refill on that water? We had a bit of an accident.” Eric didn’t even look at her when he spoke. His eyes never left me, and neither did his hand.

I wasn’t antsy to pull my hand away, though. That was a surprising realization. It confirmed that I’d made the right choice, so I had to go with it.

After she left, he said, “Is it better yet?”

I nodded. “Getting there.”

“Better enough you can tell me why you flew across the country without telling me you were coming? Providence to Portland isn’t exactly a quick weekend getaway, and last-minute flights aren’t cheap.”

“I…” I pulled my hand away from his and fidgeted with my nails. I had to have something to do while I tried to tell him. To explain. I couldn’t just sit still. “I need to ask you something, but you’ve got to let me get it all out without interrupting me or I won’t be able to do it.”

Clearing her throat beside us, the waitress refilled my water glass, then handed Eric a stack of napkins. “Are you ready to order yet?” She gave a pointed look to the pair of untouched menus at the side of our table. She hadn’t been gone long, but then again, she didn’t really have much to do other than help us.

“Come back in fifteen minutes.”

It was no wonder the Portland Storm had made him the team captain in only his second full season in the National Hockey League. Just the tone of his voice was enough to command respect and confidence. Somehow in the five years since his appointment, he’d only grown in his ability to make people sit up and take notice when he spoke.

She rolled her eyes and scowled, but she left.

“Sounds serious,” he said to me. “Spill it.”

This time when I reached for my glass, I was able to pick it up and sip without making a mess even though my hands were still shaking.

I set it back down and took a few soothing breaths.

“I meant spill your secrets, not the water.”

My laugh was automatic. He’d always been able to make me laugh.

“Okay.” I’d practiced my speech in my mind during every leg of my flights here. I knew exactly what I wanted to say, word for word, all laid out in a logical, reasonable order. I just had to get it to come out like I’d planned it. Should be easy enough, right? I couldn’t look at him, though. Not for this. I looked down at my hands, watching almost subconsciously as I picked at the fingernail on my right index finger until I’d gotten it down to the quick, oblivious to the pain I was causing myself.

But I had to do this. I had to. Of course, as soon as I opened my mouth, nothing but a flood of babble came out.

“My counselor said she couldn’t really help me anymore because after all these years, I still can’t handle having a guy look at me a certain way or talk to me or flirt with me without having a freaking panic attack, and you know my anxiety meds only do so much to help, so she sent me to see a sex therapist. Which is all fine and good, except for the fact that the sex therapist says I have to actually practice letting guys flirt with me and hold my hand and…and more…and so she wants me to see a sex surrogate, which I don’t know if you’ve ever heard of a sex surrogate or not, but I looked them up, and they’re basically a cross between a prostitute and a counselor, and they cost a fortune which I can’t afford even if my insurance would cover it, which they won’t, and besides, A: oh my God, gross, and two: I wouldn’t even know this sex surrogate guy, whoever he is, so how could I trust him enough to let him touch me, so there’s no way in hell I can do that. So then the sex therapist said I need to find a man who I do trust if I’m ever going to get past all this, someone who can help me with it, and ask him for help. So I am. Asking. You.”

Eric’s silence was only magnified by how empty the restaurant around us was.

I wanted to leave. I wanted to get up, walk out of that restaurant, get a cab, and go straight back to the airport. To pretend I hadn’t done this. I shouldn’t have come. I should have just stayed at home, alone, and gone about my life as it had been for the last seven years. I may be twenty-six and pathetic and lonely, but at least I’m safe.

Tears stung my eyes when I finally got up the courage to look at him. I’d seen that same look on his face dozens of times through the TV, usually right before he pummeled a guy who’d gone in for a bad hit against one of his teammates. It was all anger, green fire, focused intensity. But I’d never seen him look at me that way.

I wanted to puke.

“You think—” his words were so soft I could barely hear him, clipped and icy “—I’m going to pay some quack therapist to fuck you? God damn it, Dana, you’re as good as my kid sister—”

“No! I—” I’d screwed it all up, just like always. I looked down at my hands again, and realized my index finger was bleeding where I’d picked away too much of the nail. Methodically, I opened my napkin roll, dipped a corner of it in my water glass, then wrapped it around my finger, using the time that took to try to clear my thoughts again. “I don’t want you to pay for anything, and I absolutely do not want to go to a sex surrogate, to let some man I don’t know touch me and…stuff. But I do want to be able to have a relationship someday—to be able to let a man touch me without having another damn panic attack. So I…”

It took everything in me not to run out of the restaurant right then and there and not look back. The only reason I didn’t is because I knew he could catch me—he was bigger, faster, stronger, always had been—and he’d convince me to tell him all of it.

“I want you to be my sex surrogate.”

Dana had rendered me speechless.

In twenty-nine years, I couldn’t think of a time anything like that had happened.

I’m not an overly loquacious guy, not normally. I tend to lead by example in the locker room, doing things the way they should be done and trusting that the younger guys will watch and take it all in, but I’ve never been shy about speaking my mind when it’s called for.

Well, it sure as hell was called for now, but I couldn’t come up with a single word to say. Nothing.

Shaking my head in disbelief, I reached for my wallet in my back pocket, pulled out a fifty since it was the smallest bill I had, and slapped it down on the table.

Dana’s head snapped up from the sound. Her eyes were huge—big and brown and so damn vulnerable. I hated seeing her like that, and I had witnessed that exact look way too many times for way too long. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind that she needed help, but I knew that I couldn’t be the one to help her.

Not like that.

I put my napkin on the table and pushed my chair back.

“Are we leaving already?”

“We’re not talking about this here. Not in public.” I moved behind her chair and pulled it back so she could stand. Then I held out her coat so she could put her arms in it. My fingers accidentally brushed against her collar bone when I released her coat. She jumped, but tried to act like she hadn’t, like she was okay.

She wasn’t okay.

Dana Campbell hadn’t been okay for even a single minute since the Boston College women’s hockey team had played the University of Connecticut in her freshman year, when some crazy UConn fans, for lack of a better word, had thought it would be fun to gang rape her afterwards just because she was a better hockey player than their girls.

She was probably better than some of their men, too, for that matter. That might have played into why they did it. Who could know? What causes that switch to flip, where suddenly it becomes okay in your mind to do something like that, to hurt someone that way, to completely violate someone you don’t even know? I hoped I would never find out.

The fact of the matter, though, was she was a damn good hockey player. She’d scored a hat trick in the game, and she had an assist to go on top of it. That wasn’t even her best game that season. There was little wonder that she’d been invited to play on the US women’s Olympic team. If there was a women’s professional hockey league, you can bet she would have been drafted into it. She was just that good.

Until that night. Everything changed that night.

They’d injured her body, which was bad enough. But they had destroyed her emotionally. She couldn’t focus on the game anymore—all she could focus on were the catcalls coming down to the ice from the stands. She couldn’t concentrate in her classes anymore—all her attention was zeroed in on how far away from her each man in the room was and how close she was to the exit.

Soupy and I had been finishing our senior year at Yale when it happened—we weren’t with her. We couldn’t protect her. When she was picking her college, we’d tried to get her to come to Yale where we could look after her at least for that one year before we turned pro, but she’d wanted to play for Coach Bassano. So of course, we’d supported her decision. Coach Bassano was the best coach in all of women’s hockey. We never could have imagined anything like that would happen to her.

But it did.

The three men who’d raped her were expelled from school and put on trial. They served a year in federal prison before being released.

One year. Where was the justice in that?

Dana was still serving her sentence, and she hadn’t done anything wrong.

And she wanted me to be her sex surrogate? How the hell did she think that was going to work? If she jumped just because my fingers accidentally brushed against her collarbone, how did she think we’d be able to do whatever it was she wanted me to do? It was like she was asking me to rape her, because that’s what it would be for her. I couldn’t—I wouldn’t do that to her. She wasn’t ready. She might never be ready, and that pretty much killed me.

She pulled her blonde hair up over the collar of her coat, letting it fall down her back however it wanted to, and then she nodded at me, those brown eyes of hers always cautious. I was putting my own coat on as we walked toward the door, when the waitress stalked over and stopped in front of us, blocking the way. Blocking Dana’s escape route.

“You’re leaving?” Her hands were on her hips, and she hadn’t stopped smacking her gum once since we arrived. “You didn’t order anything.”

“Something came up. I left you a tip anyway.”

I tried to brush past her and bring Dana along with me, but the waitress moved to block the doorway.

“You’re Zee, right? The captain of the Storm? Bobby, in the kitchen, that’s what he said.”

I’d brought Dana here hoping I wouldn’t be recognized. Amani’s was always quiet this time of day, not too many people around. It was hard, in a town like this, to go unnoticed when you were a professional athlete. Everybody knew who you were, knew your business. I didn’t mind too much. I’d gotten used to it. But Dana didn’t have to deal with that part of my life. She probably wasn’t prepared for it. Soupy had spent more time in the minors than in the NHL, so no one really noticed him. Her dad had been in the NHL years ago, but only die-hard hockey fans recognized him unless he was at some hockey event. And back home in Providence, I was just a regular old guy to most people. Only the people involved in the hockey community knew me there. Not like here.

I looked over at her, and she gave me a tiny little nod.

“Yeah, that’s me.”

“Could you sign something for my kid? He’s sick. Cancer. Leukemia.”

At least that was all the waitress wanted. I nodded. “Yeah, sure. What do you have?” Even if I was in a hurry to get Dana somewhere private where we could really talk about her ludicrous suggestion, I couldn’t walk away without signing something for a sick kid. I fished in my coat pocket for a marker. Years ago, I learned it was best to always have one on hand, just for moments like this.

She went behind the cash register and jerked a Portland Storm window flag down from the wall. It must have been in that same spot for a decade or more—the logo was one that had been retired before I came into the league, and the empty space it had been covering was a stark white next to the rest of the dingy wall.

When she handed it over, I quickly scrawled my name on it and put my number nine inside the lower curl of my Z. Then I gave it back to her. “I hope your kid gets better soon.”

“Yeah, thanks, Zee.” She was already scurrying off to put it God only knew where. Then she nodded at where Dana was inching closer to the door by degrees. “You’re girlfriend’s ready to go.”

Dana flinched at that. My girlfriend. She couldn’t even handle hearing herself referred to in that way. Her plan sounded crazier by the moment. Not that I’d say that to her. I didn’t really think she was crazy—just her plan. But she’d take it to mean I was putting it all on her. Without thinking, I put my hand at the small of her back to guide her out of the restaurant. She immediately tensed even more than she already had, so I pulled it away and cursed beneath my breath.

“Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

We were barely on the sidewalk outside and heading toward the parking garage when I heard the waitress come back into the main dining room, cackling.

“Sucker! Got another one to bite. I’m putting this on eBay.”

I should have known. She hadn’t seemed all that torn up over her kid.

One look at Dana was all I needed to remind me what torn up looked like.

So that I wouldn’t inadvertently touch her again, I shoved my hands in my coat pockets.

“Does that happen much?” She folded her arms across her chest and tucked her hands between her body and arms. “People lying to get you to give them stuff?”

“More often than I’d like. It’s just part of the gig. But most people are good. Most are honest.” I had always believed that. Sure, there were bastards in the world like the UConn students who raped Dana. But there were also people like the Campbell family, the guys I’d played alongside my whole career… There were more of the good than the bad.

Dana seemed to only see the bad anymore, though, even when she was surrounded by the good. It was like she’d put blinders on.

Not that it was a choice. My mom had panic attacks if she had to fly. It had always been that way, and she couldn’t control it. Dana couldn’t control her triggers, either. No one who has panic attacks can.

She just needed to learn to live with them. Mom lived with hers by going on road trips in the car instead of flying. Dana lived with hers by avoiding men.

Neither was ideal. But sometimes, you just have to play with the hand you’ve been dealt.

Cover Reveal - Breakaway

I mentioned in my last blog post that I'm embarking on a new part of my career and writing a contemporary hockey romance.

Well, today I have cover art! Happy birthday to me. :)

Breakaway is the first novel in my Portland Storm series. It's a hockey romance with a New Adult feel, and it'll be available in December of this year. I'll have more details about it in the coming weeks. For now, here's the cover.

And...well... For a little added bonus, here's a teaser I shared earlier this week on Facebook and Twitter.

On the Shelf, and On the Horizon

Things have been changing in my world, lately. Some of these changes are enormously exciting, and others are more than just a little frustrating.

I know that many of you have been waiting (incredibly patiently) for Shelved. I've spent months trying to give Jo and Duncan the story they deserve. Some stories are harder to write than others, and for whatever reason, this one has been an absolute beast for me. Through experience, I've come to realize that sometimes the best thing to do is set a project aside for a while and work on something else.

Because of that, I'm putting Shelved on the shelf for the time being.

I do not have a date for when Shelved will be available. I don't have an estimate. When that changes, I will let you know. I'm not giving up on this. The story will be written, but only when I can know for certain it will live up to both your expectations and mine.

In the meanwhile, I'll continue with the historical novella series I've started...and I'm excited to say that I'm diving headfirst into a new part of my career.

In addition to historical romance, I'm delving into the world of contemporary romance. Or, more specifically, hockey romance! If you follow me on Twitter, then you probably are aware of just how hockey-obsessed I can be. For the first time, I'm putting that obsession to good use.

I can't even begin to tell you how excited I am about this new venture, and I can't wait to be able to share it with you all.

The first novel in a new series will be available in December of this year. I'll share more details in the coming weeks!

Pre-Orders, Audio, and More

A Pact Between Gentlemen officially releases on November 1, when it will be available at all retailers. If you purchase your books through iBooks, though, you can be sure it automatically downloads on that day. Here's the link.

My novella, Thick as Thieves, is the third novella in the Bexley-Smythe Quintet. Want to know what Thick as Thieves and the other novellas are about?

In Ava Stone's A Bit of Mistletoe, Everett Casemore, the very serious Marquess of Berkswell, returns home for Christmas, slightly shaken by the death of an old friend. Determined not to suffer the same sort of fate at the hands of a woman, Berks resolves himself to eternal bachelorhood. Unfortunately, both his resolve and his peace of mind are threatened by the arrival of a beautiful, thoughtful, but mostly unsuitable lady. * Miss Theresa Birkin knows better than most that an error in judgment can lead one down an unfortunate path. If only she'd been wiser when she was younger. If only she hadn't followed her foolish heart. If only she'd met Lord Berkswell long before now. 

In Jane Charles's Lady Disguised, Mr. Sebastian Stanwick never intended to marry. It was bad enough that his father gambled away everything they owned and then drank himself to death, leaving his mother broken until she could not go on. But the death of his good friend at the hand of the man’s wife only solidifies Stanwick’s decision to remain a bachelor. Women were simply unpredictable and unstable if not taken care of properly. * Hélène Mirabelle wants few things in life. One, is to perform on the stage, and the other, is to be out from under the roof of her overbearing new family: Lord Bentley and the Trent brothers. Since her mother’s recent passing, Hélène's desire to return to Milan and the stage has only grown. A husband could never fit into the plans because no decent man would take an actress as a wife. * One fateful night leaves Hélène questioning if being an actress is the only thing she wants, while Stanwick begins to wonder whether all women are truly prone to madness and if they are, he may never get Hélène off of his mind. 

In Catherine Gayle’s Thick as Thieves, David Hounslow, the Marquess of Preston, will not stand aside while those he loves are hurt. When it becomes clear his brother-in-law’s guest is up to no good, Preston determines to scrutinize every move of the would-be thief. Not that he minds such a task—Lady Frederica is as beautiful and intelligent as she is enigmatic. Considering her close relation to a wastrel brother and her current proclivity for the less-than-savory, Preston never expected to be won over to the lady’s charms. Yet she just might steal his heart. * Desperation has become Lady Frederica Bexley-Smythe’s constant companion due to her brother’s recent affinity for gambling and carousing. With the fate of both her mother and sister resting upon her shoulders, perhaps the time has arrived for Freddie to bend the rules. How else can she secure their future? Unfortunately, Lord Preston’s scrutiny is complicating her task. Far more perplexing than his perusal is his caring nature, which is distracting her from the treasures she intends to steal. But desperate times call for desperate measures…

Also available for pre-order at the iBookstore is the companion anthology, A Gentlemen's Pact.

In Jerrica Knight-Catania's All He Wants For Christmas, Rowan Findley can't imagine a fate worse than what his friend suffered at the hands of his mad wife, so he's made the decision to remain a bachelor for all eternity. That is, until Olivia walks into his cousin's drawing room for a Christmas party. Her fiery red hair and sweet demeanor remind him of a night so many years ago that he would never forget. * Olivia Edwards can't quite believe her eyes when Rowan Findley waltzes back into her life, as handsome and charming as ever. It's been almost seven years since she's seen him, and the secret she's been harboring all that time has her on edge whenever he's about. Yet she can't deny that she's still drawn to him, nor can she deny the desire she's kept hidden in her heart these many years.

In Aileen Fish’s Chasing Lord Mystery, Lord Northcotte is not in the holiday spirit when he joins his sister’s family shortly after the brutal death of a friend. Discovering a matchmaking scheme is afoot, he tells them he will never marry Lady Miriam or any other woman. Now if only his heart would listen. * Lady Miriam’s mother accused her of chasing Lord Mystery after a noble act by a handsome stranger six years ago became the measure of all other men. Now he’s staying at the home where she’d hoped to escape a summons from her grandfather, the Duke of Danby. Terrified Northcotte will recognize her and reveal the contents of the scandalous letter she wrote him years ago, she can’t decide which is the bigger threat: the duke armed with a special license, or Lord Mystery, who carries a secret she’d never live down.

In Julie Johnstone’s ’Tis The Season For Surrender, Lillian Lancaster would rather catch the plague than a husband. Unfortunately, her abusive, recently deceased father’s will stipulates her inheritance hinges upon her marrying a lord. With time running out, Lillian proposes to the guilt-ridden, marriage-adverse Lord Edgeworth after securing his agreement to a marriage in name only. * Edgeworth feels responsible for his former betrothed’s death and believes he doesn’t deserve love, which makes Lillian’s proposal oddly perfect. Commanded by his grandfather to marry by Christmas or become penniless, the obviously perfect choice is a woman who wants nothing to do with him. * When Lillian displays a brave and true heart and Edgeworth reveals his honorable, protective side maintaining a marriage of convenience becomes harder than these two wounded souls imagined. Now, Lillian and Edgeworth must decide if they are courageous enough to risk their hearts and surrender to love.

In other news, the collection THE CAVENDISH BROTHERS, containing both novellas An Unintended Journey and To Enchant an Icy Earl, is available now at the iBookstore.

And finally, the audiobook version of CHARMING AND JUST A BIT DISARMING is out now! You can find it at Audible, Amazon, and iTunes.

More soon!

~Catherine

Multiple Announcements

Hi, everyone! Lots to announce today.

First of all, my two Cavendish Brothers novellas are available as a single item now. You can buy the Cavendish Brothers novellas at Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Kobo, Smashwords, and it will soon be available at the iBookstore.

It contains both novellas, An Unintended Journey and To Enchant an Icy Earl, all in a single purchase. If you haven't purchased them yet, this is a great way to get them both at once.

Additionally, all of my novellas which are currently available in ebook format are also now available for sale in paperback format through Amazon. If you prefer to purchase in paper, you can find all of those titles here.

For readers who prefer to listen to audiobooks, the audio version of To Enchant an Icy Earl is available today. You can find it at Audible, Amazon, and iTunes.

If you've been waiting for Rhyme and Reason, the second Bexley-Smythe Quintet novella, to make it to iBooks, the wait is over. You can purchase it now.

And last but not least, I've joined with a group of fourteen bestselling and award-winning historical romance authors to offer you a free excerpt book. In First Kiss, you will find either the first kiss, or the almost first kiss, from fourteen different novels and novellas. The best part? It's free anywhere and everywhere we have been able to make it free. Even if you purchase it from somewhere in which you must pay a fee for it, all proceeds are being donated to charity. I hope you all go out and pick up a copy of First Kiss today.

You can find it at Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Kobo, iBooks, and Smashwords, and it will be at other retailers soon.

Pariah is Now in Audio

Pariah, the second book in the Old Maids' Club trilogy, is now available in audio format.

After selling his major's commission in the Dragoons, Lord Roman Sullivan wants nothing more than a calm, sedate life in the country where he's agreed to act as steward over his father's estate. Society is no place for a man who can't sleep without fear of attacking an innocent in the night, after all. But upon his arrival, madness lands in his path in the form of a secret-keeping pixie of a lady, a precocious boy, a lady in the throes of dementia, and a band of rabidly loyal servants, who combine to capture both his attention and what's left of his heart in one fell swoop.

Bethanne Shelton keeps a great many secrets, most of which are not hers to reveal. Keeping them close to her chest is the one sure way to make certain her life remains as normal as possible. Even her family can't discover the truth, lest Finn be taken away from her. In order to protect him, she ignores the whispers of pariah and worse. But her Aunt Rosaline's health is rapidly declining, and Roman is the only one able to calm her. He's getting too close, and if he unveils Bethanne's mysteries, she'll lose her family. One thing is certain: no matter what happens, she is bound to lose her heart.

It is available at Audible and Amazon, and iTunes.