Kane (Arizona Vengeance 8)

It just never seemed to be in the cards for us, and we had to be happy and content with what we had.

Settling back in the passenger seat, I say, “Tell me who’s going to be out with us tonight?”

Kane launches into a short history. He’s a center on the second line for the Arizona Vengeance. Although new to the team, having just been traded at the end of last season, I was impressed with how well he fit into not only his team, but also with the men on his second line. They were the ones meeting us tonight.

Kane told me about Jim Steele, his left-winger, and one of the older players on the team. He filled me in on his recent separation, and how he’s sharing custody of their daughter, Lucy. He even told me that Jim had seen his wife, Ella, today when they were out at lunch, and it rattled him. In contrast, the right-winger, Jett Olsson, a brash young Swede, had come with the warning he would most likely hit on me. I don’t have a problem with that. I’m all for fun and harmless flirting.

Finally, one of his defensemen on the second line, Bain Hillridge, was joining us as well. An affable sort who seems to just get along with everyone, Kane explains the man shuns the fame that sort of goes with the job.

“What about your other defenseman?” I ask. There would be another on the line.

Kane shrugs. “We haven’t met him yet. His name is Riggs Nadeau. He was traded to our team just this summer. I’ll meet him at training camp next week, but he’s got a bit of a reputation.”

“Like how?”

“Just that he’s a bit prickly and hard to get to know. We’ll try to find some common ground to make sure he fits in with us. Maybe next week I’ll invite him over to dinner to try to get to know him a little better.”

“I can make my famous tofu fajitas,” I suggest with a waggle of my eyebrows.

Kane’s head whips my way. “Will you be here next week?”

I throw it right back at him. “Do you want me here next week?”

He reaches across the console, switching hands on the steering wheel, and takes my hand in his. I’m the one who jerks from the contact this time, and he squeezes me. “Mollie… You can stay however long you want. I would love it if you stayed.”

His words touch me deeply. Next to my parents, he is the only person in this world I can count on for anything I might ever need or want.

“Now,” he drawls with a stern look. “There is no way in hell you are making tofu fajitas. I want the guy to like me, not hate me.”

We both laugh, and I promise I will make something acceptably edible for the hulking hockey players.

The Sneaky Saguaro is a pretty cool restaurant/bar Kane told me has become the official hangout of the Arizona Vengeance. It’s known for having practically every beer on tap imaginable and great Tex-Mex food. Amazingly, it has a live, towering saguaro cactus planted smack dab in the middle of the restaurant that extends upwards toward the second floor.

I’m no stranger to the fame that comes with a professional hockey player. I have been out with Kane on numerous occasions when he played with his other teams, and I’m well prepared for the people who flock to him wanting autographs and pictures. Given that the Vengeance just won the Cup championship, the crowds are even more dense the minute we walk in. I patiently wait as he attends to his fans, then he takes my hand in his to lead me up to the second floor where his friends Jim, Jett, and Bain are waiting for him at a table.

I’m not sure what it is about hockey players, but they are seemingly all ruggedly good-looking. He introduces me first to Jim, who is clearly the eldest of the group. He has dark brown hair and equally dark brown eyes but a classically handsome face. When he shakes my hand, he gives me a warm smile.

Bain greets me with a hug. It’s short with a quick release, and I can bet a million bucks he has no problem getting women. As a defenseman, he’s enormous, probably topping out close to six foot seven. He has shaggy blond hair that comes almost to his shoulders and light brown eyes. His best feature, though, by far, are the dimples on each side of his mouth when he smiles.

Lastly, I’m introduced to Jett Olsson. I immediately dub him the Casanova of the group. There is no handshake or friendly hug. Instead, he takes my hand and brings it up to graze his lips across my knuckles. He’s the typical Swede with light blond hair, which he wears cropped short, and the most amazing light blue eyes I have ever seen.