Hawke (Cold Fury Hockey 5)

Hawke is silent as he pops open a bag of chips. He'd finished his sandwich, but that was always the way Hawke ate, one thing on his plate at a time until it was finished. And he didn't like his food touching, despite the fact I used to remind him often that it would do so in his stomach.

"Do you need some financial help?" he asks quietly, raising his eyes from the bag to me, pinning me in place.

"Financial help?" I practically squeak out in surprise.

"Yeah...money to help pay expenses or something. I make considerably more than forty-one thousand dollars and I don't mind. You know I'd do anything to help...um, your dad."

My head is shaking in the negative before he can even finish his sentence. "No, thanks. We're good."

"Then how about taking me on as a client?" he asks as he picks a chip out of his bag. He waves it in a circle in front of his face with an impish grin. "I could use some extra conditioning."

"That's part of the job I already get paid for," I remind him with a stern look. "If you want to schedule some time with me each week, we can do that."

"But I don't like the equipment here," he counters. "Your gym would be better."

"You don't even know what gym I work at, Hawke. You're just trying to find a way to give me money when I don't want to take it from you," I say, my voice bordering somewhere between a hint of frost and downright icy. Regardless of this new truce, there's still unspoken anger on my part as well. I sure as shit cut him loose, but he sure as shit turned his back on me when I reached out to him. I don't want any handouts from him, now or ever, because in the back of my mind, I'll always believe it's purely guilt driven.

"Okay," he says with both hands raised up defensively. "But maybe I will take you up on some additional strength training."

"That's fine," I say curtly before wiping my mouth with my napkin. "Just let me know and we'll get something scheduled."

Hawke dips his head in acknowledgment and pops another chip into his mouth. I ball up my napkin, throw it on the remains of my unfinished tuna salad, and stand up from my chair.

"Want my cookie?" I ask him as an afterthought, picking it up from my tray and holding it out to him.

A peace offering, perhaps to counter my snappish attitude? Added benefit--I won't get those extra calories.

"Sure," he says with a grin, and reaches out to take it from my hand.

His forefinger touches the end of my thumb...barely a graze, and yet I feel it ricochet through my body.

"Ouch! Son of a fucking bitch," I scream out as I jerk my hand away from the bathroom vanity drawer, where I had just slammed my thumb.

Loud, crashing footsteps echo through our tiny apartment, getting closer until Hawke bursts in the bathroom door that I hadn't shut all the way while I was taking my shower.

"What's wrong?" he asks as his panicked eyes rove all over my towel-covered body in search of blood or guts hanging out.

"My thumb," I whine as I hold it out for him to inspect. It's red on the tip and throbs like a bitch. "I slammed it in the drawer."

Hawke lets out a huge gust of relieved breath and mutters, "Jesus, Vale. You gave me a heart attack."

I can't help it. I giggle and try to look apologetic. "Sorry. But it hurt, and that was just a little reflexive curse that popped out."

Hawke takes my hand, lifts it up to examine the end of my thumb, and then bends down to press a kiss on the tip. "That wasn't a little curse that popped out. You screamed like Freddy Krueger was in here getting ready to slice you to bits."

"And you burst in to save me," I say as I step in closer to him.

"Always," he murmurs before bringing my thumb back up to his mouth and kissing the tip again. Except this time, his tongue flicks out and licks the end, while his other hand comes up to finger the edge of my towel just below my hip. "Bet I know something I could do to you to take your mind off this little thumb injury."

I release the cookie and jerk backward from Hawke. I drop my gaze quickly, but not before I see his eyebrows knit together in confusion. Grabbing my tray, I kick the chair back in toward the table and mutter, "I have to get back to the training room. I'll catch you later."

"Later," he says softly, but I don't look back at him.

Chapter 7

Hawke

I place the last stack of plates onto the shelf and shut the cabinet. The kitchen is now officially unpacked. I look around wearily at the empty boxes, crumpled newspaper, and packing tape scattered all over. It all needs to be cleaned up and I still have my bedroom to unpack. But it's not going to get done today because I made plans to go hang with Dave tonight and watch some college football. It's opening game day, and while us Canadians don't quite get nor fully appreciate the sport, it's what guys do when they hang out together.

It's okay if I don't get my bedroom unpacked, though. I'm having a party tomorrow night for the team to celebrate the end of training camp. A sort of last hurrah before our first preseason game on Monday, so I'll just make sure my bedroom door stays shut so no one can see the mess inside. And personally, I'm quite content to live out of my boxes for a while. I mean, truly, what does it matter if I pull my underwear from a box or a drawer?

We had our last scrimmage this morning and I expect the coaches are hard at work right now making the release notifications. Those poor dudes that just didn't cut it will get sent back down to the minors. I feel for them more than they'll ever know because I've been there. Felt what they're feeling today when someone tells you you're just not quite good enough to play with the big boys.

I obviously made the cut. I mean, it was really a given, and Coach has had me playing first line all week, so I know I'll be starting right alongside Alex and Garrett on Monday when we travel to Chicago for the preseason game against the Bobcats. I'm really digging my new team. How could I not? Defending Cup champions and all that? But man, seriously, playing alongside greats like Crossman and Samuelson. Fucking heaven.

I start to pick up the newspaper that had been cushioning my kitchenware for the move. I downsized tremendously with this move, and that's just a product of living and learning. I bought my first house in Pittsburgh my second year in the league, a monstrosity of six thousand square feet. I learned that's a lot of fucking house to keep clean. It was also a lot of fucking house to pay for when I basically lived in no

more than nine hundred square feet of it.

So I bought a moderate-sized home here in Raleigh half the size of my previous, which meant I had to get rid of a lot of furniture as well. I just donated it to a veterans' charity because it was easier than trying to sell it. Still, there's plenty of room for a party tomorrow since it's just my teammates and their better halves, and I have a kick-ass back deck that spans the entire length of the house. I'll set tubs of beer out there, and with the mild, late-August evenings, people will congregate out there rather than inside.

It doesn't take me long to clean up the rest of the kitchen. I break the boxes down, shove them and the newspaper into my large recycle bin in the garage, and glance at my watch. Just enough time to get a quick shower before heading over to Dave's.

I wonder if Vale will be there. Considering what I know, I'm sure she'll be working late even though it's a Friday night. End of a workweek, and when everyone should be relaxing, I'm sure Vale will be working. And damn if that doesn't twist my guts up. I hate thinking of her and Dave struggling. I hated even more seeing the look of disdain on her face when I offered to help. I hated it because it truly showed me that despite the olive branch--despite the truce--there are still hard feelings.

No clue why she's the one that has them, but I'll look past it. She's got so much on her plate right now, I figure she's just being defensive. And besides, I plan to hit Dave up tonight with the same offer. I expect he'll decline, but he won't be nasty about it.

When I hit my bedroom, I rifle through some boxes and pull out clean underwear, a pair of faded jeans, and an old vintage Mountain Dew T-shirt with a few holes in it. Not dressing to impress anyone tonight, so might as well be comfortable. Before heading into the master bathroom, I grab my phone off the bedside table and give it a quick check. I see a text message from Michelle and a quick smile comes to my face.

How's life in Carolina?

I toss my clothes on the bed, sit down beside them, and text her back. Just finishing up some unpacking. It's great here. Where are you?

She immediately responds, which is just like Michelle. As long as there's cell service or Wi-Fi, the woman is always connected. Pittsburgh. Flew in yesterday.