Playing To Win Read online

  Playing To Win

  Stacey Lynn

  Playing To Win

  Ice Kings, #1

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  Stacey Lynn

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  Copyright © 2020 Stacey Lynn

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  Content Editing: My Brother’s Editor

  Proofreading: Virginia Tesi Carey

  Cover Design: Shanoff Designs

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  Playing To Win is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, trademarks, and incidents are used fictitiously or are the product of the author’s imagination.

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  All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reprinted, reproduced, or transmitted in any form without written permission of the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review passages only.

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  This purchased material is for personal use only and NOT to be shared. Thank you so much for respecting the author’s wishes.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  1. Katie

  2. Jude

  3. Kate

  4. Jude

  5. Kate

  6. Jude

  7. Katie

  8. Katie

  9. Jude

  10. Katie

  11. Jude

  12. Katie

  13. Jude

  14. Katie

  15. Jude

  16. Katie

  17. Jude

  18. Jude

  19. Katie

  20. Jude

  21. Katie

  Epilogue

  Thank You

  Other Books by Stacey Lynn

  1

  Katie

  In hockey news, inarguably one of the best right wings in the country was injured last night during the Carolina Ice Kings away game in Boston. It has been confirmed that Jude Taylor was taken to the hospital for evaluation. And with still no formal word from the team yet—

  I jump over the back of my couch quicker than my black cat, Whiskers, can scare away my neighbors, grab the remote, and hit pause.

  It’s been five years since Jude was drafted halfway through our senior year. He’d spent weeks chasing me, wearing me down. Slowly, he chipped away at me, showing me the guy he really was and I gave in. I risked my heart thinking he was worth it. I gave him my body, expecting more time with him.

  I didn’t get it.

  He was packed and on a plane before I could wash the scent of him off my sheets and spare pillowcase.

  In five years, he became exactly who I knew he had that talent to become. Jude Taylor is one of the best professional hockey players in the league and he’s still so young, so early in his career. I’ve heard his name mentioned repeatedly over the years. It’s impossible not to, especially considering in my day job, I’m often working with athletes of all ages who are sports nuts. And the hockey players in Chicago? They all want to be the next Jude Taylor.

  He’s injured? I had to have heard that wrong.

  I rewind the television news, something I always have on in the background while I cook dinner after a long day working with patients, and collapse on the couch. Whiskers purrs next to me, nudging her nose against my hip and then flops down, annoyed I’ve taken up her space.

  “Shhh, kitty.” I pet her head and she bats my hand away. She only likes her loving on her terms. Something my best friend Lizzie teases me about. She says we’re perfect for each other for the same reason.

  I replay the news and hear it exactly as they said before.

  No word from the team yet on his condition, but with the way he fell into the boards, sources have suggested that at the least, he has a concussion. It’s the knee injury they’re most worried about. An ACL tear could keep him out for the rest of the season, Dave.

  The view bounces back to inside the news station and Dave, the local sports reporter, gives a nod with his professional and well-practiced frown. “As many hockey fans know, Jude Taylor was once a player for Chicago College, drafted during his sophomore year and held to the Carolina Ice Kings team. When his older brother was injured early one season, he was called up to the pros…”

  I turn off the television and sit back against the couch. Whisker’s tail brushes against my shoulder and this time I’m the one brushing her away.

  I don’t need to hear the rest of what the announcer says about Jude’s history. I lived it with him.

  But he’s hurt. And they’re right. An ACL tear could take him out for the season if he requires surgery. And a concussion?

  My chest aches at the thought of him hurt. If only I hadn’t blocked and then deleted his number shortly after he left. Not that it’d do any good now. It’s been years. He’s probably forgotten all about me.

  My phone rings and I’m quick to grab it, already knowing who it will be. Lizzie and I might not be roommates anymore like we were in college, but she’ll have most likely heard, too.

  “Hey, did you watch the news?” she asks without any preamble. No hello. Nothing. Not that I need it.

  “Yeah, just now. That’s a bummer.” I rub my forehead. A headache is brewing.

  All because of Jude. Five years ago, I tried to protect my heart against him and failed miserably. We were only together a few weeks. Not even. My reaction now shouldn’t be so visceral.

  “Do you want me to keep you posted?” When Jude and I met, Lizzie began a winter fling with Chicago College’s goalie, Garrett Dubiak. Unlike Jude and I, when they separated when Lizzie went to graduate school in England, she and Garrett stayed in touch. They’ve been friends ever since. She knows me well enough to talk about Garrett as infrequently as possible.

  Hearing his name still brings back too many memories. It makes me feel pathetic when I think of the hold Jude and anything that reminds me of him still has on me.

  “Yeah, can you? Maybe have Garrett let him know I hope he’s okay?”

  “Sure. Of course.” Her voice carries the surprise I feel. He’s probably long since forgotten about me. It was less than a month. A silly fling that was really nothing except that last night. Then he was gone and living the life he’s always dreamed of. He now parties with celebrities of the red-carpet movie variety and his best friends are multi-millionaire-earning-professional athletes. “You okay? How was work today?”

  She changes the subject easily and I’m thankful. We talk about our days, where she’s currently running for a management position at the finance company where she works in the Loop. She’s young and wicked smart, and her MBA from the University of Oxford makes her highly valuable. When we’re done, I go back to my kitchen and return to the salad I was making for dinner before Jude Taylor’s injury made my knees wobble.

  My apartment has been recently renovated, the large island with the wall of cabinets and appliances behind make the small space feel much larger and more open than it truly is. Topped with the soft colors of my furniture and the neutral walls and cabinets, my home is light and bright, but still cozy. It relaxes me, and I love coming home, knowing I’ve done something I always wanted, something I would have never had if I would have followed my mother’s footsteps.

  I’m living a stable, comfortable life. Something I never had growing up.

  My phone rings as I’m grilling a pork chop on the indoor grill portion of my stovetop and I reach for it without looking.

  “Katie?”

  Lizzie’s tone catches me by surprise, and I brace for the worst. “How bad is he?”

  “He’ll be okay. Concussion. Garrett says he still doesn’t know about his knee. Want me to keep you updated? Send a message to him? I didn’t say anything to Garrett about you when I called.”

  “No.” I’ve changed my mind. Garrett doesn’t need to know I’m still hung up on Jude. And Jude prob
ably doesn’t care at all about my concern. It’s been years. “No, it’s okay. But thanks for letting me know.”

  “All right Katie-bug. Love you. Drinks soon?”

  “Whenever you’re thirsty.”

  She laughs easily and I end the call, but I can’t shake the looming feeling tonight has brought down on my shoulders.

  Jude Taylor.

  Five years.

  I’m still not over the guy who probably forgot about me long ago.

  How pathetic can I be?

  2

  Jude

  “I’m not headed anywhere.”

  Next to me, my older brother Jason is bouncing his knee like he’s the one injured and staring down not only a possible season-ending injury, but career. Not all athletes, professional or otherwise, can come back from something like this. I’ve been shoving down this fear since I woke up with a concussion two weeks ago in the hospital.

  Our coach leans forward and rests his hands on his desktop. He’s dressed in his standard long sleeve, three-quarter zip-up shirt with the Carolina Ice Kings logo on the left side. His styled and graying hair is swept to the side. His blue eyes narrow on me as his nostrils flare.

  I’ve seen the look before. It usually appears right before I’m about to get slapped upside the head or screamed at.

  I love Coach Woods, but he can be an asshole, especially for a guy who’s smaller than almost every player on his roster.

  “You’re getting out of here. Charlotte’s eating you alive and I need you to rest. To rehab. I need you back here as soon as possible, Taylor, but most importantly, I need you healthy.”

  He’s not entirely wrong. I’ve got reporters calling daily. My notifications on my phone became so incessant I turned them all off and now I barely look at my phone. Which is only pissing off the rest of my family and friends who keep calling and texting to check in on me.

  Which is nice.

  But shit. I’m twenty-seven fucking years old. I never finished college. What in the hell am I going to do if I can’t get back to hockey?

  “Go home,” Jason says it next to me and if we weren’t in Coach’s office, I’d deck him. He’s supposed to be on my side.

  “The hell?”

  “Go home,” he says again and he’s using his ‘big brother knows better’ voice that makes me grind my teeth together. He never pulls it out. Not on the ice. Not anywhere. Not since we became teammates. It’s been years since he’s acted like he knows everything and I’m not about to tolerate it now.

  “I can rehab and rest here.” There’s nothing for me in Chicago except my parents and like hell I’m moving home with them. It’s already a miracle Mom hasn’t set up shop in one of my spare rooms and turned into Betty freaking Crocker in the last two weeks. I allowed her here for four days before insisting Dad take her home.

  I’m a fucking adult with a headache for crying out loud. At least, that’s the only thing wrong if you ignore the brace covering three-quarters of my leg and my quickly impending surgery. If I ever see Selkin again—the player from Boston who took me out and was kicked out of the game for it— we’re going to have a heavy conversation that will start with my fists to his face. And that’ll happen. As soon as I can walk without crutches and a fucking limp again.

  “You still have half the lights off in your place because your head hurts so much all the time. You can’t watch television. You can’t bend over. You fell over in the shower last week and you’re not fucking eating and resting right. Go home, Jude. You’re wasting away here and none of it’s helping.”

  Coach nods. My brother isn’t entirely wrong, but screw him. He’s been injured but not to this extent. “I’ve made some calls. We’ve got you set up with some of the best physical therapists in the country in Chicago. Surgeon who handles the Storm’s team.”

  I bark out a laugh. “You want me to trust a man who takes care of one of our biggest rivals? Hell no. He’ll fuck my knee up for the fun of it.”

  Coach, stone-cold sober, shakes his head. “You’re not that special, Taylor.”

  Next to me, Jason chokes down a laugh.

  I shove my elbow into his gut and grin as he doubles over. He might be older. I’m bigger. And tougher. Concussion, crutches, and all.

  “You’ve got this all set up then, don’t you?” I lean back in my chair and cross my arms. A sideways glance to Jason shows his focus is now on our coach.

  Both of them have their lips pressed in a tight line.

  Yeah. This is a setup.

  “Let me guess.” I roll my shoulders, trying to ease the tension building at the back of my neck, the base of my skull. Jason isn’t entirely wrong. This is only my second concussion. The first one being in high school. But hell, this one is taking a lot longer to recover from. “You’ve got me an apartment, or you’ve got Mom and Dad ready to take care of me.”

  “An apartment with a month-to-month lease and fully furnished,” Coach says. His eyes slip to Jason’s direction before coming back to me. “Your parents will be picking you up at the airport.”

  “How long?”

  There’s no point left in arguing. Besides the fact he can essentially make me do whatever he wants—whatever is best for the team—dark spots are starting to dance at the edges of my vision. If I don’t get to a dark room and soon, I’ll be in bed in a quiet room for the rest of the day.

  “Until you’ve recovered from surgery. When we know more.”

  “When do I leave?”

  He slides a ticket across to me. “Six o’clock flight.”

  “You suck.” It’s six hours away. I barely have enough time to get packed up and close down my house, but my guess is he’s planned that with Jason too. Fucking brothers. I love the hell out of my older three, but they can be overbearing.

  I grab the ticket and push to standing. It’s awkward and takes me forever and Jason stands there the whole time, hand out like I need his help. I slap it away and reach for the crutches, swaying slightly when the pain in my neck shoots up to my skull.

  Cringing, I squeeze my eyes closed as I turn so they can’t see how much I’m struggling with my damn head. I need to get back out on the ice. It’s the only thing I know and the quiet and uncertainty is a bitch when I’m alone at night.

  Chicago? It’s late November and still the beginning of the season. I need to head north to the brutal cold like I need my head slammed into the boards again.

  This is going to suck. If they think me heading back home will help me relax, they’re bigger idiots than I thought.

  She’s there. The girl I still think about. The girl I still wish I could have done things differently with.

  The girl who blocked my number and disappeared from all social media by the time I arrived in Charlotte, hours after the best night of my life.

  I’ve avoided going back to Chicago except for games for five damn years in the fear of running into her. Which makes me a pussy because Chicago’s a big city and I have no idea if she’s still there. She also has no reason to leave.

  Yeah. Chicago and home will never mean relaxation and rest.

  Not while I’m still hung up on some girl who barely gave me the time of day, broke down slowly, and gave me the best parts of her only to make it clear she never wanted much from me in the first place.

  “Ma.” I slap her hands away. She’s treating me like I’m six and home sick with a fever.

  She holds up her hands, stepping back from the blanket she was just tucking in at my waist.

  Yes. My waist. Like I need my mom’s hands that close to my dick.

  “Go home.” I groan and tug the blanket higher. “I’m fine.”

  “The doctor said—”

  I know what the doctor said because she’s been repeating his words to me for days now. “The doctor says I have to sleep and take my pills and eat and start moving as much as I can. He doesn’t say I need you hovering over me every thirty seconds.”

  I’m being a jerk. A grumpy one. I can’t help it. I’m th
ree days out from my ACL surgery. The end of my hockey career is closer than I’ve ever thought it would be at the age of twenty-seven years old, and if my mom can’t understand that, then I seriously need her to go.

  “But honey—”

  “Mom.” It takes effort, but I soften my voice. “Go home. Sleep. It’s late and Dad probably misses you. I’m fine. I’ll head to bed soon and you can come bug the shit out of me tomorrow, okay?”

  She points a finger in my direction and glares. “No swearing.”

  “If you didn’t want to hear swearing, you shouldn’t have married Dad and let him give you four kids. Boys at that.”

  She throws her hands in the air and winks. “All I wanted was a back rub.”

  Groaning, I shove the heels of my hands into my eye sockets. “Damn it, Mom. Now I’m going to have nightmares tonight. I don’t need to hear that crap from you!” She likes to bitch about the swearing, but swear to God, Mom is worse than all of us boys together.

  Her voice is thick with laughter and drifting away. Good. She needs to get out of my house. “Watch your language or I’ll tell you all about that time your dad took me—”

  “Ah! Stop!” I shout. It makes my head hurt which is slowly getting better. I had to wait a week after getting to Chicago to have surgery. Doctors didn’t want to put me under until we knew my brain was okay, which I get, but it only means my recovery is delayed another damn week. While I’m doing fine and moving around some, I’m still on pain meds and dopey.