You Had Me at Hockey (Bears Hockey) Read online

  You Had Me at Hockey is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A Loveswept Ebook Original

  Copyright © 2020 by Kelly Jamieson

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  Loveswept is a registered trademark and the Loveswept colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Ebook ISBN 9780593160268

  Cover design: Derek Walls

  Cover illustration: © PH888/Shutterstock

  randomhousebooks.com

  ep_prh_5.6.0_c0_r0

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1: Josh

  Chapter 2: Sara

  Chapter 3: Josh

  Chapter 4: Sara

  Chapter 5: Josh

  Chapter 6: Sara

  Chapter 7: Josh

  Chapter 8: Josh

  Chapter 9: Sara

  Chapter 10: Josh

  Chapter 11: Sara

  Chapter 12: Josh

  Chapter 13: Sara

  Chapter 14: Josh

  Chapter 15: Sara

  Chapter 16: Josh

  Chapter 17: Sara

  Chapter 18: Sara

  Chapter 19: Josh

  Chapter 20: Sara

  Chapter 21: Josh

  Chapter 22: Sara

  Chapter 23: Josh

  Chapter 24: Sara

  Chapter 25: Josh

  Chapter 26: Sara

  Chapter 27: Josh

  Epilogue: Sara

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  By Kelly Jamieson

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Josh

  Be a warrior.

  That’s what I tell myself as I sit in the lobby of the Sheraton in Calgary with the team’s general manager, Joe Bianchi. I was on my way out for breakfast with my teammates when I was told Mr. Bianchi wanted to see me.

  That’s never good.

  I knew right away I’d been traded. There’d been rumors for a while. I just don’t know to where.

  This is my worst nightmare.

  I know there are no guarantees in professional hockey. I know guys rarely play for the same team their whole life. I know I’m a name and a number—and not just the number on my back but also my salary—and trades depend on how that all fits into the teams’ books. But ever since the accident, I’ve tried to control my life as much as possible. I like to plan things out. I have to have my routine. There’s safety and comfort in routine.

  I got drafted seven years ago by the Dallas Stars. I played my first three seasons for the farm team, only a few hours from Dallas, with some call-ups. When I finally cracked the lineup for good, I was already familiar with the team and the city, and the change wasn’t that hard.

  But this? Like I said…nightmare.

  “New York Bears,” Mr. Bianchi tells me. I can see he’s choosing his words carefully. This can’t be easy for GMs, and they have to do it all the time. “This could be a great move for you, Josh. They’ve been playing well and they’re trying to deepen their defense for a playoff run. They need someone like you.”

  It’s hard not to take it personally, but I know this team is loaded with great defense players. And the Bears are not.

  “Aren’t things a little crazy there right now?” I’ve heard what’s been happening. Their coach was accused of using racist slurs against one of the players as well as physical abuse. He resigned last week.

  Mr. Bianchi sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “Their assistant coach Viktor Meknikov is running the bench for now. He’s a friend of mine. He’s a great guy.”

  I question that. He had to know what was going on. Yet it was players who came forward about the issues.

  My stomach tightens thinking about that.

  Easton Millar.

  He was one of the ones who came forward and made a complaint to the players’ association. Years ago, we were good friends. But he disappeared when I needed him most. I’ve barely seen him since, other than a few games here and there where we didn’t talk at all. Asshole.

  As if it’s not enough that my life is being turned upside down, I have to go play for a team that’s in turmoil and I’ll be joining one of the last people in the world I want to play with.

  “You need to be on the next flight out of here,” Mr. Bianchi says.

  “Jesus.” I rub my forehead. Every muscle in my body is tense and my chest feels squeezed by a tight band around it. “What about my stuff? My apartment…” I stop. That’s not Mr. Bianchi’s problem. It’s mine. “I got it.”

  “We’re sorry to lose you, Josh. You’re talented and you’re a hard worker. Your work ethic is a great example to the team.”

  “Thanks.”

  I’m on my way up to my room when my phone rings. I don’t recognize the number, but I answer anyway.

  “Josh? This is Brad Julian in New York.”

  My new boss. Great. “Hi, Mr. Julian.”

  “Joe let me know that he talked to you. I wanted to give you a call and welcome you to the team.”

  I step into the elevator. “Thanks, I appreciate that.”

  “We’re really excited to have you join us. We need some depth. We need a guy like you who’s got some games in, and you have a great reputation as a solid team guy. We think you can really add something to our room.”

  “Thanks.” I close my eyes, leaning against the elevator wall. “I’m looking forward to it too.”

  He chuckles, as if he knows I’m lying. “We’ll talk more once you’re in town.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  “Great, great.”

  We end the call and I step out into the hall of the hotel. I stand there for a moment, gathering my thoughts. I’m…fucked up.

  In my room, I make the call to my mom. I wouldn’t be surprised if she already knows. My dad is the general manager in Winnipeg, and it’s entirely possible he heard talk of this. She doesn’t sound surprised, so she at least knew the rumors.

  “New York will be awesome!” she says.

  “Ugh.” I cover my eyes. “I don’t want to move.”

  “I know.” Her voice softens. “I know change is hard. But I also know how strong you are.”

  I swallow and nod even though she can’t see me. “Thanks, Mom.”

  “Your dad will call later.”

  Before I know it, I’m on a plane jetting toward New York, with only the duffel bag I packed for our road trip. I’m going to a city I don’t know, an arena I don’t know, a team I don’t know. I have no idea where I’ll live or how I’ll get around.

  My body is buzzing with adrenaline and I can barely sit still on the plane. I keep thinking about my old team—my friends, the great times we’ve had together. Fuck, I’m going to miss them. I think about Cora, the girl I’ve been seeing. What the fuck do I say to her? We’ve only been going out for a month. That’s not long enough to ask her to move to New York, and I don’t think I want that anyway. I think about whether this woul
dn’t have happened if I’d done something different…but what?

  And I think about the future, imagining the worst…failure. There are a million what-ifs.

  I have to shut those down, though. I need to use some of the self-talk I learned in the hospital all those years ago, when I thought I might never play hockey again. Our life isn’t a book written by someone else…I have to create my own story line.

  I’ve tried to do that, but this is a plot twist I didn’t expect, and it’s thrown me.

  The team has sent a car for me. In the arrivals area, I see a man holding a sign with my name on it and I stride toward him.

  “Josh?” He holds out a hand, which I shake. “I’m Mike Higgins, manager of team services. Great to meet you.”

  “Likewise.”

  “Welcome to the Bears.” He leads me out to a black SUV waiting for us. We jump into the backseat, and soon we’re winding our way out of LaGuardia and heading to the Apex Center in Midtown Manhattan.

  “You probably have a lot of questions,” Mike says. “I’m here to make it easier for you any way I can. We’re going straight to the arena. It’s game day, but obviously you won’t be playing tonight.”

  “Good thing, since I have no equipment.”

  “It’s being shipped,” he says. “But you’ll get to meet the guys and Coach Meknikov. He’ll talk to you about that and when he’ll put you in the lineup. We’ll need to get photos done right away, and…” He goes on about a whole bunch of shit until my head is spinning. “We’ve got a hotel room for you for tonight and however long you need it,” he says. “Near the arena. But we’ll help you find housing if you’d like. There are quite a few players who live on the west side. It’s reasonably close to the arena and an easy drive to our practice facility.”

  West side, east side, I don’t know the city or what the hell he’s talking about. I feel like my chest is caving in, waves of heat then cold washing over me. I know I haven’t heard half the stuff he’s telling me, which makes me feel even more overwhelmed because I need to know what’s going on.

  “Sounds good,” I manage to say to him.

  I pull out my phone, which has blown up while it was in airplane mode. The guys have heard the news and there are messages from them, posts on Snapchat and Instagram. I better let Cora know. I dial her number but get her voicemail. She works in marketing for a big airline and is probably in a meeting. Damn. I ask her to call me when she can. Jesus, I hope that’s before she sees the news on TV or social media. That is going to suck big-time if she hears it from someone other than me.

  I keep a smile in place as I’m introduced to about five hundred people at the Apex Center. My new teammates are all getting ready for the game in various ways, some sitting with headphones on, others warming up on the bike, some playing soccer. The place is humming with game-day energy. Everyone seems happy to meet me.

  Except Easton.

  “Josh.” He shakes my hand, his mouth a straight line. “Long time no see.”

  “Yeah.” I arch an eyebrow. Play it cool, play it cool. I have to work with this guy now. “How’ve you been?”

  Our eyes meet, then veer away. “Great. You’re gonna love New York.”

  “We’ll see, I guess.” Shit. That doesn’t sound positive. I need to be more upbeat about this. “New York’s cool and this is a great team.” That’s better.

  “You two know each other?” Mike says.

  “Yeah.” I nod. My eyes meet Easton’s again. Yeah, he doesn’t like talking about it either, I can see that. “We played together in the WHL, way back.”

  I can see Mike’s face change as he puts two and two together. “Ah. Yeah. Right.” He knows who I am. But he clearly isn’t picking up on the tension between Easton and me. “Easton lives on the west side, in a building where a few players live. He can show you around and tell you everything you need to know.”

  Easton’s face tightens. “Yeah, sure.”

  I say nothing. I’ll just go along with it, my smile fixed in place.

  I meet with my new coach, who’s only temporary. They’re trying to hire someone to replace Tim the Tank Simmons, who just resigned. We agree I’ll play the next game, which is Tuesday, but after that it’s the all-star break and I won’t have another game until January 30. I’d booked a trip to Aruba with Cora and some of the guys and their girlfriends. I’m not sure if that’s going to work now. I should fly back to Dallas to pack up my stuff and ship it here instead of lying on a beach somewhere.

  Fuck. I’d really like to go lie on a beach. And possibly bury my head in the sand.

  But I need to be a warrior.

  Chapter 2

  Sara

  “Okay, I’m making chocolate chip cookies for ‘Cooking with Sara’ today. But…” I pause dramatically. “I had a disaster at the supermarket down the street when I went to buy the chocolate.”

  I’m talking to my camera, which sits on a tripod on the counter in my Manhattan apartment. My show isn’t really called “Cooking with Sara,” I just call it that the times I make a video in my kitchen. The truth is I’m a pretty terrible cook, but that’s okay.

  “You all know I love my chocolate chip cookies. And I’m super picky about the chocolate I use. Maybe snobby even. But I’m on my period, and you know when you need chocolate, you have to have it, and I needed chocolate chip cookies, and the market near here was out of chocolate. So I had to buy chocolate chips instead of chopping up a bar of chocolate like I usually do.”

  I talk with my hands, so I’m waving them around and showing the package of chocolate chips to the camera. And to my millions of viewers who will see this on YouTube once I’ve edited and uploaded it.

  “I like soft and chewy cookies,” I continue. “I’ve tried different combinations of brown and white sugar to get that just right. Now, I don’t know how these are going to turn out with different chocolate, and with these mini chips instead of chopped chocolate, but we’re going to find out!”

  I continue talking as I follow the recipe, my kitchen ending up in a disaster as it usually does when I try any kind of cooking for my video. When I screw up, the video keeps going. I usually leave those in because that’s my brand—honest and unfiltered.

  “This is my mom’s recipe, but I added nutmeg and just a hint of coriander to update the recipe. And I’ve experimented with all kinds of chocolate over the years.” I display the cookie sheet I’m using. “Today I’m trying this new silicone thing.” I roll it out onto the pan. “I’ll just spray it with a little cooking spray…it’ll be much easier to clean up.”

  I stop recording when the cookies go into the oven and resume when they come out.

  I open the oven door and pull out the cookie sheet with a flourish. To my horror, the silicone mat and all the cookies shoot off the pan like a kid on a waterslide and scatter all over my kitchen floor. I stand and stare at them in dismay, holding an empty pan.

  I turn my head and stare at the camera. I blink slowly. “Obviously, that wasn’t supposed to happen.” I drop the cookie sheet onto the range with a clatter and crouch to survey my mess. I pick up one cookie from the floor and stand to inspect it. Then I shrug and take a bite. My eyes widen as I chew and then I do a little dance. “Oh my God! This cookie is the best fucking cookie I’ve ever tasted!” I pump a fist into the air. “Success!”

  I stop recording to retrieve the cookies from the floor. Some broke, but I pile them all onto the cookie sheet and set it on the counter. I resume filming. “Well. They aren’t Instagram worthy. But they taste damn good! Because honestly, that’s what matters, right? We’ll just pretend they weren’t lying on my floor.”

  I’m not the perfect Insta girl. In fact, I’m the opposite, and that’s why I’ve been so successful. People call me “relatable.” I’m not wearing makeup, my hair’s in a messy ponytail on top of my head, and I’m wearing a sweater
I picked up at a thrift shop.

  “Okay, so if you’re using one of these things”—I pick up the silicone mat—“be careful! Anyway, thanks for tuning in! I hope you had fun hanging out with me. I’m going to pour myself a big glass of milk and sit on my couch and binge eat these chocolate chip cookies. And next time you see me, my face will be full of zits! Probably. I love you all!”

  Okay. Done.

  Now I just have hours of editing to make that perfect and on-brand.

  Good thing I love what I do because I have no life other than this. Holy shit, things have taken off the last few years and I barely have time to sleep anymore.

  I ignore my messy kitchen and carry a plate of cookies (checked for any obvious dirt) and a glass of milk into the living room. I need a rest. After this I have a lunch meeting with my publicist and then I’m heading to the studio where I record my podcasts.

  I rest my feet on the glass coffee table and gaze out my apartment window. Despite paying over a million bucks for this apartment, I don’t really have a view. Fucking New York. But I love it here.

  I down the cookies and wash them down with the milk while looking at social media on my phone. I have to remind myself not to read the comments on my last YouTube video. Too many haters out there. That’s the price of success apparently. I don’t handle it very well, so it’s best if I avoid it.

  Then I go change and get ready for lunch. It’s frickin’ cold out, so I dress in jeans, a thin black turtleneck with a huge chunky cardigan over it, and knee-high boots. I brush out my hair and put on a little makeup in Harper’s honor—mascara and pink lip gloss. We’re meeting at a place on Lexington, which I can walk to. As well as my coat, I add a hat, a big scarf, and sunglasses.