FORCE: A Bad Boy Sports Romance Read online

  I sniffled, then laughed, and then sniffled again.

  “That’s a girl, show me another smile,” Olivia encouraged me. “See now, with that smile, the whole world should be at your feet. You don’t need to give your heart away so easily. Guard it, okay? It’s a fucking national treasure.”

  I sniffled, and then pulled her in for a spontaneous hug. “You are not allowed to ever take any job without me coming with you. Who else is going to give me pep talks in the bathroom?”

  “Well, definitely not your brand-new production team,” Olivia quipped. “In fact, I don’t really think my superior should really be sniffling into my shoulder right now. I smell a sexual harassment lawsuit.”

  I burst out laughing. “Baby, I’ve been harassing you since we were fifteen. If you haven’t learned to deal with it by now—”

  “Oh, I secretly like it,” Olivia smiled. “Good to see you smiling again, Candy-girl. Now what do you say? How about we emerge from the bathroom before our male coworkers start getting the wrong idea about us two?”

  “How do I look?” I asked her, widening my eyes.

  She pursed her lips. “Maybe we’ll tell people you got stung over lunch and are allergic to bee stings?”

  “Well—fuck,” I said. But I followed her from the bathroom with my head held high.

  Olivia was right. She always was. I had literally just met Ian into three days ago. And things were definitely moving too fast. But that’s what I did. That’s what I always did. I lost my dignity, just like he said. Maybe instead of getting mad at him, I should get mad at myself for always making the same kinds of mistakes. Maybe it was time I stopped looking for the one, that stellar guy that I could bring home to my parents. Then my parents could sigh with relief because their oldest daughter finally had the kind of love she grew up seeing. It was too much pressure, both on me and on any guy I met. How could anyone possibly live up to those standards?

  Back at my desk, I buried my face in my computer screen, immersing myself so completely in my new position that I didn’t even notice my phone until Olivia appeared at my shoulder. “Your voicemail chime has been going off every ten minutes, and I’m about ready to throw it across the room.”

  “Really?” Sure enough, the little red envelope was showing in the upper corner. “I’ll turn off the notification, sorry.”

  “Well, aren’t you going to see who it is?”

  “Whoever it is, I’ll deal with them later.”

  “I swear to God, if you want something done right, you need to do it yourself.” Olivia snatched my phone from out of my hands and deftly dialed my password.

  “Hey,” I protested lamely. “How do you even know that?”

  Olivia rolled her eyes at me, and tossed her hair over her shoulder to put my phone to her ear. Then her eyes went wide.

  “What? What’s wrong?”

  “You should listen to these. I mean, I still maintain that I am right, as a general rule, but—” she thrust the phone into my hand, “but you should listen to these.”

  I press the playback button on the first message, completely mystified.

  “Hey Candace, it’s Ian,” that baritone said. “Can we please talk?”

  Chapter Twelve

  Ian

  When I pulled up front of Candace’s building, she was already standing on the stoop. She wore a practical, puffy black jacket, and skeptical expression.

  "Hey," I said, opening my door.

  "Hi." She peered out at me from under her hood. "You're not going to yell at me again, right?"

  I clenched and then unclenched my fist. "It was an accident."

  "Do you always answer the phone that way?"

  I felt heat rise into my cheeks. "No, and as I told you, that wasn't meant for you."

  She pressed her lips together, saying nothing, but I could see the skepticism. I hated myself for losing my temper and I hated Lisette even more for driving me to lose it.

  Candace moved towards the passenger side door, just as I was rounding to the front of my car to get it for her. “Stop!” I called out to her as her hand closed around the handle.

  She froze.

  I shook my head and wagged my finger. “I open the door for you,” I told her. “That’s just how it’s got to be.”

  She smiled and tossed her head, her hair falling over her shoulders, even though most of it was trapped up underneath her knitted wool cap. “It’s freezing out here, Sir. Would you kindly hurry up and open my door?”

  I laughed. “You sure are a feisty one,” I chuckled appreciatively.

  She laughed tightly. "I could say the same to you."

  "Candace, I'm sorry. That wasn't meant for you." I nudged her a little. "I seem to recall you answering the phone similarly when I first called you."

  Her lips spread into a reluctant smile. "What did I say to you again?"

  "I believe your exact words were, 'Jesus Christ, shut up!"

  She laughed. "I guess so. I just sort of feel bad for the person you thought was calling."

  "Don't," I ordered her. "That person doesn't deserve your sympathy. Trust me."

  She looked up at me and blinked slowly. "Okay," she sighed. I opened the door and she slid in into the heated interior of my Escalade, teeth chattering.

  “Have you been waiting long?” I wondered.

  She shook her head. “Only about three minutes,” she said, blowing on her hands dramatically. “I just hate the cold.”

  I raised my eyebrows as I pulled out into traffic. “Then I’d say you’re probably living in the wrong city.”

  “You can say that again,” she puffed. “But summers here are so much fun, with all the festivals, and riding bikes along Lakefront Trail, that I always forget. You’d think, after twenty-five winters, that it would finally sink in.”

  “Winter is the best season,” I argued. “Dark beers, dark nights, winter sports in general—”

  “Oh yes, I should warn you,” Candace broke in. “My dad is a huge Blackhawks fan. You might find yourself getting involuntarily interviewed. When I told him who I was bringing to dinner, I was kind of afraid I’d given him a heart attack.”

  I smiled. The idea of spending an evening chatting up one of the fans was distinctly unappealing, but I very much liked the idea of making Candace’s dad happy.

  Her dad. God, when was the last time I met a girl’s parents?

  Well, that would have probably been at the engagement dinner Lisette dragged me to after my halfhearted proposal. I had liked her parents, got along well with her father, in spite of him being a Leafs fan, and shared a few beers with her younger brother, who seemed to regard me as some sort of movie star. All in all, I think I liked Lisette’s family more than I liked Lisette.

  I had no idea how this could be the case with Candace. I don’t think I could conceive of liking anyone more than I liked her.

  We pulled up in front of a modest Tudor, the kind of house that would recede into the background of any neighborhood, were it not for the riotous concoction of crap strewn across the front yard.

  “My mother is an artist,” Candace explained immediately. “These kinetic sculptures are her bread and butter. She sells them at art shows all over the state.”

  A gust of wind blew by, and suddenly what looked like a bunch of random trash came alive in motion. Windmills swirled, clappers clapped, and strange forms jumped up and down.

  I laughed out loud. “They’re incredible!”

  “You think so?” Candace asked, turning and facing me shyly. “I kind of do, too. I mean, when I was a kid, I wanted a normal house, with a normal yard, and a mother who planted flowers instead of twisted metal. But now that I’m older, I can see just how amazing it is that she can visualize something, and make it come true.” She’s turned and looked at me sharply. “You kind of do that.”

  “I do?” I asked, confused.

  “Uh-huh,” she nodded vigorously. “Don’t you visualize yourself hitting the puck into the goal before you take a shot
?”

  I smiled. “Look at you, using the correct terminology. I’m impressed. You are paying attention while I talk.”

  “Well…” She blushed. Then she smiled slyly. “Well, now it’s time for you to return the favor. My sister will be here tonight, and she talks a blue streak. I’ll give you five dollars to listen to her for me and report back on any salient points I might have missed.”

  I was laughing harder now. “So far you have warned me about your father, and your sister now.”

  “And my mom’s kind of crazy, too, with the art talk and all,” she interjected.

  “Anything else I should be afraid of?”

  “Well, my sister’s boyfriend will be there. He’s pretty harmless, I guess.”

  “Pretty harmless. I’ll take it.”

  She shimmied in excitement. “I hope you do. Now, will you please open this door, so I can get out, Mr. Gentleman?”

  I immediately leaped to my feet, shaking my head about getting called out so quickly. I couldn’t get over how much I liked this girl. Even when she was giving me shit, it was such nice, well-meaning, optimistic shit, that I couldn’t help but agree with her.

  I opened her door, and offered her my arm. “I am forewarned, and forearmed, my lady,” I told her.

  “I’d say you’re forearmed,” copping a direct feel of my forearm.

  “Keep that up, and you won’t even make it into the house,” I warned her.

  “This is kind of funny,” she said.

  “What’s that?”

  She ducked her head. “I didn’t really have many boyfriends in high school. You are one of the only guys I have ever brought home to meet my parents.” She rolled her eyes. “Oh God, I’m such a loser.”

  “I kind of like that,” I told her truthfully. “I like that I’m setting a standard here.”

  She rested her head on my shoulder. “It’s a high standard,” she said, so softly I could have misheard her.

  But I wanted to believe that I hadn’t.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Candace

  He passed the first test of meeting my parents. He didn’t openly laugh at my mother’s sculptures.

  The next test would be whether or not he laughed at my mother herself.

  She floated up to us in a cloud of essential oils and chiffon. “Candace!” she exclaimed, clutching me like I had been gone for centuries. “It is so good to see you again,” she said, emphatically emphasizing every word.

  “Hi Mom,” I sighed, accepting her clutching embrace. “Mom, this is Ian.”

  She pulled back, and then looked at Ian with the aggrieved head tilt of an especially bright parrot. She squinted. Then her eyes widened in alarm.

  “You remember? I called you? Told you I was bringing someone,” I prompted.

  “Yes, of course.” She shook her head, looking slightly dazed. “The basketball player.”

  “Hockey, Mom.”

  “Yes, of course. Well, same thing, really.”

  I sighed and shot a look over at my shoulder at Ian. He seemed barely able to suppress his laughter. “Thank you for inviting me into your home, Mrs. Hunter,” he recovered graciously. “I quite enjoyed walking through the art installation in the front yard.”

  I heaved a sign of relief and smiled at Ian gratefully for saying the right thing.

  My mother fluttered in surprise. “I can’t tell you how wonderful it is to know that Candace is with someone who gets it,” she said, enunciating the word it like she always did. “This whole block, the Homeowners’ Association, they’re all a bunch of uncultured Philistines.”

  “It’s true, Victoria.” My father came up, and brushed a fond kiss on my mother’s cheek. “Which is why we don’t think about them.”

  My mother’s ruffled feathers immediately smoothed. “You’re right. You are always right,” she touched my dad’s whiskered cheek with that same look of wonder she always had when she saw him at her side. It used to gross me out. Then it depressed me. But in this moment, as I looked back at Ian, I wondered if I wore the same expression.

  “Donna and Tim haven’t arrived yet,” my dad announced, then corrected himself. “Uh, as you can plainly see for yourself.” My mother laughed at his lame joke. “She just texted, said they were stuck in traffic on the Kennedy Expressway.”

  “Could be hours, then,” my mom pouted. Then she brightened. “Ian, I’ve got a paella cooking on the stovetop, I do hope you like Spanish food?”

  “It’s my favorite,” Ian nodded decisively. I had a feeling he was lying to spare my mother’s feelings. A small part of me that I had been holding tightly relaxed.

  “Candace, why don’t you show him around while your dad and I get finish down here?” my mom suggested. Without waiting for an answer, she turned and disappeared into the kitchen with my father on her heels, leaving only the scent of patchouli in her wake.

  I turned back to Ian. “Is paella really your favorite?” I asked.

  “What’s a paella?” Ian grinned.

  “You’re a saint.”

  “Not even close, baby.”

  “So,” I said spreading my hands. “I’m supposed to show you the house now. Clearly, this is the living room.”

  “It’s very, living room-y.”

  “It is, isn’t it? And I guarantee you the kitchen is kitchen-y, and the dining room is very adept at dining room-like behavior.”

  “Got it. You should be in real estate.”

  I smiled. “Oh, and the upstairs has bedrooms that are all very bedroom-y.”

  “This is where you grew up, right?”

  “It is.”

  He shook his head. “I’m sorry, but I can’t get let you get away with such a perfunctory tour. I need to see your bedroom for myself.”

  I laughed. “Well, I can show you where it was when I was a teenager. But for all I know, my mother may have turned it into some sort of sauna in the past two weeks. She’s prone to fits of remodeling.”

  “Let’s go find out.”

  “Why are you so eager to go up the stairs?”

  “Truth? Because I am going to have to be on my best behavior in front of your family for the rest of the evening, so I’m going to take this opportunity to check out your ass as you go up the stairs directly in front of me.” He stepped aside with a gentlemanly flourish. “After you. I insist.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Ian

  Teasing her about wanting to see her bedroom was totally worth it, just to see her blush—profusely—as she pushed the door to her bedroom open. “So, ah. Here it is.”

  I stepped into a small room, with a ceiling so sloped I couldn’t walk more than two feet inside without busting my scalp.

  “I guess she hasn’t turned it into an art studio yet,” Candace said, nervously twisting her fingers.

  I stood in the center of the room, ducking slightly, then turned in a slow circle. Then I froze, staring.

  Candace’s childhood room was completely filled with art. Paintings on large canvases leaned against the wall, tumbled off of easels, and a huge, detailed mural of the Chicago skyline dominated the one large wall by the door. “This isn’t your mom‘s work?” I asked, confused.

  She shook her head. “No,” she said, chewing her lip thoughtfully. “This is all my old stuff.”

  “You’re an artist?”

  She shook her head. “Not anymore, no.”

  “You mean you don’t do any painting anymore?”

  She shook her head again. “No. Not really. And I’m a renter, too, so I can’t even paint my walls.” She chuckled like this was some kind of joke.

  I was incensed. “Candace, these are incredible! I mean, I’m just a dumb-ass jock who doesn’t know anything about art, but this is good. Really good. Why did you stop?”

  She looked me right in the eye. “Because my mother is the artist in the family.”

  “What?”

  She waved her hands, like it should be obvious. “My mother is the artist. I didn’t want t
o take that away from her.”

  I practically exploded. “Are you kidding me? She’s your mother. I’m sure she would have been delighted if you followed in her footsteps.”

  Candace looked thoughtful. “Maybe. But I didn’t want to take the chance of hurting her feelings.”

  I was dumbstruck. I don’t think I had ever met someone so wholly unselfish, so completely nice and goodhearted before. “Does she know? That you gave up art for her?”

  She shook her head vehemently. “Oh no. She thinks I just lost interest. She seemed content when I told her I wanted to get into programming.” Her melancholy wistfulness brightened a bit. “Web design is a lot like art, anyway.”

  I was still stuck in one place. The effort my mother had made to get me where I was today—the long hours, the early practices—all of the sacrifices that she had made, and I had just taken for granted that this was what mothers were supposed to do. She gave, I took, and there wasn’t much flow in the other direction.

  “But you were really good,” I finished lamely, feeling like I had to justify my own selfishness by encouraging Candace’s.

  “And I’m a really good programmer, too,” Candace corrected me. “And my mom’s a fantastic artist. We all have our strengths.” She veiled her eyes under her heavy lashes. “You’re really good hockey player.”

  “You are a really good person,” I said, a little too quickly.

  She blinked, and didn’t say anything.

  “I’m not a good person,” I went on.

  “That’s not true.”

  “Yes, it is,” I nodded. I realized I was raking my fingers through my beard as I said this, and consciously put my hand down. “I’m all right with that. Or I was, anyway.” I swallowed, clearing my throat. “Maybe I’m not okay with it anymore.” Something warm slid through my belly, and took hold of me tightly. I wanted to give. I wanted to give something to this incredible woman. I had nothing else to give, but…