Powerplay Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Powerplay

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  About Heather B. Moore

  Copyright © 2019 by Heather B. Moore

  E-book edition

  All rights reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form whatsoever without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief passages embodied in critical reviews and articles. This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialogue are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  Interior design by Cora Johnson

  Edited by Kelsey Down and Lorie Humpherys

  Cover design by Rachael Anderson

  Cover image credit: Deposit Photos #193361580

  Published by Mirror Press, LLC

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  Heather

  NORTHBROOK HOCKEY ELITE SERIES

  Faceoff

  Powerplay

  Rebound

  Crosscheck

  Breakaway

  Shootout

  He’s ready to quit his pro hockey career. She’s doing everything to keep her career afloat. And neither of them has time for distractions.

  Jax Emerson, legendary forward for the Chicago Flyers, is ready to throw it all away when he uncovers the truth behind his NHL contract. The last thing he needs is more media attention, or his father to get involved in his contract, or a beautiful woman apologizing once again for an accident.

  Meg Bailey didn’t think her life could get any worse, until it does. Time is running out before her business will be forced to close. When Jax Emerson offers a solution, she knows that by accepting his help, she might be getting in too deep. And deep is not a place her heart is prepared to go.

  At six foot five, Jax Emerson should be used to living in a world of tiny people. Either that, or those he interviewed with should recognize that he was taller and broader than average and he wouldn’t fit into a mini office chair behind a desk that crowded his knees.

  Case in point. He was currently mic’d up, sitting next to the top sports newscaster in Chicago, wedged into a chair that was likely made for a five-foot-two human, and trying to avoid answering any personal questions. Such was the world of media and pro sports. When did they ever get to talk about the game—especially last night’s, when Jax had played the best game of his career? Scoring three points in the first period and setting a team record for the Chicago Flyers.

  Of course, the Seattle Blacks got pretty wise after that and had double-teamed Jax. He hadn’t minded. He’d already scored the points, and the Blacks never recovered fully. The Flyers had won, three to one.

  “As the only Chicago native on the team,” Bud Roseman said, adjusting his horn-rimmed glasses, “you sure have some loyal fans. They went crazy over your stellar first-period performance.”

  Finally. “Thank you, sir,” Jax murmured.

  Who would ever name their kid Bud? Jax wondered as the bright lights of the news-station room felt like they were burning a hole into his forehead. Was Bud short for Buddy, or was it some childhood nickname that never could be shaken off? Now, Jax was a more respectable nickname, and it made sense for someone named Jackson.

  “But what the fans would be really crazy to know is who Jax Emerson, the top hockey forward in all of Chicago, is dating?” Roseman said with a chuckle.

  Jax blinked. Then he looked for that water bottle a pretty blond had set on the desk just before the cameras started rolling. Locating it, he twisted off the top and took a long swallow. Yep. He was stalling.

  His agent, Scott, had warned Jax about this, but he’d laughed it off. Roseman was a professional, right? Perhaps the question had been innocent, but it bothered him all the same. Scott had said that the Flyers’ owners wanted the team to attend more fundraisers and social events now that they were actually winning this season. The hockey team owners wanted to capitalize on it, sell more tickets, bring on more sponsors, fill the depleted coffers.

  “Bring your family,” Scott had said, “your parents.”

  “No one else is bringing their parents,” Jax had countered.

  “Then bring a date,” Scott had continued. “Since you don’t have a girlfriend or a wife like most of the other players. Get the Lone Wolf trending again.”

  No. Jax had no girlfriend or wife. And yes, he’d been called the Lone Wolf on Twitter, and he supposed it fit. All potential for any decent relationship with a woman had ended in disaster over a year ago. And Jax had his own dad to thank. There was a good reason Jax didn’t date, casually or otherwise. Number one reason, his father. Number two reason, his father. The man would do anything, and had done everything, to control Jax’s life. Last year, Jax had found out that his father had been bribing Lacy, his now ex-girlfriend.

  She’d been paid to date him. Paid to be the perfect girlfriend. Paid to look good for the media, to say the right things, to pretend she was in love with him. She’d acted her part so well that he’d thought he’d fallen in love with her too.

  On the night he was going to propose, he overheard her on the phone with his dad. Negotiating her next payout.

  The year-old memory sat like a sour lemon in his throat. Jax picked up the water bottle again. He still hadn’t answered Bud Roseman’s question. Perhaps he wouldn’t. Perhaps he’d walk out of the Channel KTMX news station right now. Or was it KTNX?

  But Bud Roseman wasn’t the top sportscaster for nothing. “While Jax Emerson keeps hydrated and thinks about his answer, we’ll go to a quick commercial break. Stay tuned, folks, for the next segment of our interview, when things get personal with Chicago’s number one hockey player.”

  A commercial played on the surrounding screens, and Jax stood.

  Bud popped to his feet. “Can I get you something, Mr. Emerson?”

  Jax unclipped the mic from the button-down shirt his agent had also insisted he wear. Dressy clothes reminded Jax of his dad, so he avoided wearing anything upgraded from a T-shirt and jeans whenever possible.

  “Thanks for having me, sir,” Jax said. “But our interview is over.” He looked the man right in the eyes—brown eyes below thick brows. “You overstepped your bounds. I was prepared to talk hockey.”

  Bud’s mouth opened, then closed. His brows nearly connected, forming a rather impressive unibrow.

  “Have a nice day.” Jax stepped away from the desk, then nodded to the cameramen, who looked like they’d just watched a car do a double flip in midair.

  Perhaps Bud Roseman called after Jax, but he didn’t really know, because he was out the door before anyone else could react or try to stop hi
m. Not that they could, at least physically. Jax wasn’t 240 pounds of muscle because he edited books for a living. As the left wing forward for the Chicago Flyers, he was known for scoring on a powerplay. And he’d just made a decision that would probably anger his agent, and his father if he caught wind as well.

  As he headed down the emergency stairwell of the news building, Jax pulled up Scott’s number.

  His agent answered with, “What’s wrong? Aren’t you in the middle of an interview? I just saw the commercial break.”

  Jax paused in the stairwell, somewhere between the second and first floor of the building. In careful tones, he explained what had happened.

  Scott was silent for so long that Jax wondered if the stairwell had cruddy reception. Had Scott heard a word that Jax said?

  “Fine.” Scott finally cleared his throat. “You walked out of an interview. Maybe we can say you were sick or had a migraine or something. You did take some hard hits last night.”

  “No excuses,” Jax said. “I told Roseman where he crossed the line. As far as I’m concerned, I’ve done everyone in pro hockey a favor.”

  Scott blew out a breath. “Here’s the thing, Jax. You’re already known as a hothead, but the media are our friends right now. Keep your temper on the ice. Off of it, think of something besides your own ego.”

  The words burned in Jax’s chest. “I have every right not to answer questions about my personal life.”

  “Would it have hurt you to just say, No, I’m not dating anyone right now?”

  Jax wrapped one hand around the metal railing of the stairwell. “It’s the principal of the matter.”

  “What are you going to tell your dad?”

  Jax’s brows popped up at this. “What does my dad have to do with me walking out on an interview?”

  “Nothing,” Scott was quick to say. “Just that you’re representing your family in all of this too. You know, the Emerson name.”

  Jax scoffed. “Just because my dad owns half the businesses in Chicago doesn’t mean he gets a say in my career.”

  The pause was a couple of seconds too long before Scott said, “Well, let’s just hope this stays on the down-low. Commercial’s over; I’ll see how well Roseman recovers.”

  But Jax was no longer thinking of the botched interview. His stomach had knotted tighter than a noose. “Turn off your TV,” he growled. “Now.”

  “What the h—”

  “Tell me now why you think it will be my dad’s concern if I walk out on an interview.”

  Something clattered in the background.

  “Answer me now,” Jax ground out. “And if I find out you’re holding anything back, you’re fired.”

  There was no way Jax could have prepared himself for what Scott said next. It was a good thing he was alone and had a stair to sit on.

  “Your, uh, dad put money into the Flyers,” Scott said, his normally confident tone hesitant.

  Okay. This wasn’t anything to stress over. His dad donated to a lot of things, sponsored everything from Boy Scouts to women’s shelters. Mostly to put forward a good public image. Had nothing to do with helping people. Oh, and the tax write-off. “How much are we talking about?”

  Jax expected Scott to come back with maybe ten or fifteen grand.

  “The amount of your contract.”

  Everything inside of Jax went still. Then the blood rushed to his ears. “My contract?” he asked. “Three million a year?”

  “Yes.” Scott’s voice sounded like he was choking, and perhaps he was.

  Jax dropped his phone. It clattered onto the next step below, then rotated in some sort of slow-motion spin. A fine crack snaked across the screen.

  Scott’s voice continued coming from the phone, but it sounded tinny, far away.

  Jax dropped his head into his hands and squeezed his eyes shut.

  His entire pro hockey career had been a farce. His father had bribed and paid for the Flyers to offer him. Yeah, Jax’s dad had paid his club fees back when he played with Northbrook Hockey Elite during high school. He’d even sponsored fees for other promising players who struggled financially. But this . . . this was different.

  Scott’s voice sounded through the phone. Just words. Nothing made sense anymore.

  Jax snatched the phone from the step and hit END on the call. Then he turned the thing completely off and pocketed it. He jogged down the rest of the steps to the ground floor. He slammed a palm against the exit door and strode into the cold wind of the Chicago December day.

  He was done. More than done with his father interfering. Maybe Jax would quit the team, teach his dad a lesson. Maybe he’d do a trade. Contract or no contract, Jax would put himself on the market. Injuries happened all the time, and there would be openings. He ignored the doubt about his ability at the edge of his mind—his dad might have bought his contract, but Jax was still an impact player.

  Last night had proved it. His entire eight-year pro career had proved it.

  Maybe it was time to fire his agent. Then Scott would really have something to worry about, like his own paycheck.

  Whatever happened, Jax needed to clear his head. He wasn’t sure where he was going or what he’d do when he got there. Maybe he’d stay off the grid for a few days. Rent a cabin.

  Without looking left or right, Jax walked, ignoring the fact that the icy wind cut through his dress shirt and slacks, ignoring the flashes of recognition as people pointed him out on the street. He even ignored the traffic light.

  But he didn’t mean to step in front of an oncoming car.

  And the last thing he heard was the squeal of brakes, or maybe it was the scream of a woman? He didn’t have time to figure it out, because he was flying through the air, then he landed on something hard and cold and wet.

  And his vision went completely black.

  “I didn’t see him,” Meghan Bailey said into her phone. “I swear I didn’t see him. One second no one was there, the next he was in front of me.”

  “Ma’am,” the 911 dispatcher said. “Remain calm and tell me if he’s breathing.”

  “I don’t know,” Meg said. “He’s just lying there.”

  “Ma’am”—the calm voice spoke again—“feel the pulse on his neck.”

  Sirens wailed in the distance, and the sound jolted through her like a bullet had pierced her chest. The sirens were a result of her. Hitting a man with her car.

  Meg blinked back her tears because everything was blurry now.

  “Do you feel a pulse?” the dispatcher asked.

  “I’m doing it now.” Meg knelt beside the man, who was lying so still that it took her breath away. Could she really touch a dead man?

  The sirens were getting closer, and a crowd had gathered at the sidewalk, but no one was coming into the street to help.

  “Is anyone a doctor?” she yelled in a frantic voice. “Or a nurse? Anyone?”

  “Ma’am?”

  “I’m trying,” she said into the phone. “I don’t know if I can touch him.”

  “Ma’am, check if he has a pulse. Administering CPR might be necessary, and it can save his life before the ambulance gets there.”

  Meg wanted to throw up. It was up to her, then. She placed two fingers on the man’s neck. “He’s alive,” she whispered.

  The dispatcher said something else, but the sirens were too loud for Meg to understand the woman’s words.

  Meg didn’t move, didn’t lift her fingers from the man’s warm neck and the steady thumping of his pulse.

  His eyes were closed, and his eyelashes were so very still. His hair was a dark auburn brown, although there was some copper color in his beard. He’d probably been a redhead as a kid, with a sweet redheaded mother and a fun, adventurous father. Maybe this man had a wife who was wondering why her husband wasn’t texting her back. His wife was most certainly beautiful, the kind of woman who went to the spa weekly. For this man was beautiful too. And wealthy.

  His designer clothing and expensive watch were a testam
ent to that. If anyone knew clothing, Meg did. As the owner of Meg’s Loft, she spent her days running the clothing boutique and bringing in eclectic designer clothing. Never major designers or big-box brands, only unique clothing.

  The sirens were louder now, crowding out all thought. Her chest tightened, and she couldn’t take a full breath. Relax, Meg, she told herself, but nothing on her body was relaxed. She didn’t need anyone to tell her that she was in shock.

  The sirens finally cut off, and someone grasped her arm and pulled her back. “Give us room, ma’am,” a man’s voice said.

  Help. Help was here. The man was breathing, and the paramedics would help him.

  She rose to her feet, although her legs felt like water.

  The paramedics checked the man’s pulse, then someone said, “One, two, three,” and the man was hefted onto a gurney. His feet dangled off the too-short gurney. Didn’t they have gurneys for taller people?

  Was it something she should have mentioned to the dispatcher? Can you send an extra-long gurney?

  Meg was hysterical; that was what was going on. No, she wasn’t screaming or crying, but her entire body had frozen. She watched as the man was loaded into the back of the ambulance, with its flashing lights. Her heart splintered as the sirens blared again and the ambulance pulled away.

  She could have killed a man. She still might have.

  “Ma’am, please move out of the road.”

  Meg turned to see a police officer with a pocked face and graying hair. “I need to follow the ambulance,” she said in a hoarse voice. “I need to see how he’s doing.”

  The officer frowned. “Let the doctors do their job. I need a statement from you.”

  Meg brought a hand to her mouth. Inhaled. Exhaled. “Of course.”

  “Come with me,” the officer said.

  Meg answered all of his questions to the best of her ability, and when the officer was done, she was surprised she was still standing, still breathing, still living. Did others look at her and think she was normal? She felt far from normal. She’d never be the same again.