Breakaway

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Breakaway

  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

  About Heather B. Moore

  Copyright © 2020 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 #30717309

  Published by Mirror Press, LLC

  NORTHBROOK HOCKEY ELITE SERIES

  Faceoff

  Powerplay

  Rebound

  Crosscheck

  Breakaway

  Shootout

  Dear Reader,

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  Heather

  He’s trying to keep his position on the team, but everything seems to be working against him. She has one job to do and won’t let anything get in her way. Especially a hockey player.

  Pro hockey player Declan Rivera is nicknamed Dice for a reason. His playing is either hot, or cold, just roll the dice. And right now, things aren’t great. He’s on his fourth trade, and once again, his contract is on shaky ground. So he vows to do everything he can to please the Denver Chargers team’s owner, even if it means taking part in the dreaded social media campaign.

  Camila Brandon, daughter of the Denver Chargers team owner, is hired to amp up the team’s image and get tickets sold. This is not her first time dealing with a group of pro hockey players and working with them to turn social media into positive exposure for the team. She just has to stick to her rule of never dating a hockey player. Not even a guy like Declan Rivera, who is nothing like she expects, and makes her question her own rule.

  It wasn’t every game that Declan Rivera sat in the penalty box, just most games. This time was hardly his fault. He completely blamed the punk on the Vegas Falcons team. Minky had kneed Declan, and Declan had slashed him back. Fair enough. The ref didn’t see it that way.

  So Minky sat in the Falcons’ penalty box, and Declan sat in the Chargers’ box.

  Three minutes to go in the third period.

  The Denver Chargers were tied one to one against the Falcons. Not a good night.

  “Time’s up,” Minky muttered, pushing out of his penalty box and skating onto the ice. There was no love lost between the two former teammates, but Declan was still glad he’d traded from the Falcons to the Chargers last year.

  Declan was right behind Minky as he stepped onto the ice, and cheers from the most loyal Chargers fans erupted as he took the ice again. As a left defenseman, Declan rarely scored unless he could get a breakaway. It looked like he’d have to do it again, and this time without getting blocked by Minky.

  “Do something, Dice,” Runt said behind him. The six-foot-five goalie was massive and made every other team member seem like a runt, thus the nickname.

  “Just do your job, and I’ll do mine,” Declan shot back. The nickname Dice used to bother him because it referred to Declan’s playing inconsistency. Sometimes he was hot; other times he was very, very cold. His coach would pull him and yell something like, “Get your head in the game. Jeez, I never know which player I’m going to get with you. It’s like rolling dice.”

  Unfortunately, half of his team had overheard it—back when he was playing for the Seattle Blacks. He’d hoped the nickname would die with his next trade, but nope. It had carried over to the Florida Ducks, then the Vegas Falcons.

  Denver was his fourth team in ten years.

  The Falcons currently had control of the puck, although Loop made a valiant effort to block Minky, who plowed through the Chargers one at a time, but Declan was ready. He slammed into Minky, not hard enough for a penalty but enough to send the puck skittering away. Then Declan spun, skated hard, and snatched the thing before another Falcon could pick it up.

  The crowd roared, and Declan had the puck, free and clear. His teammates had effectively cut off the Chargers and forced them out of system. So no one was close enough to stop him as he drove straight for the goal. A single slice shot, and the puck zinged past the Chargers’ goalie, Ben, and hit the back of the net.

  The arena went crazy, and Declan grinned in victory, holding his hockey stick high as his teammates congratulated him, slapping his shoulder pads and helmet. The announcer had to yell into his mic to be heard over the cheering. “Another breakaway for Declannnnn Riveraaaaaa! And the Chargers take the lead with only forty-five seconds to goooooo.”

  They could do this, they had to do this. The Chargers had lost their last two home games, so the team owner had started some sort of social media campaign that they were all supposed to be participating in.

  Declan had ignored it. He hated social media.

  But tonight, the arena was more than half full, so the campaign must have done some good. If they could pull off the win, the team would only benefit, and sell more tickets.

  The ref dropped the puck, and the Chargers were on the offense immediately. Declan zipped backward, keeping an eye out, hanging close to the goal. No one was getting past him.

  Not even Minky. The Falcon player practically had steam coming from his ears. Declan sped straight for Minky. Their sticks clashed, and Declan sent the puck spinning behind the goal. The buzzer sounded amidst the cheering crowd.

  A sudden pain exploded in the back of Declan’s head, and he hit the ice. Someone had crosschecked him. And he was pretty sure he knew who it was. The hit had been hard, but Declan didn’t pass out. Which was a good thing. He didn’t want another concussion.

  In an instant, Declan was surrounded by his teammates and the medic. The narrowed blue eyes of Runt peered down at him. “You okay, man?”

  “Tell me that was a penalty.”

  Runt grinned. “A fine for misconduct. No penalty since the buzzer rang.” He stuck out his hand, and Declan grabbed it.

  A medic on skates led him off the ice.

  “I’m fine,” Declan said.

  “We need to be sure,” the medic said.

  The delay made Declan five minutes late for the postgame meeting Coach had told everyone they needed to attend. Something about the owner’s new marketing directive. This could either be very good or very bad. Fortunately, they’d pulled out a win tonight, so maybe that would calm things down.

  After a quick shower, Declan walked into the team meeting room and took a seat on the back row of chairs. Coach was already at the front, heading up the meeting. The Denver Chargers owner wasn’t there, so if this was something to be handled by Coach, Declan considered that good.

  Runt glanced back at him from two rows up, his blond brows lifted as if to ask, You okay?

  Declan nodded, then folded his arms and tuned into Coach’s speech.

  “Everyone, I mean everyone, is required to participate.” Coach adjusted his tie, which matched his too-tight suit. “If you don’t have an Instagram or Twitter account, you’re required to set one up before you leave this room. Ms. Brandon will remain behind to help those who need it.”

  General grumbling rippled through the hockey players. Everyone was exhausted and hungry, and most of them would be heading to Rockie’s Bar and Grill. It was a private club and a favorite hangout for the team after home games.

  Declan sometimes went for the food, but he left long before the wilder events of the night started, which usually included women showing up to dance to the live band that started at midnight. Women seeking to hook up with hockey players. These women were all the same—hockey bunnies—and Declan was not interested in a woman who didn’t care which man she went home with at night.

  He’d grown up with two happily married parents, who had sacrificed almost everything to pay his club hockey fees back in his hometown of Chicago. He’d never forget his mom leaving early in the morning to go clean hotel rooms or his dad coming home late at night after his job as a manager of the neighborhood auto shop.

  No, Declan would never take his paycheck for granted, or indulge in the lifestyle that went with it. If this meant his teammates thought he was cold and distant, then so be it. Declan didn’t really care what others thought of him anyway, which was why social media was the last thing he wanted to do.

  Coach read from a list of social media tips that had Declan
’s ears buzzing. What the hell were likes, loves, shares, reposts, hashtags, retweets . . . ? He grasped comments, but that was about it. Declan leaned forward and propped his head in his hands. He closed his eyes, squeezing them against what his fate had become—an advertising marquis for the Chargers. Wasn’t busting his rear in practice and games and attending required promotional events enough?

  “And now Ms. Brandon will take over the discussion from here,” Coach said. “I expect you to give her respect and follow what she asks of you to a T. Remember, she reports directly to Mr. Brandon.”

  “Because she’s his daughter,” one of the players from the front row said. It sounded like Hammer.

  A couple of players laughed, and a few others oohed.

  “It’s true,” a woman’s voice said. Her tone was low and smooth, and at the sound of it, every man in the room fell quiet.

  “Ron Brandon is my dad,” she continued. “But call me Cam or Camila, nothing formal, please. And don’t worry, I’ve been in this line of work for a while, and last year I helped the Seattle Blacks put butts in seats.”

  A few of the guys chuckled.

  Declan didn’t want to hear any of this woman’s spiel, but if she really was the owner’s daughter, and Coach was demanding they do this social media thing, he needed to get in line. He lifted his head, and he saw what every hockey player in the room was staring at.

  Ms. Brandon, or Camila, might be wearing a baggy sweatshirt, a Chargers ball cap pulled low over her eyes, and loose-fitting jeans, but there was no hiding the fact that she was beautiful.

  Declan straightened in his chair, if only to show the coach that he was paying attention. He guessed that her eye color was blue, or maybe green, if he were to make assumptions based on her pale-blond ponytail. He also guessed her to be about five foot eight or nine, and . . . she was curvy in all the right places. Her lips were full, and she wore some sort of pink gloss on them.

  Declan tried to remember the last time he’d noticed what a woman wore on her lips. Never? Her nails were painted, but they didn’t look like fake ones—whatever those were called. So this woman paid attention to the little things, yet she dressed like she was trying to hide something. Interesting . . .

  She spoke with intelligence and the confidence of knowing her subject well.

  “Raise your hands if you’re on Instagram already,” Camila said.

  Everyone’s hands went up except for Declan’s. Well, then. He was probably too far back for her to notice, though.

  “Twitter?” she asked.

  Same hands went up.

  “Facebook?”

  Most of the hands went up.

  Declan hadn’t raised his once.

  “What’s your name?” Camila asked.

  It took Declan a second to realize she was speaking to him. That, and everyone had turned to look at him.

  “Declan Rivera.”

  The edges of her mouth lifted. “Oh, you’re Dice . . . That’s right. My dad told me you haven’t been posting anything or retweeting.”

  Heat seared the back of his neck. First of all, Ron Brandon was keeping track of this social media stuff? And now Declan was being called out in front of his entire team and coaches?

  “I guess I’m staying after?” Declan ventured.

  Everyone burst into laughter, and a few even hooted.

  Declan didn’t budge, didn’t shift his gaze, but he felt the edges of his mouth tug upward.

  “That’s correct, Mr. Rivera,” Camila said.

  “You can call me Declan,” he said. “Nothing formal, please.”

  Camila Brandon had been ogled plenty of times by plenty of men. She should be used to it by now. At bars, at concerts, at pool parties, by hockey players just like the group she now faced . . . it went with the territory of being in situations where men and women were looking to relax and have a good time. And once the men found out her father owned the Denver Chargers, she could say that their interest skyrocketed beyond a one-night stand.

  Not that Camila was into one-night stands. No, she had learned early on how to avoid them. How to avoid the scenes where booze and men combined with women only spelled disaster. Which was why she didn’t party. At all. The guys on the Seattle Blacks team had called her Stoney, a.k.a. Stone-Cold Sober. She was good with that.

  But this . . . this room full of hockey players, who were all essentially owned by her father’s corporation, shouldn’t have left her feeling exposed and vulnerable. As if she was wearing a slinky dress and six-inch heels and was the only female in the room. Sure, she was the only female here. But still.

  She’d carefully selected her wardrobe today. Casual, gender-neutral—and at the last minute, she’d tugged on a ball cap. But when she stood up to talk, she literally felt the air in the room shift from casual to curious to outright ogling.

  Especially two of the guys on the front row. She knew their names since she’d researched every player on the team in preparation to roll out her media campaign ideas. Harvey Dent, or Hammer, and Louis Jones, a.k.a. Loop.

  Camila might be stone-cold sober and on a dating hiatus, but she wasn’t immune to good-looking, charming hockey players. Problem was, they were all the same, wanting a quick relationship, then on to networking with her dad, then moving to another woman lightning fast.

  She’d made the mistake of dating one of the Seattle Blacks players. She’d liked him and thought he genuinely liked her. Until he didn’t get what he wanted. It all turned sour after that. And Camila had determined never to date a hockey player again.

  That had been the last straw in a long line of dating failures, so here she was, keeping to her own rules. Smiling politely as Declan Rivera told her he didn’t do formal either. Not letting things inside her belly flutter at the intensity of his dark-brown eyes gazing at her. She’d known he was a good-looking guy because of his picture on the Chargers website, but he was more than a handsome face.

  He was a forceful player, and her dad had filled her in on his history. He was either on fire or benched. Declan had been traded multiple times, and the last one had come right after his father died. Kind of harsh, Camila thought. But in her dad’s opinion, Declan was what the league called a disposable player. Good for a season or two, but when things started to go south, he’d be dropped like a hot potato.

  But now, seeing him in the flesh made Camila realize that he was probably like any player out there—fighting for his position and contract. She’d seen enough of him on the ice to know that he was a contributor, even on his bad days. The coaches had a job to do, though, and they made their own calls, which Declan had to bow to. Plenty of players were benched, pulled in and out of the game. It was part of the strategy to keep the opposing team off-balance.

  Inside, she’d sighed a little sigh. Declan Rivera, or Dice as everyone in the NHL called him, was someone she hadn’t been able to discover much about. At least on a personal level. No social media whatsoever, which was kind of remarkable, to say the least. She shouldn’t be wondering if he had a girlfriend, or what he thought about his trade to Denver, or if he’d been close with his dad.

  She had to stick to her own rules.

  “Thank you, Camila,” Coach Walker said. “If any of you feel like you need some help with social media, please be in touch with Camila. I messaged you all her email. Business only, boys.”

  A couple of the guys chuckled. Hammer winked at her.

  Okay . . . Hammer was one of those classic good-looking guys. Dark-blue eyes, longish brown hair, chiseled jaw. But she wasn’t interested. Hammer was definitely a player, if his social media was any indicator.

  The guys started to rise from their chairs, but Hammer’s wink had reminded her of something. “One more thing,” she said before they escaped.

  All eyes were on her again, and everyone went quiet.

  She swallowed. “Go back through your social media posts tonight, and if there is anything that you feel doesn’t represent you in the best light, or might tarnish the good name of the Denver Chargers, please delete the post.”

  “I think she’s talking to you, Hammer,” one of the guys called out.

  Camila folded her arms. “I’m talking to everyone. Mr. Brandon wants the image of the team cleaned up.”