Pinkie Promise (Carter Ridge Book 1)

I study Coach Benson from across the office desk, a dark expression on his face as he looks at his page of notes.

His right hand is going for broke on a little stress ball that’s shaped like a hockey puck.

Doesn’t bode well for me.

“Right,” he says, dropping the stack of papers and pinching roughly at the bridge of his nose.

In the three seconds that he keeps his eyes squeezed shut I take a glance down at what he was reading and deduce the fact that they’re notes from the first ‘friendly’ game of this semester. I know this because there are a lot of words like ‘NO’ and ‘FUCK’ and ‘SHIT’ written on it. During the game, the team and I were too busy winning to realise that Benson had suddenly lost ten years off his life, but straight after the game when we went to the locker room for our debrief the whole team took the bollocking of the century.

Now it’s time for our one-on-ones.

“What I want to know,” Benson rumbles in his rough drawl, “is why during our first friendly game of the season – let me reiterate that so that you’re clear, Wilde: the first friendly game of the season – the top scorer on my team decided to get himself the most time in the sin-bin, out of everyone else combined.”

I roll my shoulders and shift on the seat.

I’ve never needed to be a player who watches his step, mainly because I made myself ineligible for NHL drafting when I was eighteen meaning that my balls were never in that vice. I’ve also never exactly been a dirty player. I mean, I can’t help it that sometimes when I return a swing to a guy who hit first he goes flying across the ice because I’m two hundred and twenty pounds. But now that I’m thinking of signing as a free agent, and also since Benson thinks that this year I’ll be able to break the record as Carter U’s top hockey scorer of all time, Coach has started making a real big deal about keeping our games completely clean.

This isn’t what I wanted to listen to at nine in the damn morning.

“We won,” I say simply.

“You were the most penalised player of the whole damn game.”

I stick my tongue in my cheek, spreading my knees a little wider, because yeah, okay, I can’t argue with the facts. Maybe I did play harder than I usually would but none of my game was unwarranted. Our ‘friendly’ competitors were a total fucking nightmare.

“You were there, Coach. You saw how they were playing.”

“I did see how they were playing, but I also saw how you were playing. You think you’re all noble dishing out justice? That’s the ref’s job. Not yours, Wilde.”

He’s right, which riles me up even harder.

“Why is this a big deal all of a sudden?” I ask, my leg beginning to bounce up and down.

Benson gives me a disbelieving look. “Because you’re the captain.”

I grunt. He’s got me there. “It was… my first time in that position. Being their captain. Being that responsible.” I look across at Benson and he’s watching me intently. Listening to me. He gives me a subtle nod to continue and I feel the tension in my chest loosen slightly, relieved that he’s letting me explain myself rather than benching me for the rest of the fall.

Even if talking about this is really fucking awkward.

“I’m really, uh, proud to be the team’s captain. To be trusted with that title is…” I look out of the window towards the mountains of Carter Ridge, the vastness of the small town landscape grounding me a little. “It’s an honour. And because of that, when our opponents were body-slamming the shit out of us, I didn’t wanna be the asshole who passively let that happen.”

“To an outsider it’s just gonna look like you’re hankering to get involved in every fight you see.”

“I wasn’t fighting back,” I grunt. “I was taking the hits.”

“Being the captain means that you need to consider what’s best for the whole team. Being Captain-less isn’t it.” Benson shuffles his papers, then longingly eyes his stress-puck. “No more taking the fall so that the other guys don’t suffer. You hear me? It’s fucking ice hockey. Every guy on the team is going to suffer.”

I clear my throat. “It’s my duty to–”

“You think that they can’t fight for themselves? As their captain, you should have more faith in them.”

I feel my jaw harden. Sometimes Benson is a real prick.

“If you’re still in the same mindset that you were in last year, wanting to get signed as a free agent for when you graduate, then I want to see no more of this interfering shit. All that that’s gonna do is jeopardise your season, and jeopardising your season is going to jeopardise you getting signed. And I’ll make damn sure of it because if you don’t fall in line, I’ll bench you.”

I open my mouth to protest but he cuts me off with a don’t even try it look.

Last year we got the Rangers all the way to the national championship finals only to lose the game in the last period. There’s not a chance in hell that Benson is going to let a victory like that slip out of our gloves again, especially considering the fact that this year’s Frozen Four final is taking place right here in Carter Ridge.

“We’re taking the NCAA title this year, and you’re breaking the record as Carter U’s top goal scorer. You got that, Wilde?”

Benson levels me with a stare until I let out a deep exhale and nod.

“And one more thing,” he calls out as I stand to leave. I look down at him, my hands tucked into the front pockets of my jeans so that Benson can’t see how violently they’re flexing right now. I need to release some energy. I already trained this morning but this conversation has grated me so hard that I’m going to redo the whole fucking set. “I know that you weren’t just taking the hits out there, Wilde. You’re a big guy. You could do some serious damage.”

I grimace. “We’re all big guys.”

Coach breathes out a wry laugh. “Don’t give me that shit. You spend all of your free time training and you’ve still got that much pent-up energy? Sort it out before it becomes a problem. I’m being serious. You need to blow some steam.”

We stare at each other without speaking because I’m trying to work out if he’s saying what I think that he is. Benson doesn’t generally get involved in his players’ private lives, but I’m pretty sure that he’s hinting at the one thing that my team loves more than playing hockey.

Coach Benson has one rule: no dating during game season. With the exception of the few guys who came to college with a high school sweetheart, if you weren’t already loved up back home then you don’t get to start that cushy shit once you join the team. It’s a rule that works for most of the guys given the fact that, once they’re off the ice, they like to play the field.

Heat begins to spread up my cheeks but I hold Benson’s eyes because I’m not tapping out until he does. Yeah, like most hockey teams we have a pretty colourful reputation – something that Benson knows about – because we are big guys with certain big needs. But there’s a reason why I’m one of the best players at Carter U: I dedicate my free time to staying on top of my sport rather than staying on top of anything else.

“Right,” I say gruffly, wanting an end to this conversation, stat. I know what he’s implying when he says blow some steam, and I am more than capable of taking care of my–

Benson jerks his head at the door, silently telling me to get the hell out of his office.

Fine by me.

I’m busy thinking about how much I definitely do not need to find a chick to blow some steam with as I exit Benson’s office and then shove my way straight through the next set of doors, only to suddenly hear a yelp and a thump as the wood slams forwards.

“Ow!”

My chest halts on a huge inhale the second that I realise that it’s too late to catch her, the girl who was on the other side of the door already down on her ass and rubbing roughly at her forehead.

Wait, why the hell is she rubbing at her forehead?

“Shit, shit, shit,” I say in deeply rasped succession, settling quickly on my haunches in the wide gap between her thighs. “I’m so sorry,” I rumble, desperately searching her face for signs of blood. If Coach Benson finds out that I’m mowing people down off the ice too then I don’t doubt for a second that he’ll bench the shit out of me.

Fear grabs me by the gut when I realise that there’s a small pink mark in the middle of her forehead, right beneath her soft curling calfslick.

I take a shoulder-heaving inhalation and look down to meet her eyes.

They’re big and round and surrounded by beautiful black lashes, and they’re sparkling up at me in a way that almost makes me choke. There’s a purple bow in her hair and she’s wearing a matching purple jumper, that’s so well fitted that I can see exactly what’s going on underneath it. Two perky curves and the tight cinch of her little waist. Fuck, she’s petite. My gaze trails down to where she’s splayed wide right in front of me and suddenly my jaw is going slack, my body growing rigid.

A low sound that I’m not fucking proud of rumbles deep in my chest but it suddenly turns into a pained grunt as something hard and heavy is launched straight against my head.

“What the hell?” I mutter, looking down at the object in front of me.

“I. Am. Sickofthisshit!” she growls, shoving herself to her feet at the same second that I do. I glance briefly down at the ground between us to check out the paperback that she just smashed off my forehead. It has a cute illustration of a couple making out on the cover. I breathe out a laugh and settle my gaze back down on hers.

When she was down on her ass I thought that she was petite but now that we’re standing I can see the full extent of it. Like, this chick is seriously fucking small. I give her another reluctant once-over and then I cross my forearms over my chest.

“Who the hell opens a door like that?” she exclaims, frowning up at me and mirroring my folded arms. “If I end up getting another concussion I am seriously going to lose my shit.”

My body instantly stills.

What does she mean by another concussion?

“Come again?” I ask, dipping forward slightly.

She flips a curl over her shoulder, as if people get concussions all the time.

“Look” – she narrows her eyes as she reads the name on my team jumper – “Austin, I–”

“Austin?” I say, confused, and I glance down at the stitching over my left pec.

Aw hell, she’s right. I’m wearing my teammate’s damn jumper.

I knew it felt tight.

“That’s not my name,” I say, looking quickly back down at her. “I’m–”

She turns a sharp one-eighty and quips, “Tell someone who cares.”

Christ. “Look, I’m really sorry. Let me make it up to you.”

She’s walking real fast so her hips are swishing like crazy, and as I glimpse at her little skirt something heavy twists in my abdomen. I look around the clean white hallway of Carter U’s sports building to make sure that no-one else is here, worried that the thoughts suddenly pounding in my head are going to be written all over my face.

Maybe I took the book to the head harder than I first thought because I should not be getting hot for the chick who just hit me with it.

With her cute nose raised high in the air she makes a little sniff and asks, “Why are you following me?”

I clear my throat hard and glance back over my shoulder. “Why were you standing behind the doors?” I ask, frowning slightly.

She looks up at me over her shoulder.

Her eyes are really pretty.

“Weird way to say ‘sorry’,” she says defiantly, although her voice is softer now.

I take an inhale so deep that my chest brushes against the back of her head. Her eyes widen momentarily, then she picks up the pace of her little speed-walk.

But I’m 6’4”. This is my regular pace.

“I already said that I’m sorry,” I say as I reach around her to push open the next set of doors, gently this time.

My conversation with Benson is still ringing in my ears. You’re a big guy. You could do some serious damage. Maybe this is the kind of shit that he was talking about – my strength transferring in a way that isn’t positive.

I glance down at the girl’s perky bow because, yeah, I am still following her, and my muscles flex in protest when I realise that I could have actually hurt her.

“If there’s anything that I can do–”

She turns on her heel so damn fast that her chest presses flush against my abdomen.

I momentarily go blind.

Hot damn. Not so petite after all.

“You know what you can do, Not Austin?” she says, giving me a cute head tilt that says I’m the one in control here, sucker. “You can leave me alone, I have stuff to do.”

This time when she spins around and storms away from me I think better of continuing to chase after her, so instead I run a hand through my hair and give it a rough tug as I watch her go. But when I see her check that I’m still here just before she rounds the bend my hands flex by my sides, wishing that I was still right next to her.

My eyebrows rise instinctively at the wounded-kitten look in her eyes.

Hell, did she want me to keep on chasing after her? If she did, then she had a damn unusual way of showing it. But what do I know – maybe she’s having a rough week.

Her words from a moment ago ricochet through my mind.

Another concussion.

I narrow my eyes. Maybe she’s having a really rough week.

When she finally looks away from me and struts out of sight I turn around and immediately head back to where we came from. The bottom of the corridor is like a little crime scene, and I scoop down to pick up the book that she’d forgotten in her haste. I flip through the pages until I get to the point that she’s bookmarked. I give it a brief scan and then I move my attention to the bulletin board in front of me.

Suddenly I’m in a really good mood.

I see the words cheerleaders and car wash and now I know exactly what she was doing behind this door.

So she’s a cheerleader. I can’t help but breathe out a disbelieving laugh because, in all of my years at Carter U, I’ve never met a chick who’s on the cheer squad.

Having a D1 hockey team and a college rink means that the Rangers are meant to have a good connection with the cheerleaders. We have a whole gymnastic mat set-up at the head of the rink which was meant to be where our home girls could do pre-game cheer performances. Show a little home support and get the guys extra pumped.

At almost every college that we’ve travelled to for away games they always have their girls put on a show before we hit the ice, but during all three years that I’ve been at Carter U we’ve never been able to secure them for a game.

I mean, God knows that we’ve tried to get them down to the rink, but the damn D1 football team is hell-bent on keeping them to themselves. The cheer girls have always been too booked up to make it to our games and I haven’t got a doubt in my mind that this year will be exactly the same.

I tuck the paperback under my bicep and pull down one of the flyers from the board.

Carter U Cheer Squad Car Wash, this Sunday!

I roll my shoulders and almost smile as I slide the flyer into my pocket, right next to the keys to my truck.

Good thing that I’ve got a car.