Kit: A Chicago Blaze Hockey Romance Read online

  Kit

  A Chicago Blaze Hockey Romance

  Brenda Rothert

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Afterword

  Acknowledgments

  Untitled

  Also by Brenda Rothert

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Molly

  * * *

  “City desk, Molly Lynch,” I say into the phone as clearly as I can while finishing the last bite of a turkey sandwich at my desk.

  “Lynch, get in my office, now!” my boss Lou barks, hanging up abruptly.

  Lou refuses to join the twenty-first century and embrace the use of IMs. When he wants a reporter in his office, a growly phone call is all it takes to make us jump from our desk chairs and sprint to the other side of the Chicago Gazette’s second floor.

  I wind my way through the open-floor plan room, passing each desk as I wrinkle my nose at the smell of something rotten. God, I hope that’s not someone’s lunch. My stomach rolls at the thought.

  “Hey Molls, can you look at this?” my co-worker Jenna calls out as I fly past.

  “Later, I’m on my way to Lou’s office,” I yell over my shoulder.

  “Keep it down; this is a newsroom, not a bar,” a grouchy copy editor says as I pass him.

  And yet, we probably have more drunks here than in a bar. The longer one works in journalism, the more one needs a way to cope with the insane hours, stressful deadlines and general contempt from others. My drink of choice is hot green tea rather than alcohol, because in my first few years as a reporter, I’ve seen several colleagues end up in rehab.

  “What’d you do, stop for lunch on the way?” Lou demands when I walk into his office about a minute and a half after our phone call—I clocked it.

  “I can’t get here as fast as I could when your office was in the newsroom,” I remind him, breathing hard from my post-lunch power walk. “Back when you were the lowly city editor rather than the metro-area executive editor.”

  “That’s a bunch of horseshit and you know it.” He waves his hand and pushes a stack of papers across his desk. “If the owners keep firing editors and combining positions, I’ll be the goddamned publisher before long.”

  I glance at the watch on my wrist. “I have to be at city hall at one for a presser.”

  “Sit down,” Lou says. “I need to go over a new assignment; it’ll be quick.”

  “A new assignment?” I arch my brows as I move a stack of print papers off the chair across from Lou’s desk and sit down.

  “What are you, a parrot?” Lou shakes his head.

  I suppress an eye roll and rein in the sarcasm as I explain, “That was a rhetorical question. I’m just surprised you’re giving me more work.”

  “Look, I know you’re spread thin, between your regular beat and covering for Laura. But you know the drill—the new ownership isn’t letting us fill any open positions in the newsroom.”

  “I know, I get it. So what now? Am I covering the entire metro area on my own?”

  “You’re doing a feature story for a special section.”

  I groan and slouch down in my seat. “Seriously? Special sections suck. No one reads them.”

  “Agreed.” My boss peers at me over the top of his wire-rimmed glasses. “But advertising is forcing this on us.”

  The Gazette’s city hall reporter, Laura Hinshaw, is out on maternity leave and I’m working night and day covering both her beat and my own. But she told me before she went on leave that she was fifty-fifty on whether she’d return to work or stay home with her baby, and if the city hall beat opens up, I want it. Badly.

  I don’t have time for anything extra right now, but I want to stay in Lou’s good graces, so I’ll find a way to work in another story.

  “Fine.” I cross my arms, resigned. “I’ll set aside my story about the city’s massive budget shortfall to write a scintillating piece about why Chicago is a great place to shop.”

  “That sounds fascinating, Lynch, but the special section is about famous Chicago people.”

  “Oh!” I light up, thrilled about the assignment now. “Oprah! Can I please have Oprah? She did her show from here and has done so much for the city, she’d be perfect. I have so many questions for her.”

  “Christ, Lynch.” Lou glares at me. “You’re acting like some fresh-faced intern who hasn’t yet been crushed under the filthy boot that is journalism.”

  “I’ve been a desk reporter here for five years,” I remind him. “I’m twenty-nine. I may not be a senior reporter, but I work my ass off every day for you. I put in more hours than anyone, and I deserve to interview Oprah as much as someone who’s been here longer.”

  Lou lets out one of his trademark throaty smoker’s laughs. “If we all got what we deserved, I’d be on a beach in Tahiti sipping mai tais served by supermodels right now. But reality’s a bitch, Lynch. No one’s interviewing Oprah. All the reporters got assigned someone, so you’re stuck with whoever you got.”

  I look at my watch again. “Can you just tell me? I need to be out of here in three minutes.”

  Lou looks down at the paper on his desk. “Looks like you were assigned Kit Carter.”

  “Who?”

  Lou squints as he tries to make out the rest of the words in front of him. “Apparently he’s a Chicago Blaze player.”

  “A hockey player?” I gape at Lou. “But I don’t know anything about hockey.”

  He shrugs. “Well, it’s a personal profile, so you can work around that.”

  “Shouldn’t one of the sports guys do this one?”

  Lou gives me a wry look. “It’s sports reporters, Lynch; we’ve got several women in the sports department.”

  I shake my head, frustrated by Lou, the most un-politically correct employee at the Gazette. “You know what I mean. I’d be much better suited for a profile on a city official.”

  “This is the one you got. No trading assignments. You’ve got five weeks to write a three thousand word profile on this guy.”

  I throw my hands in the air. “Three thousand words? That’s a ton. Why don’t I just write a novel about him?”

  “Lynch, the bigger special sections are, the more ads they can hold.”

  “Yeah, but…alright…I’ll do my best, but I don’t write puff pieces to begin with. I don’t see how I’ll come up with a hundred column inches about what a swell guy he is.”

  “Take it in any direction you want,” Lou says as I stand up. “Nick from the sports department will help you get credentialed.”

  I sigh heavily. “Okay. Is that all, or do you need me to run the printing press, too? Maybe vacuum the newsroom at the end of every day?”

  “Part reporter, part comedian,” Lou grumbles, picking up a cigar from an ashtray on his desk. He can’t smoke them, so he chews on them instead. Disgusting. “Get the hell out of my office.”

  I book it back to my desk, pausing only to grab my notebook and pen and shove them in my bag.

  “Wait, what the hell is this?” I say to no one, pulling the pen back out of my tote.<
br />
  It’s a blue pen with a cap on the end—not one of mine. I scan my desk for another loose pen, then check the cup of around a dozen black ballpoint gel pens I have next to my computer monitor.

  Empty.

  “Theo.”

  From my low, ominous tone and narrowed eyes, it probably looks like I’m considering murdering my colleague. But really, I just want to kick him squarely in the balls while wearing steel-toed boots.

  “What’s up?” Theo says from his desk, which is directly across from mine.

  “Look, I have,” I glance down at my watch, “about twenty seconds before I have to be out of here for a presser. Give me my pens.” I hold my hand out, waiting expectantly.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His stare stays fixed on his monitor.

  “Theo, this stopped being funny about 85 pens ago. Give. Me. My. Pens.”

  “Lynch, you just put a pen in your bag. I don’t see the problem.”

  I only use one specific brand of black ballpoint gel pens, and I buy them myself because the Gazette stocks the supply cabinet with the cheap stuff. Several of my co-workers think it’s funny to steal my pens because it’s one of the only ways to rattle me.

  “You’re a fifty-something father of three,” I remind Theo. “This is completely immature behavior you’re supposed to be above.”

  “I’m forty-eight and you know it,” Theo says lightly, tapping away on his keyboard.

  “Well, you don’t look a day over fifty-four,” I shoot back. “Give me my fucking pens, Theo.”

  Theo turns his chair so he’s facing me. “You need to live a little, Lynch. Walk through the newsroom door at 7:25 a.m. for once, or 7:37, or hell…between 8:00 and 9:00 like the rest of us. You walk out of the elevator at precisely 7:30 every morning, and then leave your desk at 7:40 to make a cup of green tea in that ugly-ass green mug. Your notebook pages are perfectly filled with perfectly-penned words written only in those black pens of yours. Really nice pens, by the way. I have some myself.”

  I scowl at Theo. “Your poor wife. I can’t imagine having to live with someone who stalks at this level.”

  He shrugs. “It’s a team effort, Lynch. Everyone in the newsroom knows your routine. Now go to your presser and take some messy notes in blue pen. You can do it, I promise.”

  “I’m going to start working remotely,” I mutter. “This is ridiculous. You guys are stealing from me.”

  Theo laughs. “How about this, Lynch? You hang out here for five more minutes, and I bet I can find every last one of those pens for you. Just sit down at your desk and we’ll start a timer. Five minutes.”

  I look at my watch. I have exactly enough time to walk to city hall and arrive at the press conference on time. And I’m never, ever late. Theo knows that.

  Looking at my desk chair, I consider staying for the five minutes. Well, I try to consider it. But I just can’t. I can’t be late for a work thing. Or for anything, really. And while Theo is actually a decent guy who’s just teasing a co-worker, he doesn’t know how much it hurts me to be reminded how neurotic I am.

  I wish I could show up to work at a different time every day, and grab whatever pen is handy, and just be generally on time rather than precisely on time. But I’m not made that way. And Theo isn’t the first person to point out my anxiety-driven tendencies.

  “Keep the pens,” I say, shrugging and slinging my tote over my shoulder. “I have more in my bag anyway.”

  Theo laughs as I walk toward the elevator, glancing at my watch yet again to see how much time I have.

  Chapter Two

  Kit

  * * *

  I cringe as a bead of sweat falls from my teammate Easy’s face onto my forehead as he spots my bench press set.

  “Yeah, I can tell you liked that,” he says with a grin. “Open your mouth and maybe the next one will fall in there.”

  I exhale hard as I push the bar up and set it back in the rack. “Fuck you, motherfucker. Wipe your face off.”

  He pulls his T-shirt up to mop off his sweat, asking, “What’s next?”

  Our team trainer’s newest intern, Josh, looks down at his clipboard and responds with a grin.

  “Battle ropes.”

  My teammate Porter releases a drama-king-worthy sigh.

  “I know, I know,” Josh tells the three of us. “Battle ropes have a bad rep. But I’m going to show you guys how to do these as a full body exercise instead of just punishment for your shoulders.”

  I’m six-three. Josh can’t be more than five-ten. He’s a college senior with a lean but muscular build who eats, sleeps and breathes fitness and nutrition. And he’s been assigned to work with the second line of the Blaze for the next few months—me, Easy and our team’s newest member, Porter.

  “Dude, if we don’t all make it to the first line after all this, I’m going to make sure you never work in this field again,” I tell Josh, giving him what I consider my most intimidating glare.

  Josh parts his lips and widens his eyes to about twice their normal size.

  “Kit, quit fucking with him,” Porter says, shoving my shoulder. “The kid’s going to piss his pants.”

  I break into a laugh, and Josh manages a cautious smile, still not sure if I’m joking.

  “Don’t let this guy scare you, man,” Porter tells Josh. “He’s big and kind of intimidating, but he also wears scrunchies around his man buns. We call him Fabio.”

  I shrug and say, “I’m not ashamed of my scrunchies. Rubber bands always get tangled in my hair, man.”

  “Or you could just get a fucking haircut like the rest of us,” Easy says, shaking his head.

  I gesture at him with my thumb and tell Josh, “Don’t listen to him. He’s just jealous of my lustrous man mane.”

  “Hey.” Our team captain Anton calls out to us from the other side of the room. “If you guys ever wonder what the difference is between the first and second lines on this team, it’s that you guys run your fuckin’ traps while we work out.”

  I give him the finger and look over at Victor, who’s lying perfectly still on an exercise mat.

  “Yeah, looks like Vic is really busting his ass over there.”

  “I’m resetting my chi, asshole,” Vic yells.

  “Can we start the ropes now?” Josh asks, standing nearby with the end of a thick black rope in each hand.

  “Alright, man,” I tell him. “Some advice. You’re in charge of our training right now, okay. Don’t ask us, tell us. Say, ‘Get your asses over here and do ropes.’”

  Josh swallows and says, “It’s time for ropes, guys…how was that?”

  Easy, Porter and I stand in a line, all of us crossing our arms. I shake my head no.

  “Deep breath, man,” Easy tells Josh. “And then, tell us what to do like you’re the boss and we’re just a bunch of little bitches.”

  Josh smiles, clearly nervous.

  “You can do it, Josh,” Anton calls out from a treadmill on the other side of our team gym.

  After a deep breath, Josh looks back at us with a stern expression and uses his deepest voice to say, “Get your asses over here and do these ropes.”

  Porter looks at me and nods, impressed. The three of us walk over and watch as Josh uses the ropes while in a sitting position with his feet in the air, then one arm at a time while in a plank position.

  “And then we’ll side plank,” he says, showing us how. “And I’m going to set up more ropes so all three of you can HIIT train with them at the same time.”

  The ropes circuits he makes us do are fucking hard. He follows that up with cardio, then more rope circuits. We end with stretching, my shirt completely soaked through with sweat that it pools on the mat beneath me.

  “That was brutal, man,” I tell Josh, my abs still burning with exertion.

  “Yeah?” He grins and claps his hands as we all stand up while groaning. “I’ve got something even better planned for tomorrow.”

  “Yo, I’m not sure I’ll be
able to move tomorrow,” Porter says.

  “We’ve got a game tomorrow night,” I remind Josh. “You don’t want to burn us out on a game day.”

  “Oh, that’s right. I’m actually not working with you guys at all tomorrow, unless you want me to stretch you out. But the day after that, be ready for a challenge.”

  “We’re on, but only if you call us by our nicknames,” I say. “I’m Fabio.” I gesture at Easy. “He’s Frenchie. And this guy’s Big Pussy.”

  Porter scowls. “No one has ever called me Big Pussy, dickface.”

  “We all call you that behind your back.”

  Porter looks at Easy, the silent question in his gaze.

  “We sometimes do call you that,” Easy confirms.

  “What the fuck?” Porter grumbles.

  “It’s because you make the same face that Big Pussy from The Sopranos makes,” I tell him. “And also because you’re a big pussy.”

  “You guys are a bunch of dicks.” Porter grabs his towel from beside his mat and wipes his face and arms. “You want to get lunch or what?”

  “Yeah, I do,” Easy says.

  “I can’t. I have to get a shower and go meet with someone from PR about a newspaper thing.”

  “What newspaper thing?” Porter asks.

  “I don’t know. I think some article for the Chicago Gazette.”

  Easy turns to Porter, a melodramatic gushing look on his face. “Our baby’s going to be in the newspaper. Oh em gee, this is so exciting.”

  “Maybe we should buy him a new scrunchie,” Porter says.

  I get so much shit from my teammates about my hair. Women love it, though. And it’s been long for so many years now that it’s kind of become my trademark.