Rebound (Seattle Steelheads #1)(6)

But I’d been a cop too long to believe it would be that easy.





Chapter 2


Asher



The silence of my house was driving me insane. Wandering restlessly through the empty rooms and hallways, I thought about putting on music, but then I might not hear if a car pulled up or if someone tried to break in.

Or, I thought with a shudder, if someone put a key in the front door.

Damn, I should have taken his house key. Did locksmiths change locks this time of night? Was it too late to swing into the Humane Society and adopt five of the biggest, loudest dogs they had? Some of my teammates had dogs. All big ones, too, aside from Grady’s Pomeranian, but I wasn’t even sure something that tiny and fluffy counted as a dog. Then again, she was loud as fuck and had a hell of a bite, so maybe he’d let her come over for a slumber party along with our other teammates’ dogs?

I shook that thought away as I turned the corner into the kitchen. If there was one thing I wasn’t doing tonight, it was pinging my teammates to let them know I was scared shitless of my boyfriend—ex-boyfriend—showing up and…

I shuddered. I didn’t know what bothered me more. The idea of what Nathan might do, or the idea of my teammates finding out.

A loud creak from the other room stopped me in my tracks.

I froze. Listened. Heart racing.

Silence.

After a moment, I released a long breath. Just the house settling. Nathan wasn’t here. He was gone.

Wasn’t he?

“Fuck,” I whispered into the stillness, and rubbed my throbbing temples. Maybe that cop was right. Maybe I should have pressed charges. At least then Nathan would be in jail tonight and I wouldn’t have to worry about him showing up.

Except he’d be let out tomorrow. And then what? He’d be pissed. I didn’t want him pissed. I just wanted him gone. So…tomorrow I’d go downtown and see about that restraining order. Tonight, I just had to hope he took the cops at their word that there’d be hell to pay if he didn’t stay away from me. I hoped he wouldn’t decide it was worth it.

I shuddered.

My phone chirped, startling me almost as badly as the house settling. Christ, I was jumpy.

At least I knew it wasn’t Nathan. I’d assigned every member of the Steelheads the same generic text tone, and given him a different one.

The message was from Bruiser, our starter goalie.

Hey Crows, you ok man? WTF is up with that video?

A moment later, one came from Kelleher:

Did your bf fuck up your car, dude?

Aw, crap. That meant word was getting out. I’d been vaguely aware of people filming us, but it still never ceased to amaze me how fast that shit spread once it landed on the web.

I quickly googled my name, filtering by most recent, and… Yep. There it was. Nathan and me in the parking lot of the restaurant, getting in each other’s faces. On some level, I was actually proud of myself for shouting back. It was part of why I’d chosen to hash things out in a restaurant. He knew I wouldn’t raise my voice to him at home and I knew he wouldn’t raise his hand to me in public.

I closed the window and responded to Bruiser’s text.

Just a fight w/the BF. All good.

To Kelleher, I said, Not on purpose. He’s paying the deductible. LOL.

Kelleher replied first: For a dent like that, he better be blowing you good tonight.

Then Bruiser said, K. Let us know if we should kick his ass.

I wanted to laugh, but if I did, I’d end up crying instead. We were all protective of each other, and they all joked about kicking Nathan’s ass if he ever stepped out of line. Just brotherly protectiveness, not any actual malice toward my boyfriend.

Truth was, none of them knew the reality of our relationship. That was the thing about being a hockey player—there was no such thing as a bruise that made people ask questions. Any mark my guys saw was just left over from practice or a game. Hockey players weren’t psychic, and it wasn’t for nothing I had a reputation for being a pit bull on the ice. Bruises happened. I couldn’t expect my team to know which marks came from someone on an opposing team and which came from the man I lived with.

I didn’t want them to know the truth. I didn’t want anyone to know it.

Against my better judgment, I opened the video again. I pushed the slider forward to the moment when the cops had pulled up. The person filming moved aside, but they kept on recording, pausing on Nathan and the blonde cop for a moment before swinging it to me, then back, and to me again.

I zeroed in on the cop who’d been talking to me. I told myself it was just because I didn’t want to watch myself looking so twitchy and agitated, but if that were the case, I’d just close the stupid video. I didn’t close the stupid video. I brought the phone closer to my face and squinted, trying to see him better. When the camera moved again, I thumbed the slider forward.

I don’t want to look at Nathan. I want to look at—yeah. Him.

I paused it, and I didn’t care if it made me pathetic or a creeper or whatever. I stared at him.

Either I was in desperate need of a distraction in the form of some eye candy, or Seattle PD had sent their hottest cop on that call. Maybe a little bit of both.

You know those cops who’ve been on the force for a million years and are just grazing on doughnuts until it’s time to retire? The ones who might’ve been in shape in their younger days but eventually start leaning toward “round is a shape”? Officer Logan was not one of those guys. His near-black shirt held on to broad shoulders, and though his short sleeves covered his upper arms, his forearms had that kind of definition that takes work to maintain. He was mostly gray, and his haircut and posture both made me think he’d spent time in the military before he’d become a cop. I had an uncle who’d done thirty years in the Army, and he still stood like that and kept his hair cut extra short.