Keeping Score by Cathryn Fox

Epilogue

Reagan

Two Years Later:

I used to think woodpeckers were gorgeous majestic birds until one decided that the corner of the cottage was the best place to jackhammer with its beak at five in the morning. Groaning, I peel one eye open and then another. I turn to find Rocco sleeping quietly, his arms over his head, his chest rising and falling quietly. I smile, my heart so full of love for him.

The thing is, every day I find myself falling deeper and deeper in love with him. After college, he went on to play for the NFL, and I couldn’t be more proud. All his hard work paid off. Me? I switched majors and needed to take a few extra years to finish my arts and design degree. But that’s okay. It’s also good that I have those business courses behind me. They’re going to come in handy when I finally get my gallery up and running, and start selling my paintings and art by other upcoming artists. One piece I’ll never sell, though, is the one in the cave, right when I was beginning to fall in love with Rocco. That’s a special one that no one sees but us.

I grin, thinking back to when Rocco broke us into the college gallery. I know what he was doing, what he was trying to prove, and I love him all the more for it. It helped me face my parents and fight for what I really wanted. Since then, Mom and Dad have really changed their outlook on life, accepting my path, and completely excited about the announcement Rocco and I made to them last week.

The cabin vibrates as the woodpecker goes at it, getting on my very last nerve. I shake my head, hardly able to believe Rocco can sleep through the racket.

Not wanting to wake him, and a little jealous that he can sleep through that noise, I push the covers off and step into the main room of our family cottage. Rocco and I came here as soon as summer hit, even though he bought a huge house near Kingston after signing with the NFL. He wanted a place for us, something close to my school, so I could finish up my degree. I do love the privacy here, surrounded by trees, and the lake, and some of the birds. Miranda is coming to visit later, and I’m looking forward to seeing her. She’s working for a station near Kingston, allowing us to stay close as she put her journalism degree to work. I love that she’s still finding drama in everything. But she’s a true friend to me and Rocco.

I put on a pot of coffee and step outside. Clapping my hands hard, I glance at the noisy woodpecker. “Go away,” I holler, and it flies away. But it lurks in a nearby tree, waiting until I leave so he can get back to his hammering. My efforts are futile! My diamond ring glistens in the sunlight, and I smile. The first thing Rocco did with his signing bonus was buy me an engagement ring, and we married right after his first season because he refused to wait.

I breathe in the morning air and take in the little ripples on the lake. A breeze blows in and a little shiver goes through me. But I’m not really cold. Not anymore. Not with Rocco in my life. I walk around to the back of the cottage and glance at the majestic tree house Dad and I built to surprise Rocco last year when he came back from his first NFL season. He laughed so hard, picked me up and spun me around with childlike enthusiasm. While Dad never understood the secret Rocco and I share, he didn’t question my desire to build a treehouse at the cottage. No doubt he assumed I wanted it for children down the road.

I walk to the treehouse, run my hand along the ladder, and take the five steps up into it. I grin as I glance at the walls, completely covered in my art. Rocco insisted we hang them so we could make our little treehouse a home. One wall is still bare, though.

“What are you doing up there?”

I poke my head out as Rocco climbs the ladder, his hair mussed from sleeping. He’s never looked sexier, and my body sparks, wanting him inside me again.

“Woodpecker woke me.”

He shakes his head. “I’m going to kill that thing. You need your sleep.”

I laugh. “No, you’re not. He’s just a woodpecker doing what woodpeckers do.” He stands beside me, crowding me, overwhelming me. My heart beats a little harder in my chest.

He slides his arms around me and his early morning erection presses against my stomach. “In that case, I’m going to take you right here, right now, because I’m a man about to do what men do.”

“I think I like that idea.” He frowns, like he’s suddenly remembering something. “Rocco, it’s fine.” No matter how many times I reassure him, he’s still a little worried.

He drops to his knees and presses a kiss to my baby bump, and the moisture that floods his eyes every time he does that brings tears to my own eyes.

“I can’t believe I’m going to have my very own family, Reagan.” His voice is broken and hoarse, filled with want and need and so much love it wraps around me and squeezes me tight.

“We’re having a family,” I say, recalling Mom and Dad’s reaction. They were over the moon excited of course, and making a million plans for the baby. One plan I won’t let them make however, was on our child’s future. Rocco and I will teach and guide our little one, but whatever our child wants to be in life is up to them.

“Thank you, Reagan,” he chokes out. “Thank you for this.” He gently caresses my tummy.

I run my fingers through his hair as tears pour down my face. He’s been thanking me a lot since I told him we were pregnant. “Thank you,” I say in return. “I can’t even imagine where I’d be or what I’d be doing if it weren’t for you. Well, yes I can, and I’d be miserable.” Staying with Cochrane would have been a mistake, a life lost and ruined. Mom and Dad definitely saw that after the way he manipulated the poker game situation and got Rocco kicked off the college football team for a short time.

“Are you happy, Reagan?” He tugs me down and presses his lips to mine. It’s a deep, love-imbued kiss that steals my breath, and fills my heart.

“I have never been happier,” I tell him, even though he knows that. But sometimes he asks anyway, that lost little boy still residing inside him. But that boy grows stronger and braver under my care, showing up less and less as our love continues to grow deeper and stronger.

“I hope we have a boy and he looks just like you.”

“We don’t want that, Sunshine.” He laughs. “We want a girl who looks just like her beautiful mother.”

I warm all over. “Such a sweet talker.”

“It’s the truth.” He brushes my hair from my face and looks over my shoulders. “No matter what we have, I can’t wait to make art with them and fill that wall. When that’s done, this treehouse really will be a home.”

“A family of three…”

The corners of his mouth turn up playfully. “For now.”

“You’re determined to keep me pregnant, aren’t you?” I laugh. For the last year, he’s been telling me he wants a dozen kids, which might be ten too many for me.

“I’m determined to do whatever makes you happy, Reagan.” He brings my lips to his and lightly grazes his mouth over mine. “No one deserves happiness more than you.” The truth is that he’s the one who deserves happiness, and I plan to do whatever it takes to put a smile on his face every day and maybe we’ll end up having twelve kids. Seeing him so happy makes me happy, and I love that Mom and Dad fell in love with him too. How could they not? He’s kind, compassionate and spent years watching over me, when I wasn’t even his. Rocco Gianni is definitely one of the good guys and I’m the luckiest girl in the world.

I press my lips to his. “Now what was that you said about a man doing man things?”

“Are you sure it’s okay?”

I love how much he worries about our little baby, and I know he’s going to be overprotective, but a good dad. The best dad. “Well, if you don’t want to,” I tease.

“Oh, I want to, Sunshine. I want to strip you naked and put my hard cock inside you and make love to you until the sun goes down and you’re seeing stars.”

“I always see stars when you make love to me, day or night.” I grin. “I love you, Rocco, and just so you know, you’re as good with your words as you are with your hands.”

* * * * *

Thank you so much for reading Keeping Score, book three in my End Zone. I hope you enjoyed the story as much as I loved writing it. Please read on for an excerpt of The Playmaker, book one in my Players on Ice series.

The Playmaker

"I LOVED this book. I enjoyed how their love story came together and look forward to reading the next book in this series." Mary, Amazon Reviewer."

I didn’t want to ask him for a favor.

He was the cockiest hockey player I knew.

And my brother’s best friend.

But I needed to learn about the game, and he was down with a concussion.

I didn’t realize he had an agenda of his own.

One that involved showing me his off-ice plays.

I should have said no.

Should have kept things in the central zone.

But one sweet taste was a game changer, and the only words on my lips were yes.

Until a lifetime of secrets spilled out…

The Playmaker

Excerpt:

Fat drops of spring rain pummel my head, wilting my curls as I dart through Seattle’s busy traffic to the café on the other side of the street. My best friend, Jess, is inside waiting for me, undoubtedly hyped up on her third latté by now.

I step over a pothole and search for an opening in the traffic. I hate being late, I really do. I totally value other people’s time, but when the email came through from my editor, asking me to write a hot hockey series, my priorities took a curve. I’ve worked with Tara for a couple years now, and I know her like—pardon the pun—a well-worn book. To her, hesitation equals disinterest. She’s a mover, a tree-shaker, and it wouldn’t have taken long for her to offer the opportunity to another author. She wanted a quick reply and I had to give it to her.

I got this!

Yeah, that was my response, but what did I have to lose? I’ve been in such a rut lately, thanks to my fickle muse, deserting me when I needed her most. I swear to God, sometimes she acts like a hormonal teenager. I need to whip her into shape so I don’t lose this gig. The royalties from a series will help make a sizeable dent in the bills that are piling up high and deep.

High and deep.

I laugh. One of those self-derisive snorts that crawls out when you’d really rather cry. Yeah, that pretty much sums up the I got this response I emailed back. High and deep, like a big steaming pile of—

A car horn blares, jolting me from my pity party. With my heart pounding in my chest, I step in front of the Tesla and flip the guy off. I safely reach the sidewalk and once again my mind is back on my job, and off the impatient jerk in the overpriced car.

I step up on the sidewalk and lift my face to the rain, the cool water a pleasant break from this unusual spring heat wave we’re having. Pressure fills my throat. The hum of traffic behind me dulls, leaving only the sound of my pulse pounding in my ears. Panic.

Why the hell did my editor think I, former figure skater turned romance novelist, would want to write a series about hot hockey players? Yeah, sure my brother is an NHL player, but that doesn’t mean I’m into the game. I hate hockey. No, hate is too mild a word for what I feel. I loathe it entirely. But you know what I don’t loathe? Eating. Yeah, I like eating. Oh, and a roof over my head. I really like that, too.

I draw in a semi self-satisfied breath at having rationalized my fast response.

Except my reply was total and utter bullshit. I don’t got this. In fact, I…wait, what’s the antonym of got this? All that comes to mind is, you’re screwed. Yep, that pretty much describes my predicament.

Why didn’t I just stick to figure skating?

Because you took a bad spill that ended your career.

Oh right. But seriously, a hockey series… Ugh. Kill me. Freaking. Now.

I reach the café, pull the glass door open and slick my rain-soaked hair from my face. I quickly catalogue the place to find Jess hitting on the barista. Ahh, now I get why she picked a place so far from home. I take in the guy behind the counter. Damn, he’s hotter than the steaming latté in Jess’s hand, and from the way she’s flirting, it’s clear he’ll be in her bed later today.

I sigh inwardly. It’s always so easy for her. Me? Not so much. Men rarely pay me attention. Unlike Jess, I’m plain, have the body of a twelve-year-old boy, and most times I blend into the woodwork.

I pick up a napkin from the side counter and mop the rain off my face. Doesn’t matter. I’m not interested anyway. From my puck-bunny-chasing brother to all his cocky friends, I know what guys are really like, and when it comes to women, they’re only after one thing, and it isn’t scoring the slot. I roll my eyes. Then again, maybe it is.

And of course, I can’t forget the last guy I was set up with. What he did to me was totally abusive, but I don’t want to dredge up those painful memories right now.

I shake, and water beads fall right off my brand-new rain-resistance coat. At least something is going right for me today. Semi-dry, I cross the room and stand beside Jess.

“Hey, sorry I’m late.”

Jess turns to me, smiles, and holds a finger up. “I’ll forgive you only if you’re late because you were knees deep into some nasty sex, ’cause girlfriend, it’s been far too long since you’ve been laid.”

Jesus, what ever happened to this girl’s filters?

Thoroughly embarrassed, my gaze darts to the barista, who is grinning, his eyes still locked on my friend, looking at her like she’s today’s hot lunch special and ignoring me like I’m yesterday’s cold, lumpy oatmeal.

Ugh, really?

“Non-fat latté,” I say, and scowl at him until he puts his eyes back in his head. I might be an English major but I have a PhD in the death glare. Truthfully, I’m so sick of guys like him, one thing on their minds. Then again, Jess only wants one thing from him, so I really shouldn’t have a problem with it. Why do I? Oh, maybe because Mr. Right, my battery-operated companion, isn’t quite cutting it anymore, and it’s left me a little jittery and a whole lot cranky.

Jess is right. I do need to get laid.

Jess’s lips flatline when she takes me in, her gaze carefully accessing me. “What?” she asks, her mocha eyes narrowing.

God, sometimes I really hate how well she can read me. “Nothing.”

She straightens to her full height, and I try to do the same, but she dwarfs me, even without her beloved two-inch heels. I square my shoulders, but it’s always hard to pull off a high-power pose when you’re only five foot two, and teased relentlessly about it.

“Come on,” she says, and guides me to a corner table. I peel off my coat and plunk down. Jess sits across from me. “Spill.”

I point to my forehead. “Do I have ‘idiot’ written here?”

She looks me over, and cautiously asks, “No, why?”

My phone chirps in my purse, and I reach for it. Great, it’s my editor wanting to set turn-in dates. “How about never?” I say under my breath.

“Uh, Nina. You’re talking to your phone. You better tell me what’s going on.”

“You’re not going to believe what I just agreed to.”

“Do tell,” she says and leans forward, like I’m about to spill some dirty little sex secret. If only that were the case.

I grab my phone and hold it up, showing her Tara’s message. “I just agreed to write a hockey series,” I say, and toss my phone back into my purse, mic-drop style—without the bold confidence.

Jess pushes back in her chair, clearly disappointed. She lifts her cup, and over the rim, asks, “I don’t see how that makes you an idiot.”

My mouth drops open. Jess and I have been friends since childhood. She of all people knows how much I hate hockey. “Are you serious?”

She shrugs. “You’re a writer.”

Mr. Sexy Barista brings me my coffee and he shares a secret, let’s-hook-up-later smile with Jess. “And…?” I ask when he leaves.

“Writer’s write and make things up. I know you hate hockey, but what does that have to do with anything?”

“I can’t come up with a plot, or write about the game, if I don’t know anything about it.”

She shakes her head. “And I can’t believe your brother is a professional player and you never once paid attention to the game.”

“I was busy pursuing a professional skating career, remember?”

She reaches across the table and gives my hand a little squeeze. “I know. I’m sorry.”

My tailbone and neck take that moment to throb, a constant reminder of a career lost.

I didn’t just lose my dream of skating professionally the day my feet went out from underneath me, I lost my confidence, too. A concussion will do that to you.

Good thing I majored in English in college. Once I hung up my skates, I began to blog about the sport and sold a few articles. I joined a local writers group, and after talking to a group of romance writers, I tried my hand at one. Much to my surprise, it actually sold. I went from non-fiction to fiction, in every sense of the word. Happily ever after might exist between the pages, but it certainly doesn’t in real life. At least not for me.

I take a sip of my latté, and give an exaggerated huff as I set it down. Jess instantly goes into problem-solving mode when she sees that I’m really stressed about this. As a brand-new high school guidance counselor, she can’t help but want to fix me.

“Okay, it’s simple,” she begins. “You have to learn the game.”

“How am I supposed to do that?”

“Turn on the TV and watch.”

“I can watch a bunch of guys chase a stupid puck around a rink all I want, I still won’t be able to understand the rules.”

“How dare you call my favorite sport stupid.”

“Jessss…” I plead. “What am I going to do?”

She crinkles her nose. Then her eyes go wide. “I’ve got it. Shadow your brother.”

I give a quick shake of my head. “No, he’s on the road, and he won’t want me hanging around.”

Jess goes quiet again, and that hollowed-out spot inside me aches as I think about Cason. I miss my brother so much and wish we were closer. Cason and I grew up in a family where there were no hugs or words of affirmation. I know Mom and Dad loved us, but as busy investment bankers, work consumed their lives. Sure, they put me in figure skating, and Cason in hockey when we were young, but they never shared in our passions, or really supported our pursuits.

I guess I can’t expect my brother to display love, when none was ever displayed to him.

“Why don’t you teach me?”

“It might be my favorite sport to watch, but I don’t really know all the rules. I think you’d be better off getting your brother or…” She straightens. “Wait. I got this,” she says, and I cringe when she tosses my three-word email response back at me. A warning shiver skips along my spine, and I get the sense that whatever she’s about suggest, is going to take me right down the rabbit hole.

“What about Cole Cannon?”

I groan, plant my elbows on the table, and cover my face with my hands. “Never,” I mumble through my fingers. “Not in a million freaking years.”

Jess removes my hands from my face. “Why not? He’s your brother’s best friend. I’m sure he’ll help you.”

“Cocky Cole Cannon, aka, The Playmaker. Do I need to say any more?” I reach for my latté and take a huge gulp, burning the roof of my mouth. Damn.

“I know you hate him, Nina, but—”

“Of course I hate him. You remember the nickname he used to use when we were kids—Pretty BallerNina. I was a figure skater, not a ballerina,” I could only assume he was mocking me about being pretty too, but I keep that to myself.

“At least he worked your name into the moniker, and hey, it could have been worse. He could have called you Neaner Neaner, like Cason did.”

I glare at her and she holds her hands up. “Okay, okay. I get it. But Cole’s been home for a month, recovering from a concussion, and his team—the Seattle Shooters, in case you don’t know the league’s name,” she adds with a wink, “are probably going to make it to the playoffs, so you know he’s watching all the games. You don’t have to like him to ask him to explain a few of the plays, right?”

“I suppose.”

Wait! What? Am I really thinking about asking The Playmaker to help me? I reach for my latté and blow on it before I take another big gulp.

“And if you ask me, while he’s helping you learn the plays, I think you two should hate fuck.”

I choke on my drink, spitting most of it on my friend as the rest dribbles down my chin.

OMFG, how embarrassing. All eyes turn to me. Mortified, I grab a napkin and start wiping my face, but Jess is laughing so hard, I start laughing with her.

“Couldn’t you have waited until I swallowed?” I ask.

“That’s what she said.”

“Ohmigod, Jess. How are we friends?”

She waves a dismissive hand. “You know you love me because I’m hellacioulsy funny.”

“I do, just stop cracking jokes when I’m drinking.”

She leans towards me conspiratorially, and I brace myself. “I wasn’t joking. You and Cocky Cole Cannon should hate fuck. He’s as sexy today as he was when he used to hang out with Cason at your house when we were teens.” I give her a look that suggests she’s insane. She ignores it and wags her brows. “He’s explosive on the ice, but do you know why they really call him the Cannon?”

“Because it’s his last name.”

“Yeah, but that’s not the only reason.”

Don’t ask. Don’t ask.

“Okay, then why?” I ask.

“’Cause he’s loaded between his legs.”

Yeah, okay, I totally set myself up for that.

“You don’t know that,” I shoot back. My mind races to my brother’s best friend, and I mentally go over his form. He’s athletic, tall and—as much as I hate to admit it—hot as hell. The perfect trifecta. Could he be packing too? Working with some top-notch equipment?

Jesus, what am I doing? The last thing I should be thinking about is Cole’s ‘cannon’.

“Come on.” Jess grabs her purse. “I’ll drive you there.”

I flatten my hands on the table. “I’m not going to his house, especially not unannounced.”

“Give him a call then.”

“No.”

She sits back in her chair and folds her arms, a sign she’s changing tactics. “And here I thought you liked your condo and food in your cupboards.”

I groan at the direct hit.

Her voice softens and she touches my hand. “But you know you always have—”

“Fine.” I stop her before she brings up my trust fund. Yeah, sure, Mom and Dad set money aside for me, but I don’t want to use it. I want to live by my own means, make it on my own merit. Besides it wasn’t their money I wanted, then or now, it was their attention, their love. I moved out years ago and only ever hear from them on my birthday or at Christmas.

I pull my phone from my purse. “I’ll text him. If he doesn’t answer, we don’t talk about this again.” I go through my contacts and find his number, having stored it years ago when he called to check on me after my injury. The call had taken me by surprise; so did his concern. Maybe my brother put him up to it. I don’t know. Nor do I know why I kept his number.

My fingers fly across the screen, but in no way do I expect him to respond. At least I hope he doesn’t. I read over the text. Sorry to hear about your concussion. I was wondering if you could help me with something. Then hit send.

I set my phone down and look at Jess. “Happy?”

“Hey, I’m not the one who’s going to be homeless.”

Point taken. Maybe I should be hoping he does text back.

My phone pings, and we both reach for it. Jess gets it first, and from her smirk, I guess my wish just came true—Cole responded.

Careful what you wish for.

“What does it say?” I ask, afraid of the answer.

“It says, sure what’s up?” Jess’s fingers dance over the screen as she responds for me.

“What are you saying?” I ask, panic welling up inside me. “So help me, if you’re telling him I need to get laid…”

The phone pings again and she holds it out for me to read.

“I asked—I mean you asked if you could stop by his place, and he said sure.”

“I don’t know whether to kiss you or choke you,” I say.

Jess laughs. “I think you’ll be thanking me.” She stands. “Come on.”

We make our way outside, and the rain has slowed to a light mist as I follow her down the street to her parked car. I hop in and question my sanity. Am I really going to ask Cocky Cannon to teach me the game?

Jess starts the car and the locks click as she pulls into traffic. Guess so.

“You remember where he lives?” I ask. I think back to when he bought the house. He had a big party to celebrate. I was invited but didn’t go. Why would I? Watching the hockey players with their bunnies was not my idea of a good time.

“Of course.” She jacks the tunes and sings along off-key as she drives. Twenty minutes later, she pulls up in front of his mansion. It’s a ridiculously big house for one person. I stare at it, and once again question my sanity.

“Go,” Jess says.

“I’m going,” I shoot back. I open the door, and smooth my hand over my mess of curls. Why the hell did I do that? It’s not like I’m trying to make myself presentable or impress him. We don’t even like each other.

I force my legs to carry me to his door, and I’m about to knock when it opens. My breath catches as I take in Cole, standing before me shirtless and barefoot, dressed only in a pair of faded jeans that hug him so nicely.

God, he is so freaking hot—and I never, ever should have come here.

As we stare at each other, like we’re in some goddamn Mexican standoff, I can’t stop thinking about his ‘cannon’. My gaze drops to the lovely bulge between his legs, and a moan I have no control over catches in my throat as Jess’s words come back to haunt me.

You two should hate fuck.

Thank you, Jess, for planting that idea in my brain. Christ, I should have choked her when I had the chance.

Oh these two are going to have some fun!! Check it out here! The Playmaker

Happy Reading,

Cathryn