Find Me on the Ice: Hockey Romance (Nighthawks Book 2)

The last week has been equal parts amazing and terrifying. Cam and I might have said good-bye to each other after our date, but that lasted as long as it took for me to walk to the door of my shop.

He texted me with a picture of me walking away from him.

Cam: Who knew watching you walk away would be so hard?

At first, I thought it was solely sweet and innocent—until he sent a follow-up.

Cam: Extra hard.

By the time I had the courage to turn around and smile, he was gone. As was the sudden urge to respond. It was for the best—to refrain from responding to his messages and advances. Which would prove to be much harder than expected.

Every morning, I receive a selfie of him in bed with sexy, messy hair.

I was even gifted with a video one morning of him saying, “Good morning, beautiful,” in a raspy, sleepy voice.

That alone was a struggle to ignore.

Not to mention, the good night messages and selfies of him in an empty bed. And photos before and after games and practices.

I had been doing so well until last night.

But when he sent that text last night, it made me cry. Because I was so horrendously terrified to let anyone in, to talk to anyone for more than five seconds.

I typed out and deleted a text over and over for an hour before just messaging him.

Me: Hi, Cameron.

I chose that over ones that felt more honest and true, like: You should stay as far away from me as you can. It would be better if you forgot about me. I like you, Cameron, but I can’t keep talking to you. My ex would kill me if he found out I was alive and had been hiding from him all this time, and I don’t want you to die too.

So, instead of using logic and reasoning to keep distance between him and me, I started a damn conversation.

And we haven’t stopped texting since.

Cam is fascinating to me, mentally and physically. I swear he was molded and shaped after the Greek gods, which is a total bonus. But I’m mainly drawn to him because he also carries demons many don’t. Ones that can only be seen by someone who has dark ones of their own.

I don’t know how I recognized them in him. Was it the barriers I could see behind the facade of confidence and smirks, or was it the way I intuitively felt comfortable with him? Whatever it might be, I sense them in him, the shadows of a dark past. It calls to me in a way I desperately wish I could ignore. I think Cam survives by being the life of the party and by making every second count because, at one point, maybe time was something he thought he didn’t have. I can relate to that for sure.

Maybe I’m projecting my own feelings onto him—who knows? Either way, something in him and something in me are calling to each other, and I think it’s only a matter of time before we answer.

As if he can sense my thoughts about him, he texts me as I walk into the library.

Cam: Good morning, beautiful. How’d you sleep?

Unable to wipe the shit-eating grin off of my face, I wade through the sea of kids walking out.

My fingers hover over the keys as I debate on telling him the truth or the answer that I just started typing—the bullshit one.

This morning, I finished reading a book where the main character’s whole arc was about finding herself, being confident and unabashedly herself in every situation. So, I’ll take a page out of her book this time.

Me: First of all, it’s eleven o’clock, and I have been awake since seven o’clock. Our versions of morning are two very different things, LOL. As for the sleeping, I didn’t get much last night.

Cam: Did you have a hot date?

Not a moment later, another text comes.

Cam: Please tell me you didn’t have a date last night.

I respond with a smirk on my lips.

Me: Just a date with my demons.

Three typing bubbles appear, then disappear and appear once more.

Cam: Ahh, I usually see mine on a scheduled slot at ten o’clock on Saturdays and nine o’clock on Sundays.

Me: Are you always so sarcastic?

Cam: Usually, yes. I’m sorry you couldn’t sleep, Little Dove. If I were there, you would sleep like a baby every night.

Me: Because I would be so exhausted from being around you all the time?

Cam: Because you would be exhausted from coming for me over and over again.

Me: That’s cute, Blue Eyes.

Cam: ???

Me: That you think you could make me come, LOL—and more than once at that. I think you should try stand-up.

Cam: Has any man ever made you come, Little Dove?

I have had orgasms that made me see stars, but always at my own hand or toy, never by the touch of a man. Trey and I were intimate in the beginning, but when he started hurting me, thankfully, his desire to touch me sexually seemed to die, and he never pushed it. I think he found exterior sources for that service, and I was thankful enough not to ask. I think he made me come once or twice, but I don’t know if a man can make you come the same way a vibrator can. I genuinely believe that because no man—of the two I have slept with—has ever come close with me.

Me: Yes.

Cam: That took you far too long to answer. You thinking about it means no. You wouldn’t have to guess if you were coming with me. Oh, to hear my name on those lips …

We stayed up late last night, texting each other questions constantly. Anything you can think of, we asked, and I memorized every single one of his answers. I didn’t mean to, but my brain held on to these little facts like they were life or death.

I love talking to Cam. But sometimes, I forget, if only for a second, that this isn’t real—that it can’t be real. It’s hard to remember that with Cam. It’s so natural and easy to talk and flirt with him. He makes me comfortable when I’m talking to him, and I hate when reality makes that comfort turn to fear. When I get caught up in it, like I am right now, terror sinks into my bones, and I’m reminded of who I really am and what I’m hiding from.

Me: I’ve got to go. I’ll text you later.

I turn my phone off and shove it into my pocket with a huff.

“Everything okay?” the librarian, Susan, asks me, and it dawns on me that I stopped walking in the middle of the corridor and never moved.

See, this is the problem. A distraction. He is distracting me. I was so focused on his every sexy word that I forgot about my surroundings—a mistake I can’t afford.

I silently sigh. “I’m okay.”

Susan totally doesn’t believe me. She raises an eyebrow and says, “Darling, you are here multiple days a week, and I like to think that I have gotten to know you, Nikki. And I have never seen you smile at your phone, not once. Nor have I seen that smile turn upside down so fast. Boy troubles?”

I chuckle and wince at the tightness in my neck this morning. I must have slept wrong. “I always have boy troubles, Susan.”

She pulls our secret stash of Nutter Butters from a drawer in her desk and holds the package out for me.

The first week I was in Duluth, I practically lived in this library with Susan when I wasn’t with Chloe. I was overly thin at the time, having lost weight from the stress of being under Trey’s hand and then from being on the run with almost no money. She insisted on me constantly taking snacks from her. Then, one day, she opened a package of Nutter Butters, and I had never had them before. My mom was allergic to peanuts and never had them in the house. I thought they were the most delicious thing I’d ever tasted. She must have noticed my adoration of them because there has not been a day where I have approached her desk and not left without a few in hand.

“Want to talk about it?” she asks as I take a couple from the package.

I shrug. “Not today, Susan.”

She tucks the package back into her drawer without taking one. “Can I give you a piece of advice?”

Nodding, I bite into one of my Nutter Butters.

She looks me square in the eye, and I can’t help but admire every little wrinkle in her face, of the markings of a life well lived. “Everything in life is fleeting. We might walk outside tonight and not get a chance to see tomorrow. Don’t waste a second of your precious life frowning over some boy. Drink lots of wine, eat delicious food, and love absolutely recklessly.”

A lump forms in my throat at her words. I want it to be that simple. I want to forget about Trey, and in moments, I do, but as her wrinkles and smile lines show a life of love and laughter, the scars from glass and metal show the pain of mine. I want more than anything to love without abandon, but I’m afraid that will cause far more hurt than not loving at all.

“That’s good advice, Susan. But I think it makes more sense for someone else.” I smile kindly.

“No. That advice is yours, whenever you’re ready to take it.” She grins. “Can I tell you a story?”

“Of course.”

“As you already know, I live right over there.” She points at her home across the small lake through the window. “When I was about your age, I almost died in that lake.”

Instant anxiety thrums in my chest when I think about it. Aside from Chloe, Susan is the only person that I have here, and I can’t imagine not being able to talk to her.

“I was walking home from the grocery store near here and didn’t want to walk around the lake to get home. It was mid-winter, and the lake had been frozen over for a couple of months. I assumed I would be fine, as I had seen kids skating on it and people walking across it before.”

I sit down in the chair beside her desk, listening intently to her story.

She continues, “I made it about halfway when I heard a sound that I can still hear clear as day right now. The ice cracked beneath my feet. But I didn’t fall through—not yet at least. I froze in place, terrified to take a step and terrified to stay still. But I knew I only had one choice—I had to try to get across. So, I took off. I made it one step before the ice fell out from beneath me, and I plunged into that ice-cold water. It was so cold, much colder than I’d expected. And I went fully under and was completely disoriented for a moment before I luckily resurfaced. I started hyperventilating and screamed for help. And then it was as if I could hear my dad’s voice in my head. I had grown up in that house, and for years, he would give me a speech of how to climb out of the lake if I fell through. It was like he had known that at some point, I would be faced with that exact problem, and he’d spent those years preparing me. I took a few deep breaths and did my best to put my mind at ease as I worked through the steps he had taught me.”

Her eyes glaze over as she recites her memory, and I listen in awe at every word. I can’t imagine how horrifying that was, how helpless she must’ve felt.

“I held myself up on the ice by my arms, and I took a few more deep breaths for the exertion to come. My dad said that you have to become a seal, kick as strong and fast as you possibly can. I dug my elbows into the ice and lifted my body as horizontal as I could get it. And then I kicked for my life. It took a moment, but I was able to propel my torso and up to my hips out of the water. I caught my breath for a second before carefully squirming the rest of the way out. I resisted the urge to try to stand and instead rolled across the ice, following the steps I’d previously taken, until I was a good ten feet from the hole. Then, I gently stood to my feet and took off back to land and ran home.”

I didn’t even notice that she had placed a hand on my arm while she was speaking until her finger brushes against one of my scars. She looks down at the marks on my arm.

“I was terrified, and I wasn’t sure that I was going to make it out of that water alive. I felt helpless and trapped and so terribly scared. But I fought like hell and escaped. You’ll escape whatever you’re going through too, sweetie. I’m sure of it.”

My eyes burn as tears well up, and the lump in my throat bursts.

She pats my arm. “It’ll be okay. If you ever need a helping hand from a little old lady, you know the two places to find me.”

I smile at her kindness. I can’t help but picture her fighting Trey. The image quickly turns sad.

As if she can read my mind, she says, “I might not look like much of a fighter, but I own a few things that will take care of the fight for me.” She playfully unholsters two imaginary hand guns from her hips.

Leave it to Susan to be my unseen hero.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I assure her.

She rubs my arm and nods her head. “Go do something reckless that doesn’t happen between the pages of a book and tell me about it tomorrow.”

Without a word, I stand up and take off outside. Grabbing my phone, I dial Mr. Reckless himself.

I shut the door of my car on the first ring and feel my heart plummet to my stomach, hoping he answers while also hoping he doesn’t answer.

Second ring.

Holy shit. I should hang up right now and block his number. This is definitely something I should not be doing.

Third ring.

I feel like, at this point, if he hears it ring and I hang up, he’ll know I chickened out.

Fourth ring.

Okay, I give up. I’m hanging up.

“Hello?” he answers.

“Shit,” I mumble.

He laughs instantly. “Were you hoping I wouldn’t pick up?”

I hold my face in my hand as I admit, “Yeah, sort of.”

I can hear the smile in his voice as he asks, “And why is that? You’re the one who called me, Little Dove.”

“Yeah, I know. It was impulsive.” I sigh, feeling like I’m being way too honest right now. “I should go.”

“Nikki, wait.” He stops me. Silence echoes between us before he says, “What are you doing right now?”

“Sitting in my car outside of the library. Why?” I ask.

“I just want to know so I can picture you. Better yet, answer this.”

My phone vibrates, and the FaceTime option flashes across my screen.

“Cam, I’m not answering that,” I tell him matter-of-factly as my thumb hovers over the green button.

“Please,” he begs.

Susan’s voice echoes in my head. “Go do something reckless that doesn’t happen between the pages of a book and tell me about it tomorrow.”

The uplifting sound when the FaceTime call connects fills my car. Sitting up taller, I hold the phone in front of my face.

How is he so beautiful?

“Happy now?” I tease.

He smirks. “Very.”

“Hmm,” I hum as I hold his gorgeous stare.

Those blue eyes are like a trap that doesn’t want to let me go. His brown hair is getting longer, and I have a feeling that when he wears his helmet, it sticks out from it in every direction. I just want to run my hand through it. I bet it’s so incredibly soft.

Oh my God, get your shit together.

“So, you were sitting in your car outside of the library and thought, I should call the hottest hockey player I know and hope he doesn’t answer? Seems a little odd, Little Dove. Miss me or what?” He smiles and flashes those perfect pearly whites.

Black silk surrounds his head, and I ask him, mostly in shock, “Are you still in bed right now?”

“Yeah. We had a game last night. Today’s a rest day, so here I am”—he moves the camera, scanning over his bed quickly, and I see his shirtless chest and the top of his abs—“resting.”

“Did you win?” I ask him even though I already know the answer from watching some of the game last night, unable to stay away.

He mocks me, “Did we win? Of course we won.”

I squint and smirk. “Are all hockey players cocky assholes, or is it just you?”

“All of us, babe. We’re a special breed.” He bends his head, and his neck cracks like a glow stick.

“I wish my neck would crack like that,” I exclaim. I’ve had a kink in my neck all morning. I tried popping it, but it didn’t work.

He bends the other way, and it cracks even more. “Come visit. I’ll get all of your kinks out.”

A picture of Cam’s hands rubbing my neck flashes into my mind, and my cheeks flush. I hate every second of it, wishing I could force it to go away.

“That’s okay. I can get them out myself,” I say, knowing the double meaning of our conversation.

He stretches, and the most delicious groan leaves his lips. “Ugh, Nikki, you kill me.”

“How so?” I softly ask.

“You don’t back down from my teasing. You match my level, and it’s fucking sexy. Talk about something else,” he says before throwing a pillow over his face.

I try to ignore the flutter in my chest from his words. “Like what?”

His voice is muffled from the pillow. “Anything that doesn’t involve you touching yourself.”

My cheeks burn, and I’m glad he’s not looking at me right now. “Why? You don’t like to think about it?”

My jaw drops as he pans the camera down his body to the sheet that’s tented up where the dips of his hips disappear beneath the black silk.

“Trust me, I want to hear all of the wet details sometime, baby, but right now, I don’t want you to think that’s all I want. So, tell me something sad or something gross—anything.”

I try to come up with something fast, but with my mind still stuck on what he just showed me, I can only come up with, “My ex-boyfriend … he was abusive, um …” My throat tightens as the words I want to say fight to break free. “I could share endless stories about what he did.”

He moves the pillow and meets my gaze in the camera. “Tell me one.”

“We used to have this glass coffee table in our living room. One night, he was upset with me.” I stare at the ceiling, avoiding eye contact with Cam at all costs. “He slammed me into it. Glass went everywhere.” I gulp as my eyes water. “It hurt so bad. Every time I moved, the pieces dug deeper. No matter how used to the pain I got, I was reminded of its intensity with every breath. I lay there forever. It felt like hours passed before he helped me up.”

Taking a few shaky breaths, I force my gaze to meet his. Saying that out loud was scary, but also so refreshing.

Cam is seething with anger as he takes in what I confessed. At the center of his rage is sadness for what I went through, but not pity.

“What’s his name?” he aggressively whispers.

I smile. “That is a story from the past, Cam. I want to leave it there.”

The look in his eyes could kill a man. He nods and looks at me so intensely that I can feel it across my skin and in my chest. So clearly, as if he were here next to me.

“I have wondered about what caused those scars since the moment we met. Thank you for telling me. I won’t let another scar mark your skin, Little Dove,” he declares, as if he can make it so.

I let him think that I believe that. The truth is, no one in this world, no matter how great their intent might be, can truly protect you. The only defense against harm you have is yourself.

“Thank you,” I whisper back, wanting more than anything to wish that to be true. “Your turn.”

He smiles sweetly, vulnerably. “For what?”

I lean back in my seat and get comfortable. “I told you a bad story from my past. What’s one of yours?”