I love experiencing new authors so when I had the opportunity to listen to Breakaway by Catherine Gayle I jumped at the chance. It's number 1 in her Portland Storm Hockey series and part of The First Period which are books 1-3, narrated by Angel Clark.
Enjoy!
Portland Storm: The First Period: Portland Storm, Books 1-3
Written by: Catherine Gayle
Narrated by: Angel Clark
Length: 27 hrs and 53 mins
Series: Portland Storm,
Book 1-3
Unabridged Audiobook
ISBN-13: 2940152298864
Publisher: Catherine Gayle
Release Date: 12/11/2013
Length: 322pp
Overview
Publisher: Catherine Gayle
Release Date: 12/11/2013
Length: 322pp
Overview
USA Today bestselling author Catherine Gayle presents the first novel in the Portland Storm hockey romance series.
Portland Storm captain Eric "Zee" Zellinger knows how to get the job done, but leading his once elite team to victory is fast becoming a losing battle. He can't lose focus now-not with his career on the line. But when his best friend's little sister makes him an offer he can't refuse, Eric could lose the drive the team relies on from their captain.
Still in a downward spiral after a life-altering event in college, Dana Campbell is desperate to try anything to break away from the horror of that fateful night-even enlisting the help of the only man she trusts completely.
No matter how irresistible she is or how tempting the offer, Eric might not be able to cross that line-especially with the team's chance at the playoffs on the line. Now, Eric has to take one last shot, but will he choose Dana's Breakaway chance at happiness or the move that could secure his career?
USA Today bestselling author Catherine Gayle presents the first novel in the Portland Storm hockey romance series.
Portland Storm captain Eric "Zee" Zellinger knows how to get the job done, but leading his once elite team to victory is fast becoming a losing battle. He can't lose focus now-not with his career on the line. But when his best friend's little sister makes him an offer he can't refuse, Eric could lose the drive the team relies on from their captain.
Still in a downward spiral after a life-altering event in college, Dana Campbell is desperate to try anything to break away from the horror of that fateful night-even enlisting the help of the only man she trusts completely.
No matter how irresistible she is or how tempting the offer, Eric might not be able to cross that line-especially with the team's chance at the playoffs on the line. Now, Eric has to take one last shot, but will he choose Dana's Breakaway chance at happiness or the move that could secure his career?
Read an excerpt courtesy Catherine Gayle:
DANA
Amani’s Family-Style Italian Restaurant was nearly empty.
Not surprising, considering it was three o’clock on a Thursday afternoon in the
middle of February. It wasn’t the sort of place you’d expect someone to take a
date for Valentine’s Day—more the type of place you’d have a family reunion.
But today wasn’t Valentine’s Day. That was tomorrow. And we weren’t on a date.
Far from it.
The only people in the restaurant other than the two of us
and the staff were a retired couple seated near the windows. He had his nose
buried in a newspaper, and she was knitting an incredibly ugly orange scarf.
They were both ignoring the half full bowl of spaghetti and red sauce on the
table between them, not to mention each other.
I looked at the door and made note of all the tables and
chairs between it and me, mapping an exit path in my mind.
As soon as the waitress dropped off our drinks and walked
away, Eric looked across at me. He cocked up a brow and gave me that
always-ready half-smile I knew so well. “So what’s this about, kid? I didn’t
think I’d see you any time soon. Not until the summer, at least.” He left
unspoken what we were both thinking: not here in Portland instead of in
Providence.
He took a long draw from his water glass, and I tried to focus on all the
familiarities: the loose-fitting, long-sleeved, navy-blue T-shirt that didn’t
quite mask all the muscle underneath; the stubble-lined jaw that proved he
hadn’t shaved in a day or so; the dark, almost-black hair that should have been
cut over a month ago; the recent scar and corresponding bruise just below his
left eye from taking a high stick in a game against Chicago last week; the way
his left hand always looked ready to deliver an uppercut to a guy on the other
team.
Focusing on those things helped me calm down, to slow my
pulse and remember that this was Eric Zellinger, a man who had been my
brother’s best friend since they played peewee hockey together back home in
Rhode Island. He’d been in my life nearly as long as I could remember.
Eric was safe. I could trust him. He was the only man in my
life who I trusted implicitly, at least of the ones who weren’t family. That’s
why I chose him.
“Does Soupy know you’re here?” He set his glass down and
unrolled the linen napkin from around his silverware, situating everything just
so.
That was another bit of familiarity: Soupy. He’d called my
brother, Brenden, that for forever, or at least it seemed that way. There’s
some unwritten rule in the hockey world that if your last name is Campbell,
your teammates will inevitably call you Soupy. Girls weren’t exempt from crazy
hockey-nicknaming rules, either. I’d been called that by some of the girls’
teams I played for, back before it all happened.
Even though I was trying to focus on the familiar, the
comfortable, the safe, it was hard to the point of being nearly impossible. My
tongue felt three times its normal size, and no matter how much I swallowed, I
couldn’t seem to stop the saliva from rapidly filling my mouth. I reached for
my water glass to buy time and garner courage, but my hand was shaking like a
6.0 earthquake and I knocked over the glass.
Eric was on his feet before I could react. He righted it and
used his napkin to dry the mess I’d made.
“Damn it. I’m sorry.” That was all I could get out. I could
feel that all-too-familiar heat creeping up my face—not a blush, nothing as
simple and understandable as that, but the onset of a panic attack. My breaths
came fast and shallow. I couldn’t get enough air into my lungs. I had to get
out of there. I had to leave. I couldn’t—
“Dana?”
Eric’s hand came down over mine. Not forcefully. But firm.
Secure.
Safe.
I tried to focus on him, but my vision was blurred. I
couldn’t see well enough to be sure that it was him, but it was him.
I knew it.
“Just keep talking for a minute,” I somehow got out.
“Okay. I can do that.” He didn’t let go of my hand as he sat
down across from me again. “You should have seen Burnzie in practice this
morning. He got in against Ericsson on a breakaway, deked twice, and finished
with this crazy spin-o-rama move just outside the crease. Tried to shoot it
between his legs and go five-hole. It would have been brilliant if he’d scored.
But instead, the puck shot off his skate and he tripped himself up. Crashed
into the end boards face-first. Broke his nose in two places. He’s going to be
wearing a full cage for a few weeks. Somebody ought to remind him he’s a
defenseman, not a winger.”
My breathing was starting to normalize, but I was still crazy
hot, so hot I was sweating. But at least it was on its way to passing.
“Shouldn’t that be you? You’re the captain.”
“Nah. I’ll leave that for Coach to deal with. Scotty’s still
trying to make an impression on the boys. Not all of them have bought into his
system yet. We’re over halfway through the season.”
He didn’t ever want anyone to see when he was frustrated,
but I could always tell. There was a slight crease between his eyebrows when
things weren’t going well, just enough to reveal a well-masked tension. I could
see it now.
The waitress came back with a basket of bread. She set it in
the center of the table between us and smacked her gum loudly.
“Can we get another napkin and a refill on that water? We
had a bit of an accident.” Eric didn’t even look at her when he spoke. His eyes
never left me, and neither did his hand.
I wasn’t antsy to pull my hand away, though. That was a surprising realization.
It confirmed that I’d made the right choice, so I had to stick with it.
After she left, he said, “Is it better yet?”
I nodded. “Getting there.”
“Better enough that you can tell me why you flew across the
country without telling me you were coming? Providence to Portland isn’t
exactly a quick weekend getaway, and last-minute flights aren’t cheap.”
“I…” I pulled my hand away from his and fidgeted with my
nails. I had to do something while I tried to tell him. To explain. I couldn’t
just sit still. “I need to ask you something, but you’ve got to let me get it
all out without interrupting me or I won’t be able to do it.”
Clearing her throat beside us, the waitress refilled my
water glass and handed Eric a stack of napkins. “Are you ready to order yet?”
She gave a pointed look to the pair of untouched menus at the side of our
table. She hadn’t been gone long, but then again, she didn’t really have much
to do other than help us.
“Come back in fifteen minutes.”
It was no wonder the Portland Storm had made him the team
captain in only his second full season in the National Hockey League. Just the
tone of his voice was enough to command respect and confidence. Somehow in the
five years since his appointment, he’d only grown in his ability to make people
sit up and take notice when he spoke.
She rolled her eyes and scowled, but she left.
“Sounds serious,” he said to me. “Spill it.”
This time when I reached for my glass, I was able to pick it
up and sip without making a mess even though my hands were still shaking.
I set it back down and took a few soothing breaths.
“I meant spill your secrets, not the water.”
My laugh was automatic. He’d always been able to make me
laugh.
“Okay.” I’d practiced my speech in my mind during every leg
of my trip here. I knew exactly what I wanted to say, word for word, all laid
out in a logical, reasonable order. I just had to get it to come out as I’d
planned it. Should be easy enough, right? I couldn’t look at him, though. Not
for this. I looked down at my hands, watching almost subconsciously as I picked
at the fingernail on my right index finger until I’d gotten it down to the
quick, oblivious to the pain I was causing myself.
But I had to do this. I had to. Of course, as soon
as I opened my mouth, nothing but a flood of babble came out.
“My counselor said she couldn’t really help me anymore
because after all these years, I still can’t handle having a guy look at me a
certain way or talk to me or flirt with me without having a freaking panic
attack, and you know my anxiety meds only do so much to help, so she sent me to
see a sex therapist. Which is all fine and good, except for the fact that the
sex therapist says I have to actually practice letting guys flirt with me and
hold my hand and…and more…and so she wants me to see a sex surrogate, which I
don’t know if you’ve ever heard of a sex surrogate or not, but I looked them
up, and they’re basically a cross between a prostitute and a counselor, and
they cost a fortune which I can’t afford even if my insurance would cover it,
which they won’t, and besides, A: oh my God, gross, and two: I wouldn’t even
know this sex surrogate guy, whoever he is, so how could I trust him enough to
let him touch me, so there’s no way in hell I can do that. So then the sex
therapist said I need to find a man who I do trust if I’m ever going
to get past all this, someone who can help me with it, and ask him for help. So
I am. Asking. You.”
Eric’s silence was only magnified by how empty the
restaurant was around us.
I wanted to leave. I wanted to get up, walk out of that
restaurant, get a cab, and go straight back to the airport. To pretend I hadn’t
done this. I shouldn’t have come. I should have just stayed at home, alone, and
gone about my life as it had been for the last seven years. I may be twenty-six
and pathetic and lonely, but at least I’m safe.
Tears stung my eyes when I finally got up the courage to
look at him. I’d seen that same look on his face dozens of times through the
TV, usually right before he pummeled a guy who’d gone in for a bad hit against
one of his teammates. It was all anger, green fire, focused intensity. But I’d
never seen him look at me that way.
I wanted to puke.
“You think—” his words were so soft I could barely hear him,
clipped and icy “—I’m going to pay some quack therapist to fuck you?
God damn it, Dana, you’re as good as my kid sister—”
“No! I—” I’d screwed it all up, just like always. I looked
down at my hands again and realized my index finger was bleeding where I’d
picked away too much of the nail. Methodically, I opened my napkin roll, dipped
a corner of it in my water glass, then wrapped it around my finger, using the
time that took to try to clear my thoughts again. “I don’t want you to pay for
anything, and I absolutely do not want to go to a sex surrogate, to
let some man I don’t know touch me and…stuff. But I do want to be able to have
a relationship someday—to be able to let a man touch me without having another
damn panic attack. So I…”
It took everything in me not to run out of the restaurant
right that instant and not look back. The only reason I didn’t is because I
knew he could catch me—he was bigger, faster, stronger, always had been—and
he’d convince me to tell him all of it.
“I want you to be my sex surrogate.”
ERIC
Dana had rendered me speechless.
I couldn’t think of a time anything like that had happened
in my twenty-nine years.
I’m not an overly loquacious guy, not normally. I tend to
lead by example in the locker room, doing things the way they should be done
and trusting that the younger guys will watch and take it all in, but I’ve
never been shy about speaking my mind when it’s called for.
Well, it sure as hell was called for now, but I couldn’t
come up with a single word to say. Nothing.
Shaking my head in disbelief, I reached for my wallet in my
back pocket, pulled out a fifty—the smallest bill I had—and slapped it down on
the table.
Dana’s head snapped up from the sound. Her eyes were
huge—big and brown and so damn vulnerable. I hated seeing her like that, and I
had witnessed that exact look way too many times for way too long. There wasn’t
a doubt in my mind that she needed help, but I knew that I couldn’t be the one
to help her.
Not like that.
I put my napkin on the table and pushed my chair back.
“Are we leaving already?”
“We’re not talking about this here. Not in public.” I moved
behind her chair and pulled it back so she could stand. I held out her coat so
she could put her arms in it. My fingers accidentally brushed against her
collarbone when I released her coat. She jumped, but tried to act like she
hadn’t, like she was okay.
She wasn’t okay.
Dana Campbell hadn’t been okay for even a single minute
since the Boston College women’s hockey team had played the University of
Connecticut in her freshman year, when some crazy UConn fans, for lack of
a better word, had thought it would be fun to gang-rape her afterward just
because she was a better hockey player than any of their girls.
She was probably better than some of their men, too, for
that matter. That might have played into why they did it. Who could know? What
causes that switch to flip, where suddenly it becomes okay in your mind to do
something like that, to hurt someone that way, to completely violate someone
you don’t even know? I hoped I would never find out.
The fact of the matter, though, was that she was a damn good
hockey player. She’d scored a hat trick in the game, and she had an assist on
top of it. It hadn’t even been her best game that season. There was little
wonder that she’d been invited to play on the US women’s Olympic team. If there
was a women’s professional hockey league, you can bet she would have been
drafted into it. She was just that good.
Until that night. Everything changed that night.
They’d injured her body, which was bad enough, but they had
destroyed her emotionally. She couldn’t focus on the game anymore—all she could
focus on were the catcalls coming down to the ice from the stands. She couldn’t
concentrate in her classes anymore—all her attention was zeroed in on how far
away from her each man in the room was and how close she was to the exit.
Soupy and I had been finishing our senior year at Yale when
it happened—we weren’t with her. We couldn’t protect her. When she was picking
her college, we’d tried to get her to come to Yale where we could look after
her at least for that one year before we turned pro, but she’d wanted to play
for Coach Bassano. So, of course, we’d supported her decision. Coach Bassano
was the best coach in all of women’s hockey. We never could have imagined
anything like that would happen to Dana.
But it did.
The three men who’d raped her were expelled from school and
put on trial. They each served a year in federal prison before being released.
One year. Where was the justice in that?
Dana was still serving her sentence, and she hadn’t done
anything wrong.
And she wanted me to be her sex surrogate? How the hell did
she think that was going to work? If she jumped just because my fingers
accidentally brushed against her collarbone, how did she think we’d be able to
do whatever it was she wanted me to do? It was like she was asking me to rape
her, because that’s what it would be for her. I couldn’t—I wouldn’t do
that to her. Hell, she couldn’t even handle letting Soupy and her dad touch
her, hug her, all the things that families do. She wasn’t ready. She might
never be ready, and that pretty much killed me.
She pulled her blond hair up over the collar of her coat,
letting it fall down her back however it wanted to, and she nodded at me, those
brown eyes of hers always cautious. I was putting my own coat on as we walked
toward the door, when the waitress stalked over and stopped in front of us,
blocking the way. Blocking Dana’s escape route.
“You’re leaving?” Her hands were on her hips, and she hadn’t
stopped smacking her gum once since we arrived. “You didn’t order anything.”
“Something came up. I left you a tip anyway.”
I tried to brush past her and bring Dana along with me, but
the waitress moved to block the doorway.
“You’re Zee, right? The captain of the Storm? Bobby, in the
kitchen, that’s what he said.”
I’d brought Dana here hoping I wouldn’t be recognized.
Amani’s was always quiet this time of day, not too many people around. It was
hard, in a town like this, to go unnoticed when you were a professional
athlete. Everybody knew who you were, knew your business. I didn’t mind too
much. I’d gotten used to it. But Dana didn’t have to deal with that part of my
life. She probably wasn’t prepared for it. Soupy had spent more time in the
minors than in the NHL, so no one really noticed him. Her dad had been in the
NHL years ago, but only die-hard hockey fans recognized him unless he was at
some hockey event. And back home in Providence, I was just a regular old guy to
most people. Only the people involved in the hockey community knew me there.
Not like here.
I looked over at her, and she gave me a tiny little nod.
“Yeah, that’s me.”
“Could you sign something for my kid? He’s sick. Cancer.
Leukemia.”
At least that was all the waitress wanted. I nodded. “Yeah,
sure. What do you have?” Even if I was in a hurry to get Dana somewhere private
where we could really talk about her ludicrous suggestion, I couldn’t walk away
without signing something for a sick kid. I fished in my coat pocket for a
marker. Years ago, I learned it was best to always have one on hand, just for
moments like this.
She went behind the cash register and jerked a Portland
Storm window flag down from the wall. It must have been in that same spot for a
decade or more—the logo was one that had been retired before I came into the
league, and the empty space the flag had been covering was a stark white next
to the rest of the dingy wall.
When she handed it over, I quickly scrawled my name on it
and put my number—nine—inside the lower curl of my Z. I gave it back to
her. “I hope your kid gets better soon.”
“Yeah, thanks, Zee.” She was already scurrying off to put it
God only knew where. Then she nodded at where Dana was inching closer to the
door by degrees. “Your girlfriend’s ready to go.”
Dana flinched at that. My girlfriend. She couldn’t even
handle hearing herself referred to that way. Her plan sounded crazier by the
moment. Not that I’d say so to her. I didn’t really think she was crazy—just
her plan. But she’d take it to mean I was putting it all on her. Without
thinking, I put my hand at the small of her back to guide her out of the
restaurant. She immediately tensed even more than she already had, so I pulled
it away and cursed under my breath.
“Come on. Let’s get out of here.”
We were barely on the sidewalk outside and heading toward
the parking garage when I heard the waitress come back into the main dining
room, cackling.
“Sucker! Got another one to bite. I’m putting this on eBay.”
I should have known. She hadn’t seemed all that torn up over
her kid.
One look at Dana was all I needed to remind me what torn up
looked like.
I shoved my hands in my coat pockets so that I wouldn’t
inadvertently touch her again.
“Does that happen much?” She folded her arms across her
chest and tucked her hands between her body and arms. “People lying to get you
to give them stuff?”
“More often than I’d like. It’s just part of the gig. But
most people are good. Most are honest.” I had always believed that. Sure, there
were bastards in the world like the UConn students who raped Dana. But there
were also people like the Campbell family, the guys I’d played alongside my
whole career…. There were more of the good than the bad.
Dana seemed to only see the bad anymore, though, even when
she was surrounded by the good. It was like she’d put blinders on.
Not that it was a choice. My mom had panic attacks if she
had to fly. It had always been that way, and she couldn’t control it. Dana couldn’t
control her triggers, either. No one who has panic attacks can.
She just needed to learn to live with them. Mom lived with
hers by going on road trips instead of flying. Dana lived with hers by avoiding
men.
Neither was ideal. But sometimes you just have to play with
the hand you’ve been dealt.
My Review
The first in USA Today bestseller Catherine Gayle’s Portland Storm
hockey, contemporary romance series deals with a grievous crime and the
heartbreaking aftermath, which she handles with finesse. Her first person
narrative that switches from Dana’s to Eric’s perspective really gives readers
the intimacy they need to understand the situations. The hockey facts inform,
the fast pace keeps the flow. The clueless of each others feelings, couple rock
and the camaraderie of her players make this a must read for any sport romance
fan.
Angel Clark really grasps the emotions of this poignant series debut,
does a fabulous job on the characters, switching from female to male roles
effortlessly, giving listeners a wonderfully compelling 360ยบ novel experience.
Dana Campbell used to be an up and coming women’s hockey
superstar, used to be confident, used to be fearless; that is until she was
gang-raped, now she cowers at her own shadow. She’s tired of simply existing
and she’s ready to live again, to be the once brave woman she was, or at least
not this whimpering coward she’s become. She knows what she must do to take
that important step forward and she knows just the man she wants for the job.
Portland Storm team captain Eric (Zee) Zellinger has enough
to worry about trying to keep the team on track for the playoffs without adding
anything personal to the mix. That’s until his best friend’s little sister asks
him for help and God knows he’s never been able to refuse her anything. But
she’s never asked him for sex before.
MEET Catherine:
DANA
Amani’s Family-Style Italian Restaurant was nearly empty.
Not surprising, considering it was three o’clock on a Thursday afternoon in the
middle of February. It wasn’t the sort of place you’d expect someone to take a
date for Valentine’s Day—more the type of place you’d have a family reunion.
But today wasn’t Valentine’s Day. That was tomorrow. And we weren’t on a date.
Far from it.
The only people in the restaurant other than the two of us
and the staff were a retired couple seated near the windows. He had his nose
buried in a newspaper, and she was knitting an incredibly ugly orange scarf.
They were both ignoring the half full bowl of spaghetti and red sauce on the
table between them, not to mention each other.
I looked at the door and made note of all the tables and
chairs between it and me, mapping an exit path in my mind.
As soon as the waitress dropped off our drinks and walked
away, Eric looked across at me. He cocked up a brow and gave me that
always-ready half-smile I knew so well. “So what’s this about, kid? I didn’t
think I’d see you any time soon. Not until the summer, at least.” He left
unspoken what we were both thinking: not here in Portland instead of in
Providence.
He took a long draw from his water glass, and I tried to focus on all the familiarities: the loose-fitting, long-sleeved, navy-blue T-shirt that didn’t quite mask all the muscle underneath; the stubble-lined jaw that proved he hadn’t shaved in a day or so; the dark, almost-black hair that should have been cut over a month ago; the recent scar and corresponding bruise just below his left eye from taking a high stick in a game against Chicago last week; the way his left hand always looked ready to deliver an uppercut to a guy on the other team.
He took a long draw from his water glass, and I tried to focus on all the familiarities: the loose-fitting, long-sleeved, navy-blue T-shirt that didn’t quite mask all the muscle underneath; the stubble-lined jaw that proved he hadn’t shaved in a day or so; the dark, almost-black hair that should have been cut over a month ago; the recent scar and corresponding bruise just below his left eye from taking a high stick in a game against Chicago last week; the way his left hand always looked ready to deliver an uppercut to a guy on the other team.
Focusing on those things helped me calm down, to slow my
pulse and remember that this was Eric Zellinger, a man who had been my
brother’s best friend since they played peewee hockey together back home in
Rhode Island. He’d been in my life nearly as long as I could remember.
Eric was safe. I could trust him. He was the only man in my
life who I trusted implicitly, at least of the ones who weren’t family. That’s
why I chose him.
“Does Soupy know you’re here?” He set his glass down and
unrolled the linen napkin from around his silverware, situating everything just
so.
That was another bit of familiarity: Soupy. He’d called my
brother, Brenden, that for forever, or at least it seemed that way. There’s
some unwritten rule in the hockey world that if your last name is Campbell,
your teammates will inevitably call you Soupy. Girls weren’t exempt from crazy
hockey-nicknaming rules, either. I’d been called that by some of the girls’
teams I played for, back before it all happened.
Even though I was trying to focus on the familiar, the
comfortable, the safe, it was hard to the point of being nearly impossible. My
tongue felt three times its normal size, and no matter how much I swallowed, I
couldn’t seem to stop the saliva from rapidly filling my mouth. I reached for
my water glass to buy time and garner courage, but my hand was shaking like a
6.0 earthquake and I knocked over the glass.
Eric was on his feet before I could react. He righted it and
used his napkin to dry the mess I’d made.
“Damn it. I’m sorry.” That was all I could get out. I could
feel that all-too-familiar heat creeping up my face—not a blush, nothing as
simple and understandable as that, but the onset of a panic attack. My breaths
came fast and shallow. I couldn’t get enough air into my lungs. I had to get
out of there. I had to leave. I couldn’t—
“Dana?”
Eric’s hand came down over mine. Not forcefully. But firm.
Secure.
Safe.
I tried to focus on him, but my vision was blurred. I
couldn’t see well enough to be sure that it was him, but it was him.
I knew it.
“Just keep talking for a minute,” I somehow got out.
“Okay. I can do that.” He didn’t let go of my hand as he sat
down across from me again. “You should have seen Burnzie in practice this
morning. He got in against Ericsson on a breakaway, deked twice, and finished
with this crazy spin-o-rama move just outside the crease. Tried to shoot it
between his legs and go five-hole. It would have been brilliant if he’d scored.
But instead, the puck shot off his skate and he tripped himself up. Crashed
into the end boards face-first. Broke his nose in two places. He’s going to be
wearing a full cage for a few weeks. Somebody ought to remind him he’s a
defenseman, not a winger.”
My breathing was starting to normalize, but I was still crazy
hot, so hot I was sweating. But at least it was on its way to passing.
“Shouldn’t that be you? You’re the captain.”
“Nah. I’ll leave that for Coach to deal with. Scotty’s still
trying to make an impression on the boys. Not all of them have bought into his
system yet. We’re over halfway through the season.”
He didn’t ever want anyone to see when he was frustrated,
but I could always tell. There was a slight crease between his eyebrows when
things weren’t going well, just enough to reveal a well-masked tension. I could
see it now.
The waitress came back with a basket of bread. She set it in
the center of the table between us and smacked her gum loudly.
“Can we get another napkin and a refill on that water? We
had a bit of an accident.” Eric didn’t even look at her when he spoke. His eyes
never left me, and neither did his hand.
I wasn’t antsy to pull my hand away, though. That was a surprising realization. It confirmed that I’d made the right choice, so I had to stick with it.
I wasn’t antsy to pull my hand away, though. That was a surprising realization. It confirmed that I’d made the right choice, so I had to stick with it.
After she left, he said, “Is it better yet?”
I nodded. “Getting there.”
“Better enough that you can tell me why you flew across the
country without telling me you were coming? Providence to Portland isn’t
exactly a quick weekend getaway, and last-minute flights aren’t cheap.”
“I…” I pulled my hand away from his and fidgeted with my
nails. I had to do something while I tried to tell him. To explain. I couldn’t
just sit still. “I need to ask you something, but you’ve got to let me get it
all out without interrupting me or I won’t be able to do it.”
Clearing her throat beside us, the waitress refilled my
water glass and handed Eric a stack of napkins. “Are you ready to order yet?”
She gave a pointed look to the pair of untouched menus at the side of our
table. She hadn’t been gone long, but then again, she didn’t really have much
to do other than help us.
“Come back in fifteen minutes.”
It was no wonder the Portland Storm had made him the team
captain in only his second full season in the National Hockey League. Just the
tone of his voice was enough to command respect and confidence. Somehow in the
five years since his appointment, he’d only grown in his ability to make people
sit up and take notice when he spoke.
She rolled her eyes and scowled, but she left.
“Sounds serious,” he said to me. “Spill it.”
This time when I reached for my glass, I was able to pick it
up and sip without making a mess even though my hands were still shaking.
I set it back down and took a few soothing breaths.
“I meant spill your secrets, not the water.”
My laugh was automatic. He’d always been able to make me
laugh.
“Okay.” I’d practiced my speech in my mind during every leg
of my trip here. I knew exactly what I wanted to say, word for word, all laid
out in a logical, reasonable order. I just had to get it to come out as I’d
planned it. Should be easy enough, right? I couldn’t look at him, though. Not
for this. I looked down at my hands, watching almost subconsciously as I picked
at the fingernail on my right index finger until I’d gotten it down to the
quick, oblivious to the pain I was causing myself.
But I had to do this. I had to. Of course, as soon
as I opened my mouth, nothing but a flood of babble came out.
“My counselor said she couldn’t really help me anymore
because after all these years, I still can’t handle having a guy look at me a
certain way or talk to me or flirt with me without having a freaking panic
attack, and you know my anxiety meds only do so much to help, so she sent me to
see a sex therapist. Which is all fine and good, except for the fact that the
sex therapist says I have to actually practice letting guys flirt with me and
hold my hand and…and more…and so she wants me to see a sex surrogate, which I
don’t know if you’ve ever heard of a sex surrogate or not, but I looked them
up, and they’re basically a cross between a prostitute and a counselor, and
they cost a fortune which I can’t afford even if my insurance would cover it,
which they won’t, and besides, A: oh my God, gross, and two: I wouldn’t even
know this sex surrogate guy, whoever he is, so how could I trust him enough to
let him touch me, so there’s no way in hell I can do that. So then the sex
therapist said I need to find a man who I do trust if I’m ever going
to get past all this, someone who can help me with it, and ask him for help. So
I am. Asking. You.”
Eric’s silence was only magnified by how empty the
restaurant was around us.
I wanted to leave. I wanted to get up, walk out of that
restaurant, get a cab, and go straight back to the airport. To pretend I hadn’t
done this. I shouldn’t have come. I should have just stayed at home, alone, and
gone about my life as it had been for the last seven years. I may be twenty-six
and pathetic and lonely, but at least I’m safe.
Tears stung my eyes when I finally got up the courage to
look at him. I’d seen that same look on his face dozens of times through the
TV, usually right before he pummeled a guy who’d gone in for a bad hit against
one of his teammates. It was all anger, green fire, focused intensity. But I’d
never seen him look at me that way.
I wanted to puke.
“You think—” his words were so soft I could barely hear him,
clipped and icy “—I’m going to pay some quack therapist to fuck you?
God damn it, Dana, you’re as good as my kid sister—”
“No! I—” I’d screwed it all up, just like always. I looked
down at my hands again and realized my index finger was bleeding where I’d
picked away too much of the nail. Methodically, I opened my napkin roll, dipped
a corner of it in my water glass, then wrapped it around my finger, using the
time that took to try to clear my thoughts again. “I don’t want you to pay for
anything, and I absolutely do not want to go to a sex surrogate, to
let some man I don’t know touch me and…stuff. But I do want to be able to have
a relationship someday—to be able to let a man touch me without having another
damn panic attack. So I…”
It took everything in me not to run out of the restaurant
right that instant and not look back. The only reason I didn’t is because I
knew he could catch me—he was bigger, faster, stronger, always had been—and
he’d convince me to tell him all of it.
“I want you to be my sex surrogate.”
ERIC
Dana had rendered me speechless.
I couldn’t think of a time anything like that had happened
in my twenty-nine years.
I’m not an overly loquacious guy, not normally. I tend to
lead by example in the locker room, doing things the way they should be done
and trusting that the younger guys will watch and take it all in, but I’ve
never been shy about speaking my mind when it’s called for.
Well, it sure as hell was called for now, but I couldn’t
come up with a single word to say. Nothing.
Shaking my head in disbelief, I reached for my wallet in my
back pocket, pulled out a fifty—the smallest bill I had—and slapped it down on
the table.
Dana’s head snapped up from the sound. Her eyes were
huge—big and brown and so damn vulnerable. I hated seeing her like that, and I
had witnessed that exact look way too many times for way too long. There wasn’t
a doubt in my mind that she needed help, but I knew that I couldn’t be the one
to help her.
Not like that.
I put my napkin on the table and pushed my chair back.
“Are we leaving already?”
“We’re not talking about this here. Not in public.” I moved
behind her chair and pulled it back so she could stand. I held out her coat so
she could put her arms in it. My fingers accidentally brushed against her
collarbone when I released her coat. She jumped, but tried to act like she
hadn’t, like she was okay.
She wasn’t okay.
Dana Campbell hadn’t been okay for even a single minute
since the Boston College women’s hockey team had played the University of
Connecticut in her freshman year, when some crazy UConn fans, for lack of
a better word, had thought it would be fun to gang-rape her afterward just
because she was a better hockey player than any of their girls.
She was probably better than some of their men, too, for
that matter. That might have played into why they did it. Who could know? What
causes that switch to flip, where suddenly it becomes okay in your mind to do
something like that, to hurt someone that way, to completely violate someone
you don’t even know? I hoped I would never find out.
The fact of the matter, though, was that she was a damn good
hockey player. She’d scored a hat trick in the game, and she had an assist on
top of it. It hadn’t even been her best game that season. There was little
wonder that she’d been invited to play on the US women’s Olympic team. If there
was a women’s professional hockey league, you can bet she would have been
drafted into it. She was just that good.
Until that night. Everything changed that night.
They’d injured her body, which was bad enough, but they had
destroyed her emotionally. She couldn’t focus on the game anymore—all she could
focus on were the catcalls coming down to the ice from the stands. She couldn’t
concentrate in her classes anymore—all her attention was zeroed in on how far
away from her each man in the room was and how close she was to the exit.
Soupy and I had been finishing our senior year at Yale when
it happened—we weren’t with her. We couldn’t protect her. When she was picking
her college, we’d tried to get her to come to Yale where we could look after
her at least for that one year before we turned pro, but she’d wanted to play
for Coach Bassano. So, of course, we’d supported her decision. Coach Bassano
was the best coach in all of women’s hockey. We never could have imagined
anything like that would happen to Dana.
But it did.
The three men who’d raped her were expelled from school and
put on trial. They each served a year in federal prison before being released.
One year. Where was the justice in that?
Dana was still serving her sentence, and she hadn’t done
anything wrong.
And she wanted me to be her sex surrogate? How the hell did
she think that was going to work? If she jumped just because my fingers
accidentally brushed against her collarbone, how did she think we’d be able to
do whatever it was she wanted me to do? It was like she was asking me to rape
her, because that’s what it would be for her. I couldn’t—I wouldn’t do
that to her. Hell, she couldn’t even handle letting Soupy and her dad touch
her, hug her, all the things that families do. She wasn’t ready. She might
never be ready, and that pretty much killed me.
She pulled her blond hair up over the collar of her coat,
letting it fall down her back however it wanted to, and she nodded at me, those
brown eyes of hers always cautious. I was putting my own coat on as we walked
toward the door, when the waitress stalked over and stopped in front of us,
blocking the way. Blocking Dana’s escape route.
“You’re leaving?” Her hands were on her hips, and she hadn’t
stopped smacking her gum once since we arrived. “You didn’t order anything.”
“Something came up. I left you a tip anyway.”
I tried to brush past her and bring Dana along with me, but
the waitress moved to block the doorway.
“You’re Zee, right? The captain of the Storm? Bobby, in the
kitchen, that’s what he said.”
I’d brought Dana here hoping I wouldn’t be recognized.
Amani’s was always quiet this time of day, not too many people around. It was
hard, in a town like this, to go unnoticed when you were a professional
athlete. Everybody knew who you were, knew your business. I didn’t mind too
much. I’d gotten used to it. But Dana didn’t have to deal with that part of my
life. She probably wasn’t prepared for it. Soupy had spent more time in the
minors than in the NHL, so no one really noticed him. Her dad had been in the
NHL years ago, but only die-hard hockey fans recognized him unless he was at
some hockey event. And back home in Providence, I was just a regular old guy to
most people. Only the people involved in the hockey community knew me there.
Not like here.
I looked over at her, and she gave me a tiny little nod.
“Yeah, that’s me.”
“Could you sign something for my kid? He’s sick. Cancer.
Leukemia.”
At least that was all the waitress wanted. I nodded. “Yeah,
sure. What do you have?” Even if I was in a hurry to get Dana somewhere private
where we could really talk about her ludicrous suggestion, I couldn’t walk away
without signing something for a sick kid. I fished in my coat pocket for a
marker. Years ago, I learned it was best to always have one on hand, just for
moments like this.
She went behind the cash register and jerked a Portland
Storm window flag down from the wall. It must have been in that same spot for a
decade or more—the logo was one that had been retired before I came into the
league, and the empty space the flag had been covering was a stark white next
to the rest of the dingy wall.
When she handed it over, I quickly scrawled my name on it
and put my number—nine—inside the lower curl of my Z. I gave it back to
her. “I hope your kid gets better soon.”
“Yeah, thanks, Zee.” She was already scurrying off to put it
God only knew where. Then she nodded at where Dana was inching closer to the
door by degrees. “Your girlfriend’s ready to go.”
Dana flinched at that. My girlfriend. She couldn’t even
handle hearing herself referred to that way. Her plan sounded crazier by the
moment. Not that I’d say so to her. I didn’t really think she was crazy—just
her plan. But she’d take it to mean I was putting it all on her. Without
thinking, I put my hand at the small of her back to guide her out of the
restaurant. She immediately tensed even more than she already had, so I pulled
it away and cursed under my breath.
“Come on. Let’s get out of here.”
We were barely on the sidewalk outside and heading toward
the parking garage when I heard the waitress come back into the main dining
room, cackling.
“Sucker! Got another one to bite. I’m putting this on eBay.”
I should have known. She hadn’t seemed all that torn up over
her kid.
One look at Dana was all I needed to remind me what torn up
looked like.
I shoved my hands in my coat pockets so that I wouldn’t
inadvertently touch her again.
“Does that happen much?” She folded her arms across her
chest and tucked her hands between her body and arms. “People lying to get you
to give them stuff?”
“More often than I’d like. It’s just part of the gig. But
most people are good. Most are honest.” I had always believed that. Sure, there
were bastards in the world like the UConn students who raped Dana. But there
were also people like the Campbell family, the guys I’d played alongside my
whole career…. There were more of the good than the bad.
Dana seemed to only see the bad anymore, though, even when
she was surrounded by the good. It was like she’d put blinders on.
Not that it was a choice. My mom had panic attacks if she
had to fly. It had always been that way, and she couldn’t control it. Dana couldn’t
control her triggers, either. No one who has panic attacks can.
She just needed to learn to live with them. Mom lived with
hers by going on road trips instead of flying. Dana lived with hers by avoiding
men.
Neither was ideal. But sometimes you just have to play with
the hand you’ve been dealt.
My Review
The first in USA Today bestseller Catherine Gayle’s Portland Storm
hockey, contemporary romance series deals with a grievous crime and the
heartbreaking aftermath, which she handles with finesse. Her first person
narrative that switches from Dana’s to Eric’s perspective really gives readers
the intimacy they need to understand the situations. The hockey facts inform,
the fast pace keeps the flow. The clueless of each others feelings, couple rock
and the camaraderie of her players make this a must read for any sport romance
fan.
Angel Clark really grasps the emotions of this poignant series debut,
does a fabulous job on the characters, switching from female to male roles
effortlessly, giving listeners a wonderfully compelling 360ยบ novel experience.
Dana Campbell used to be an up and coming women’s hockey
superstar, used to be confident, used to be fearless; that is until she was
gang-raped, now she cowers at her own shadow. She’s tired of simply existing
and she’s ready to live again, to be the once brave woman she was, or at least
not this whimpering coward she’s become. She knows what she must do to take
that important step forward and she knows just the man she wants for the job.
Portland Storm team captain Eric (Zee) Zellinger has enough
to worry about trying to keep the team on track for the playoffs without adding
anything personal to the mix. That’s until his best friend’s little sister asks
him for help and God knows he’s never been able to refuse her anything. But
she’s never asked him for sex before.
Catherine Gayle is a USA Today bestselling author of contemporary hockey romance and Regency-set historical romance. She’s a transplanted Texan living in North Carolina with two extremely spoiled felines. In her spare time, she watches way too much hockey and reality TV, plans fun things to do for the Nephew Monster’s next visit, and performs experiments in the kitchen which are rarely toxic.
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Wonderful review for this Debbie and thanks for sharing the excerpt!
ReplyDeleteYou're so welcome sweetie, have a great day!
DeleteI love alternating POV's too especially in romances! We do get a good grasp of what's going on with both parties with increases the tension in a good way. Nice review, Debbie!
ReplyDeleteThanks Braine!
DeleteYikes, 27hrs long, although three books, that is a long audio. I put it in my wish list - you never know. Sounds a little bit like a take Susan E Phillips might tell!
ReplyDeleteit is a bit like hers in the light and witty parts, but the dark emotional parts are a bit deeper. It was very good.
DeleteOh, yikes, how sad for her, but I do love when folks not only survive, but thrive after that. The hockey looks like a fun setting, too.
ReplyDeleteit was definitely a lesson in hockey!
DeleteI love a dual narrative and this sounds like so good. I love that the audio contains all three books...perfect.
ReplyDeleteI know its great to get the first three together! Thanks Kim
DeleteYay! She's one of my local ladies. So glad to see her featured, Debbie!
ReplyDeleteI'm listening to book two right now! Love it!
Delete