She dramatically threw her hands in the air. “I give up. How do you work this space contraption?”

It took him a moment to realize she meant the car, which was odd because Austin had a G55 too, and she drove it all the time. That’s when he noticed the hint of red tinting her cheeks and her teeth tugging at her lip. She was flustered.

She did care.

He reached up and pushed the button she tried to find, sending the heat blasting out. “Thanks,” she mumbled, pulling out onto the street.

He leaned his head back against the seat and frowned. He’d officially made it five hours before screwing up, and even though that was a record for him and friendships with girls, he wasn’t satisfied. He would have to make it up to her somehow. Dinner? A gift? He’d have to ask Jiri, one of his few married teammates, for advice on an acceptable gift for a girl who was just a friend.

He cringed again.

Before he could contemplate it further, Leila’s phone started ringing. He shook his head mockingly at her as the “Backstreet’s Back” melody blared through the car. She knew he hated that boy band, and she smiled despite herself. It disappeared quickly, though. She took one quick glance at the screen, grunted, and threw it in the cup holder in disgust.

“I thought that look was only reserved for me. Who’s calling you this early?”

“No one of importance.”

Her posture stiffened, and her fingers gripped the steering wheel until her knuckles were practically white. He knew that reaction. There was only one person who could elicit that much hatred. “Was that Derek?” He was almost in disbelief when he said it, but he could tell he was right. “He still calls you?”

“It would appear that way,” she grumbled.

The flash of anger was sudden and all encompassing. He loathed that asshole with every fiber of his being, and that was before he broke Leila’s heart. He couldn’t believe he actually had the nerve to call her. “Give me your phone.”

Her head snapped over, but this time, she smiled at him. “All right, Shrek, calm down. It’s not that big of a deal. He calls sometimes, and I ignore it.”

He ground his teeth, absently touching the puffy edges of his eye. “Give me your phone.”

Her smile grew. “I thought you said if I wanted his ass kicked I should tell my brother.”

His features set straight as he growled, “I owe him one.” He was annoyed that her anger had instantly vanished. He wanted her to hate him too.

“For what? That barely there cut on your lip during the last game?”

“Are you taking up for him?”

“No. It’s just funny. You’ve always hated him. Do you realize that over half of your fighting majors in your career have been against the Devils?”

“What’s your point?”

“I know why I hate him,” she explained. “Why do you?”

He rolled his eyes. “I just do. The guy is a degenerative spawn unleashed on society for no other purpose than to make my life hell.”

Her eyes grew softer, a look he recognized immediately. It was the same one she used for Drew. The one she used when she was sincerely concerned. “What did he do to you?”

“It was a long time ago.”

She didn’t speak, only glanced over at him expectantly, and he knew he would tell her. He’d tell her anything when she looked at him like that.

“It started when we were in the Junior World Championship,” he said, looking out the window. “I was living with Gus by then, but I still had to play for the Swedish National team. I’d heard about Derek before I even showed up at the tournament, but it was minor stuff. Everyone said to watch out for him, because he’d do his best to get under your skin. I didn’t think anything of it. A lot of guys do that. Except Derek had done his homework on me.”

Her expression turned curious. “What did he say?”

“What didn’t he say?” He gripped the door as he recalled the memory. “Called me a bastard child. Orphan. Made so many ‘I fucked your mother’ jokes I lost count. By the end of the game I had all I could take.”

Her face fell. “Why do I get the feeling there’s more to it than you just beating the crap out of him?”

“The chicken shit wouldn’t drop his gloves with me, so I got a five minute major for fighting. He scored with sixty seconds left to win the game.” His heart thudded in his chest at the memory. Even after all these years, it ate at him. “My country lost a chance at a medal because of his mouth, or rather my inability to tolerate it.”

Leila shook her head, her previous annoyance with her ex evident of her face again. It made his heart beat faster. “He still brings it up, doesn’t he?”

“Every damn game.”

She reached over and took his hand, intertwining their fingers. “We need to let it go. He’s a jerk, and he rightly deserves to be punished, but we need to move on.”

“We?”

“Yeah.” She smiled softly. “We can help each other, like a post-Derek support group.”

He laughed. “Will there be meetings? And free food?”

“Maybe, but mostly it will be just us, helping each other try and figure out how to move on.”

He had never considered letting the feud between them go. Probably because he never thought it was possible. But sitting there with her hand in his, her optimistic smile radiating over at him, he realized all the anger he’d felt only moments before was gone.

He squeezed her hand. “That, I can do. Especially if it means you’ll forgive me for my oversight this morning.”

She looked back at the road, her smile evening back out. “I wasn’t angry with you this morning, Henrik.”

“Really? Because it definitely looked that way on my end.” He half laughed.

She glanced back at him, and then removed her hand from his as she started to pull into the parking garage at Madison Square Garden.

“What?” he inquired.

“It’s nothing. Let’s just get you to the doctor. From the look of your face, I suspect we’ll have a lot of time to discuss it later.”

Chapter 17

 

 

LEILA’S SURRENDER

 

As much as Leila hated to hear it, she was correct in her assessment of Henrik’s condition. Not only was his nose fractured, but he had a bone bruise on his cheek, and the swelling caused him to lose peripheral vision in his right eye.

She broke the captain. Officially.

She was utterly devastated. Even on her worst day of hating Henrik, she wouldn’t have wished that on him.

“I’m sorry, Henrik, but I can’t clear you to play tonight.” It was the third time the team physician had expressed the sentiment, but in true Henrik fashion, he wasn’t going down without a fight.

“I have to play tonight. It’s the Kings. Our offense has to be clicking on all cylinders if we want to compete with their front line.”

The doctor’s face turned stern. “I’ve been waving my hand next to your head for the past thirty seconds, and you haven’t even flinched. You can’t play if you can’t see what’s coming at you. You’ll just end up getting hurt worse. Missing one game is better than missing ten.”

Henrik, who sat on the examination table, his feet hanging over the edge like a little kid, put his hands on his knees and huffed. “All right. Fine.”

The doctor gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “I’ll let your coach know.”

When the doctor left, Henrik turned around, his shoulders slumping. Miserable. “Well, looks like you were right.”

“I’m so sorry,” she apologized, standing.

She made herself walk slowly to him. She wanted to run. Most of all, she wanted to continue to fuss over him and force him to let her take of him.

“It’s just one game.”

“You honestly expect me to believe that after listening to you complain for the past half hour?”

Again, he shrugged. “I had to give it a shot. It’s tradition.”