Page 12 of Body Check

A masculine hand wraps around my forearm, dragging me to a halt. Limiting my escape. And then he’s right there, big body popping my personal bubble, spinning me around so that, to make eye contact, I’ve got to tip my head back, back, back because I’m so dang short.

Dark eyes flit over my face, searching. “If it’s not about the money, then what are you lookin’ for?”

“Happiness.” I clasp my hand over his and peel his fingers off my arm, one by one, until I’m free. “It’s staring at yourself in the mirror and knowing that you got to where you are on your own merits and not on bargained favors. It’s knowing”—I draw in a deep, grounding breath—“that sometimes what’s in your heart and what’s in your head aren’t the same, but you’re making a life change . . . you’re going to let reason take charge, for once, instead of the damn organ that’s failed you countless times over.”

His expressionless mask cracks. Splintering right there in front of me as he reaches for me and I scoot out of the way. “Fuck, Holly—”

“All these years,” I say, cutting him off, “I’ve done what’s best foryou. I don’t regret it. I don’t regretus. But I can’t—I can’t be at your beck and call when you need me to put out your fires. We’re not married. We’re not together. And it’s unfair of you to ask me to take one for the team simply because you think I’ll be swayed by dollar signs.”

Hurt creeps into my heart and I stamp it mercilessly into the ground. “I can’t be won over by a check, no matter how big. There’s no amount of money in the world that would convince me that it’s a good idea to put myself back in your orbit day in and day out. We didn’t work, Jackson, and I won’t risk getting my heart all tangled up in you again.”

I don’t give him the opportunity to convince me otherwise.

What good would it do, anyway?

I don’t regret loving Jackson Carter.

I don’t even regret giving him every last corner of my soul, knowing that the alternative would mean giving up everything that I am now, my role as CEO of Carter Photography being at the top of the list. Perspective and personal growth, I try to remind myself when the gray clouds cling a little too tightly to my soul, is worth the heartache.

But I’ll be damned if I take a backseat to Jackson’s career all over again, just because he needs me to act as “interference” against a TV production he doesn’t want sniffing around his personal life. I’ve had enough perspective and personal growth for one lifetime, thank you very much.

The money isn’t worth it.

The potential fame isn’t worth it.

Losing my heart, being sucked back into the downward spiral of depression, isn’t worth it.

Not with Jackson. Not again.

5

Jackson

“Let’s do another take. Jackson, can you, uh—”

The director’s sentence withers when I glare in his direction, my helmet clasped between my hands as I rest my elbows on the boards at TD Garden.

First day of production forGetting Puckedand I’mthisclose to blowing my lid. Instead of training, me and my guys have been forced into a rotation of introductions for the camera. Some of my teammates, like Marshall Hunt, are natural-born charmers—they grin and speak eloquently and they sure as hell don’t lose their temper.

The crew saved me for last. Either they’re a bunch of sadists or they know I only signed the contract because I wouldn’t let my team down, and have decided to punish me for, quite literally, holding up the show.

The director of photography, whose name I don’t remember, but who looks like he’s spent the last twenty years in the arctic tundra, tries again. “Listen, Mr. Carter.” Desperation thickens his voice as he slides a glance to his camera guy. “I’m sure you’d like to go home, right? We just need you to cooperate with us. Give us your name, hometown, the position you play, and two facts you think the fans will be surprised to learn about you.”

As captain for the Blades, I’m never the troublemaker.

I enforce the rules.

I keep the shitheads in line, twenty-four-seven.

I lead by example, even when that means I come across looking like an arrogant, uptight prick.

But there’s nothing aboutGetting Puckedthat sits right with me. I’m not interested in having the curtains pulled back on my life. Some shit isn’t meant to be aired out as dirty laundry, particularly when said dirty laundry could end my career before I’m ready to retire my skates.

The fact that the show won’t televise later this year but within the same week as filming? That’s the cherry on top of the shittastic sundae I’m being forced to swallow.

Welcome to the hell that is Steven Fairfax’s ingenious creation, where the NHL blends with reality TV and emerges feeling like a cross betweenSurvivorandReal World: Road Rules.

Sensing Coach’s eyes on me from across the rink, I grit out a strained smile and attempt to play nice. “Hey.”Fuck, man, not so growly.I clear my throat. Try again. “I’m Jackson Carter. Texas-bred, and captain for the Blades.”

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