Brooks was having a hell of a day. He’d gone straight from the principal’s office to the sheriff’s. With a sigh, he dropped into the chair in front of his dad’s desk. This office, with its dark paneling and furniture, could not have been more different from the light walls and bright plastic furniture of the assistant principal’s office.
He hadn’t expected Pris Andrews to be so tough. She’d been brutal—brutally honest—and she was right. He should have paid more attention to his education. But back then he hadn’t realized he wouldn’t be able to play hockey forever. Even now, after what the neurologist had told him, he struggled to accept the reality that he had no future in the sport, at least not the one he’d planned on having.
“So when do you start?” Sheriff Rex Hoover asked.
“I don’t.”
“What do you mean?” His father barked the question at him. “Did you change your mind again?”
“Again? You’re the one who changed my mind,” he reminded him. “I just stopped in Trout Creek for a visit. You’re the one trying to convince me to stick around.”
“You got somewhere else to be?” the old man asked skeptically.
“Nope.” Thanks to the concussion he’d gotten in a fight during practice, Brooks had been suspended—for medical reasons—for the entire season. One more knock to the head, and the specialists had warned of permanent brain damage.
The worn leather desk chair creaked as his dad leaned back. “I don’t understand you.”
Brooks chuckled with more resignation than amusement. “That’s nothing new.”
“What the hell were you thinking? Why’d you blow off that interview?” His dad’s face and bald head flushed red with temper.
“I didn’t.”
“What?” His father looked confused. “You went to the interview, but you didn’t get the coaching position?”
“That’s right.” His body tensed as he remembered Priscilla’s rejection, and he jumped up from the chair, wincing as his still-healing ribs protested the sudden movement.
“But that makes no sense.” His dad shook his head. “You spent six years in the NHL.”
Six years of playing too hard, too aggressively, had taken its toll on his body. He wasn’t able to skate as fast as he once had, and had lost his NHL contract because of that. Now he was lucky to play for the River City league.
“I haven’t played in the NHL for a few years,” Brooks reminded his father.
“With all your hockey experience, she still won’t find a better coach than you for the Trout Creek team.”
Brooks forced a cocky grin. “She’ll find a better role model, though. She doesn’t want me warping those impressionable young minds.”
“You need to convince her you’re the best man for the job—that you’ve changed.”
First Brooks had to convince himself of that. He shrugged. “Her mind seemed pretty made up.”
His father chuckled. “Turn on your charm then, boy.”
“My charm is what got me into the mess I’m in right now,” Brooks reminded him. He’d had his head slammed into the ice for dating a teammate’s girl. In his own defense, he’d believed her when she’d said Graham had dumped her. Turned out the goalie hadn’t. But Brooks shouldn’t have gone out with her anyway. “And my charm sure as hell won’t work on a woman like Priscilla Andrews.”
The old man sighed. “The boys call her Miss Priss.”
Yeah, his brothers were idiots just as he’d been. “And that’s probably another reason she won’t hire me,” Brooks pointed out. “She doesn’t have much love for any Hoover.”
“You’re probably right,” the sheriff admitted. “Thanks to your brothers, I’ve had to deal with Miss Andrews quite a bit over the past couple of years. She’s a stubborn one.”
Brooks studied his father. Since he’d been gone, the old man had actually gotten old. He was still a badass, with his shaved head and muscular build, but more lines rimmed his eyes and mouth. Sheriff Hoover was used to getting people—with the exception of his ex-wife and his own kids—to do what he wanted.
The thought of the old man trying to intimidate Priscilla didn’t sit well with Brooks. “You’re not going to do anything.”
“No, you are,” his father ordered. “You’re going to talk to Principal Drover. Hell, you’ll talk to the school board, if you have to. Half of ’em were at coffee this morning at the inn. They all expected you to get the job.”
Brooks shook his head, then quickly closed his eyes as pain radiated throughout his skull. God, he couldn’t make any sudden movements without repercussions. The damn doctor might have been right to recommend his medical suspension. “No, I’m not going to do that.”
Pris had probably been right to deny him the job. He had no business coaching anyone until he got things under control in his own life.
“You don’t care about your brothers?” his dad asked, his voice gruff with emotion. “She’s already suspended Ryan twice and threatened expulsion if he screws up again.”
Brooks stepped closer to the sheriff’s battered desk. “So are you saying you need my help?”
“Times have changed from back when you were a kid,” his father remarked, avoiding a direct answer. “There’s this zero-tolerance policy now. It doesn’t matter how good an athlete is, a school—namely Miss Andrews—isn’t going to look the other way anymore. Kids gotta get decent grades to play sports. They can’t fight. They can’t skip. They gotta follow the rules.”
“I can’t change policy,” Brooks pointed out. The only thing he knew about rules was how to break them.
“But you can encourage your brothers to behave.”
Brooks risked more pain and shook his head again. “And they’d call me a hypocrite. They’re smart.” Remembering the forged note, he amended, “Smart-asses.”
His father chuckled. “So you’re going to give up that easily? And do what—take off again?”
“I did not run away,” Brooks insisted, refusing to let his father guilt him. He’d felt bad enough leaving his dad to raise his younger brothers alone—as if he’d deserted them the same way their mother had. “I got a college scholarship, then drafted into the NHL. I have a job. A life. I do have somewhere I need to be.” An empty apartment with friends who would be too busy training to spend any time with him.
“Do you have someone special?” his father asked.
He chuckled. “Lots of someones special,” he replied, more to annoy his father than because it was the truth. Sure, he dated a lot, but casually. He’d figured out a long time ago that he wasn’t the forever kind of guy.
“So you’re a player off the ice, too?”
Brooks shrugged. “At least I never get bored.”
Immediately, he regretted the comment. His mother had taken off because she’d grown bored with Trout Creek, with marriage and motherhood. While his dad had never made the comparison, Brooks knew he was just like his mother. He’d felt suffocated in this damn town. He shouldn’t have let his dad manipulate him into applying for that position.
“We can’t do this,” he pointed out with quiet resignation. “You and I—we still rub each other the wrong way. We can’t get along.”
But when he’d awakened from the three-day coma following his head injury, he’d opened his eyes to find his father standing over his bed. And he’d seen the profound relief and love on his old man’s face. No matter how much they fought, his father cared about him—cared what happened to him as no one else in Brooks’s life ever had. And that love had drawn Brooks home to Trout Creek. But he was already too restless to stay.
ANGER FLUSHED PRISCILLA’S skin with such heat that she’d shrugged out of her jacket in the car. Despite the late September breeze, she wasn’t cold. She was hot with fury. She lifted her hand and pounded on the door of the Hoovers’ sprawling ranch house, since Brooks ignored the bell.
He was definitely home. The dust-covered black Ford Mustang parked in the gravel driveway was his. Word of how “cool” it was, with its spoiler and chrome wheels, had spread all over the school. But what he’d done since leaving her office that morning was definitely not cool with Priscilla.
Finally, the door opened, and afternoon sunlight gleamed off the smooth skin of a heavily muscled chest and arms. Her gaze involuntarily followed the drops of water that fell from his curly wet hair to his shoulders, trailing down his chest and washboard abs to disappear into the unsnapped waistband of his jeans. Now she was hot for another reason.
“Did you change your mind?” he asked.
She dragged in a quick breath, which she regretted as his fresh-from-the-shower scent filled her senses. She’d never been more certain that she was right. Brooks Hoover would not be a good influence on the impressionable teenagers—let alone her.
“You didn’t give me the chance,” she said, summoning her anger to squash her irrational attraction to him. It wasn’t really about him, anyway; it was just that she’d been back in Trout Creek too long, where the only single men were senior citizens or minors.
Brooks sighed, stepped back and gestured for her to come inside. Hoping he’d finish getting dressed before he explained his actions to her, Priscilla joined him in the narrow foyer. She tripped over a pile of oversized sneakers, and he caught her arm. Holding tight to her elbow, his hip bumping against hers, he led her down the hall to the living room, which was as cluttered as the foyer. Every available surface was covered, and in the center a mound of newspapers, pop cans and food wrappers buried what must have been a coffee table.
“Myrtle comes in tomorrow,” Brooks said, referring to Trout Creek’s only cleaning woman. He picked up some discarded shirts and a couple handheld games to clear a chair for her.
Priscilla shook her head, too angry to sit when she wanted to pace. But there wasn’t much available floor space. “I feel sorry for her,” she remarked, wishing he would put on one of the shirts he’d picked up. Instead, he dropped them onto the table.
“You didn’t come here to talk about Myrtle,” he reminded her. “And I’m not sure what you mean. You were the one who didn’t give me a chance, by not hiring me.”
“But that didn’t stop you. You went over my head and got the job for yourself.” His action had also earned her a lecture from her boss, who had trusted her judgment until now.
“I didn’t go over your head,” he insisted. “Nobody’s hired me.”
Confusion cooled her temper slightly. “So no one has told you yet? Well, let me be the first to congratulate you.”
He pushed a hand through his damp hair, tangling the dark curls. “I—I had no idea….”
“You really didn’t,” she said, as realization dawned. “I don’t understand what happened, then. I didn’t even have a chance to tell Principal Drover my decision before he called me.”
Brooks expelled a weary sigh. “Damn him.”
“Who?”
“I told my dad,” he replied. “If anyone went over your head…”
Sheriff Hoover. Ever since Ryan had started high school, she’d had almost as many problems with the father as the son. Rex Hoover did not want to admit that his boys were not just “being boys” when they skipped school and got into fights. Having dealt with overprotective parents before, she understood why Rex would defend his teenage sons. But Brooks? He was the same age she was—thirty or close to it.
Her gaze skimmed over him again, all six foot plus of sinewy muscle. He was definitely not a boy. She laughed. “You told your daddy on me?”
“It wasn’t like that.” He sounded irritated. “I just let him know how the interview went. I didn’t want him to do anything about it.”
“You don’t even want this job,” she said with sudden understanding. “Your dad pushed you into applying.” She shook her head. “This is going to be worse than I thought. You’re going to be like those kids whose parents force them into joining the band. They lose their instruments or try to break them, anything to get out of playing.”
That cocky grin flashed again. “I’m not going to break anything.”
She wasn’t so sure about that. With his bad-boy charm and good looks, he would definitely break a few hearts when he left Trout Creek again.
“How long are you even planning on sticking around?” she asked.
“I’ll see the season through.”
She turned away from him, unable to think coherently with so much of his bare skin showing. Through an open door, she glimpsed a suitcase lying open on a bed. “You were already packing to leave.”
“I didn’t think I had a reason to stay.”
Now she understood why the sheriff had gone to such extremes to get Brooks the position; he wanted his oldest son home.
“This is a mistake,” she murmured.
“I know you have concerns,” he said, cupping her shoulders and turning her back to face him.
Her skin tingled beneath his rough palms, and she wished she’d left on her jacket. She stepped back, so that his hands dropped to his sides. “You really need to withdraw your application. You’re not qualified for this job. You have no coaching experience.”
A muscle twitched in his cheek. “I know hockey. I could barely walk when I strapped on my first set of skates.”
“Coaching is more than that,” she argued. “You have to know how to deal with kids.”
Brooks had to figure out how to deal with Priscilla first—since he apparently worked for her now. His dad going over her head did not help the situation any. He thought of Rex’s advice to charm her. Hell, he couldn’t even touch her without her jerking away from him. He’d barely had a moment to register the softness of her skin.
“Brooks,” she said impatiently, as if she’d called to him once or twice already.
He shook his head, hating how dazed he’d felt since waking up from that concussion-induced coma. “Yeah?”
“Do you have any experience with children?”
He could have reminded her that he’d helped his dad with his younger brothers, but that had been a dozen years ago. “Not really.”
“Then you must understand how unqualified you are to coach a high school team. I have a master’s degree in adolescent psychology and I still struggle to handle them.”
Her justified doubts resurrected the argument he’d given his father when Rex had first suggested to Brooks—no, commanded him—to apply for the position. The ever-present dull ache in his head intensified to a sharp hammering. When the peal of the doorbell rang out, echoing throughout the house, he flinched.
“Someone’s at the door,” he unnecessarily pointed out. At least he was saved from answering her question.
“Probably someone to congratulate you on your new job,” she remarked sarcastically.
He stepped around her and crossed the foyer, dirt grinding beneath his bare feet. With three—four now—guys in the house, Myrtle needed to clean more than once a week. He jerked open the door to the afternoon sunshine and nothing else.
“Hello?” he called.
The house was a little far out in the country for someone to play the ring-the-bell-and-run game. He glanced at the pines that towered around the house, and the winding gravel driveway. Only one vehicle, a practical, dust-colored station wagon, sat behind his Mustang; it had to be Priscilla’s.
“Hello?” he called again.
A soft cry drew his attention down to a blanket-covered bundle on the front step. A sense of foreboding rushed over him like the early autumn breeze, chilling his skin. He bent down and lifted the pink fleece blanket.
His breath escaped in a gasp as he stared down at the baby strapped into the car seat. Someone had left a baby on his doorstep? A bib tied around her neck proclaimed her Daddy’s Girl.
But who was Daddy?