Adrian: An Ironfield Forge Hockey Romance

by Frost, Sosie

  “So…you didn’t want mind-blowing, toe-curling sex?” she asked.

  “Of course, I did. But I ravished you to get it.” I looked away. “I lost control. I rutted you like a starving, rabid beast in heat, right there on the damned floor.”

  “And that’s…a bad thing?”

  “You were a virgin.”

  And it was even worse once I realized why I had acted so insatiably.

  Never once did I think I’d be lucky enough to take the woman for my own. All my fantasies of her milking my cock with her velvet tightness came true in a blinding haze of perfect confusion.

  But I’d focused on my needs. My desires. My desperation. And I had forgotten all of what I’d promised her.

  Because, wrapped between her legs, losing myself in her kiss…

  I had everything I’d ever wanted in life.

  And that was more disastrous than a night of rough and animalistic sex.

  “I promised you gentle,” I said.

  She sat on the bed, crossing her lithe legs. “I was pretty satisfied.”

  “Tender kisses. Soft touches. Seduction.”

  “Judging by my actions…I didn’t need to be seduced.”

  “That doesn’t excuse my behavior.” I swore. “I had it planned out. Foreplay and explaining it and demonstrating…things. I wanted to teach you. Show you what real intimacy was like.”

  “You did.”

  “Fuck me, no I didn’t.” The shame pitted in my gut. “I didn’t want you see that part of me.”

  “What part?”

  “That part. I don’t want you thinking I’m some sort of…”

  “Sex-crazed demon?” She shrugged. “Adrian, I watch you play hockey for a living. You’re tough and wild and uncompromising on the ice. I…expected the same in bed.”

  I frowned. “You did?”

  “I’m just glad you fuck naked and not in pads.”

  Shit. “I’m not…I don’t try to be that man. It just…happens. Like last night. I lost control. I wanted to give you the night of your dreams.”

  She tiptoed her fingers toward mine and took my hand. “I did have the night of my dreams.”

  “I ravaged you.”

  “And I didn’t even undress myself until Round Two.” She poked at my chest. “So what’s that make me?”

  “Manhandled.”

  “Satisfied.”

  “Next time, I promise, I’ll treat you better.”

  “Might not need a next time.” Clover delivered a devastating blow with a smile. “I mean…we might’ve already made a baby. Maybe we only needed one time?”

  “I took you more than once.”

  Clover could still get embarrassed around me. She looked away, a shy squirm enveloping her with innocence. “One night, then. Cross your fingers for me. I bet you made it happen.”

  I dragged the words from my reluctant throat. “Here’s hoping.”

  Except I didn’t mean it.

  Only one night with this woman?

  Only one opportunity to kiss her, caress her, to bed her?

  Only one chance to feel what I’d denied for so long?

  Taking her was more torturous than suppressing my desires.

  At least before I had no words to describe the heat of her skin or the sweetness of her touch. Now? I’d lay awake the rest of my days, listening for her soft breathing and longing to wrap my protective arm over her delicate body.

  I didn’t want her to leave my bed.

  Or my home.

  Or my side.

  Which was exactly why we both needed to get dressed and back to normal before we made a tremendous mistake.

  And yet Clover still twisted beside me, flashing a first-date nervous smile while digging her toes into my carpet.

  “I can’t thank you enough for this…” She licked her lips. “I don’t know how to thank you for this.”

  “Don’t thank me for fucking you like that.”

  “Don’t you tell me how I should or shouldn’t feel,” she said. “I’m thanking you for all of it. The sex. The…pleasure. And the baby.”

  The realization punched the air out of me. “Never thought I’d have a kid.”

  Her fingers brushed over my cheek. “Never thought I’d have one with you.”

  “All you had to do was ask. Apparently, I’m primed and loaded.”

  “And that’s why I love you, Adrian.”

  The words hurt, and that confused me even more. “Because I’m a walking, talking, game-winning sperm bank?”

  “And no mask required to rob you. Didn’t need to wear anything, really.”

  My shirt hid her curves under miles of extra material, but the hint of her shoulder and the tease of her leg was enough to strike me dumb. She leaned in, pulling herself nearly into my lap for a hug. The shirt rode up, and her heart-shape ass practically wagged as she snuggled against me.

  “I’d do anything for you.” I sighed as my arm wrapped around her waist. “Could be a good idea, bad idea, or just fucking crazy. Not gonna let you go it alone.”

  “Couldn’t ask for a better best friend,” she whispered.

  Yeah.

  But what best friend was stupid enough to brush her hair away from her face?

  What best friend was reckless enough to hold her firm in his lap?

  What best friend was selfish enough to brush his lips against hers in a gentle, loving, painfully platonic kiss?

  I deserved her playful nibble. The soft grace of her kiss shattered my resolve and hardened the troublemaker desperate to ruin any relationship for just the glimpse of her dark skin.

  Clover murmured only a soft mew of surprise as I lowered her onto the bed. Instinctively, her arms wrapped around me as I nudged her legs apart, settling near her warmth and promise. The shirt bunched at her navel, revealing the lovely temptation of her messy pussy.

  Her dark petals were slick and sticky.

  The combination eroded the last of my patience. My cock pulsed in my hand, and I jerked it—once, twice, then aimed for the perfection that had tormented me with pleasure all night.

  But the sudden blaring of my nightside alarm shattered the lust-crazed possession clouding my judgment.

  Clover already panted, arching her back with a disappointed whimper.

  “Shit…” I swallowed. My arms held me over her, but every muscle suddenly screamed with a stinging pain. Adrenaline surged through me. Frustration followed. “I can’t miss workouts.”

  Clover’s hands teased my straining arms. “I should…get cleaned up.”

  “Right.”

  I didn’t move. Neither did she. I no longer heard the shrieking alarm.

  “Or…” Clover hesitated. “Do we have to get up?”

  I wasn’t strong enough to answer that question. “And do what?”

  “Stay here?”

  “We’d get in a lot of trouble.”

  Her smile undid me. “We’ve already been in trouble. What’s a little more?”

  I prided myself on my discipline, but she burned through twenty-eight years of denial, conditioning, and resolve.

  I shifted off her, turning before catching another glimpse of her velvet heat.

  “I gotta get to practice.” I rubbed my face. It did nothing to tame the raging tension threatening to tear me apart. “And you…you’ve gotta get going.”

  “Why?”

  I gently nudged her from the bed, offering her my shower first. Hardest thing I ever did, and the hardest words I ever had to say.

  I smirked. “Because you’re my best friend.”

  Even if I wanted more.

  10

  Clover

  Adrian hated media days.

  He insisted the cameras captured him at the worst possible moments. And I supposed his driver’s license proved his point. Usually got him out of tickets though. The police took pity on him. And his passport photo wasn’t much better—his picture was good for one guaranteed strip search on our way to Europe.

  But
on the ice, most of his photos were rather dashing. Didn’t take much to make a sweaty athlete, flushed with competition and eager to bash some skulls, look attractive.

  Then again…he had some pictures which tended to go viral.

  The one catching him mid-sneeze was a bad one. He was the only man I knew who could do it with his eyes open.

  And there was the one when he crashed nose-first into the boards—gave him that piggy sort of look.

  And, of course…the one of him vomiting on the ice after the injury.

  Still, Adrian had nothing to worry about for the official Ironfield Forge media portraits and shoots. The man was unrepentantly gorgeous, and he’d only gotten hotter in the past two weeks since I’d slept with him.

  Unfortunately, my constant fantasies about that night had only complicated my life. I’d ruined two blouses with exploding soda cans while at altitude. I’d accidentally enraged an entire plane by misspeaking and welcoming them to New York instead of Charlotte. And I hadn’t made friends with the pilot whose dinner ended up in his lap.

  Work had been a nightmare, but the overnight stays in the hotel between flights were even worse. I’d left my phone packed up with my luggage out of fear of calling Adrian when the lights dimmed and my body ached with absolute emptiness.

  It was official.

  I wanted this man too much.

  But he was my best friend. If my best friend needed me on-site to ensure his portrait captured his charming smile and regal authority, who was I to protest?

  If nothing else, living in the same city meant that I could finally be present for some of the fun behind-the-scenes hockey events. The media day wasn’t as elegant as the official team banquet dinner, but it was impressive. The various studios set up lights, flashing cameras, and half a dozen green screens in separate stations around the rink, each coordinated by a different network for their various promos.

  Adrian was needed for the team portrait as well as some staged shots for the networks to run for commercials and during replays. This meant suiting up in all his gear, tossing him onto the ice, and expecting the worst actor and liar in the world to mime his way through a mock slapshot and celebration.

  It was going poorly.

  “Try it again.” The director was a middle-aged man who had already fallen twice on the ice and sent an intern into the city for a coccyx pillow. He rubbed his backside and covered his mouth with his iPad as he conferred with his producer. “If we don’t get this shot, get Beau Beckett to suit up in Alaric’s jersey and we’ll superimpose his face in post-production.”

  Adrian glided to my side, towering over me in his skates and pads. The man was a giant in street clothes. On the ice? I couldn’t imagine anyone daring to confront him, not when most of his muscular body was protected by bulky pads, the helmet rode low on his brow, and his dark beard shadowed the rest of his face. Only his eyes still looked like him, that quick strike of flint and steel.

  He didn’t just take my breath away. A single glance from him was like a punch to the gut, and I loved every panted gasp.

  “How was that one?” He wiped the sweat from his face, but one of the crew rushed over to mist his face with a spray bottle for that hard-fought, hardened-in-battle look for the cameras. “Be honest.”

  I nibbled on my fingernail. “Well, I know you get excited when you score a real goal. Maybe we can find some videos of it…and you can try to mimic it?”

  “…That bad?”

  “You don’t look celebratory…more like…”

  “Constipated.” Cash Harrington shouted from behind us, losing his patience. Several other irritable Forge players had queued for the promo, awaiting their turn. The camera crew did their best to herd the sea of frost blue jerseys into an orderly line.

  “Listen, Adrian,” Cash said. “Skate into the frame, take a shot, and hoist your arm into the air. You’re supposed to excited; not like you’re getting electrocuted.”

  “Christ.” Adrian’s stick struck the ice hard enough to echo over the rink. “This is ridiculous. I should be in the weight room, not pissing away my day with photoshoots.”

  “You’re the captain,” I said. “They’re using your image everywhere. Gotta get used to taking some staged portraits.”

  “I don’t know how to act like I’ve scored a goal. I just do it.”

  And yet, when he got excited on the ice, he had an amazing smile that lasted just long enough to seem genuine but disappeared fast enough to not look unsportsmanlike. His usual celebrations were quick fist-bumps with the team or a dogpile for a particularly critical goal in overtime.

  But this?

  We reviewed the last take, and Adrian still looked like someone was sticking a damn knife between his shoulder blades, telling him to smile or he’d blow up the entire arena.

  And that was the best video we’d gotten after an hour of shooting.

  I pushed him toward the director once more. “Just smile after the shot, and you’ll melt the panties of any woman watching.”

  “Sounds dangerous.”

  I winked at him. “That’s why I’m not wearing any.”

  He groaned and retreated to the safety of the camera.

  I should’ve known better than to flirt.

  It was dangerous. Stupid. Reckless.

  Sex with my best friend was risky enough, but flirting? Like our friendship wasn’t complicated enough. Sex was easy. Playful banter and sexy promises?

  Recipe for disaster.

  The director did his best, positioning Adrian between the green screens and adjusting the set lighting into what would become the Forge’s classic color scheme of icy blue and frenzied silver.

  “Okay!” The director silenced the frustrated crew with an equally impatient grunt. “One more time, Adrian. You’re gonna skate into the frame, line up the puck, take a shot, and then get excited like you’ve just scored. Nice and quick.”

  “Got it,” Adrian said.

  The director didn’t believe him, but he pointed to the cameras. “Take Twelve.”

  Adrian had the skating part down.

  And the shooting. Always did have perfect form. The puck blasted off his stick and would’ve cratered into the boards if not for a temporary net.

  But…then came the celebration.

  This time, it was more a I’m glad my car finally started because I was worried about the battery and less I’ve just scored a winning goal and didn’t take a puck to my personal trophy.

  The director nearly launched his iPad into the stands. “Raise your arms! Shout! Come on, Adrian! There’s gotta be a reason why this team is paying you millions of fucking dollars!” He turned, bitching at his assistant without lowering his voice. “Fucking ice-brained rink rats, shitting on my entire schedule.”

  Bad idea.

  Adrian’s eyebrows rose, and he waited for my nod as his temper piqued.

  The team murmured in quiet shock—amazed the asshole would dare to disrespect a man like Adrian. They awaited his response.

  Seemed like a teaching moment to me.

  The director called for quiet.

  Adrian took his spot once more, blinking as the ring of cameras around the screens all flashed at the same time.

  He skated forward.

  Lined up the shot.

  And the puck careened off his stick like a bullet, overshooting the temporary net.

  A sudden explosion of glass and the sizzle of electronics echoed over the rink.

  Now Adrian did celebrate, his grin widening as he and the rest of the team cheered.

  One of the more expensive looking studio cameras tumbled from its base, the puck imbedded in its lens.

  “Aw…” Adrian shook his head with mock sympathy. “What a shame. Hope you got a good shot before all the shattering. I can do it again if you like.”

  The director mourned the loss of his camera with a choked cry. He flailed his arms, directing Adrian far from his stage.

  “Go.” He shouted for his pillow, a bag of ice, an
d some form of tranquilizer. “Head to Sports Nation’s setup. You’re their problem now.”

  Adrian snickered as we escaped from one green-screen hell into another.

  “How’d it really look?” he asked.

  I hummed. “Petty and childish, but well-deserved.”

  “You know, I only misbehave when you’re around.”

  “Guess I’m a bad influence then,” I said.

  “Leading me into a life of vengeance, violence, and unprotected sex.”

  “Get out now before I teach you how to steal extra packets of ketchup at the airport fast-food counters.”

  The team and networks had graciously plopped a carpet over the rink for the camera crews and journalists to skuttle across. Adrian glided alongside me, apparently not forgiving himself for our trip in the fourth grade to the local frozen pond. I had sprained my ankle and then fallen through a patch of thin ice into the frigid water—the first and last time I ever strapped on a pair of skates.

  His arm cautiously encircled my waist, prepared to catch me if I fell. But he didn’t touch me. Just hovered over my hips.

  And the disappointment stung more than if I had slipped and fallen head over heels.

  The Sports Nation video team was set up near the far goal, but a woman wrapped in a first-kiss-pink dress waved from the tunnel leading from the bench and to the locker room.

  “Adrian Alaric…” She called to him, her tone singing with the authority of a lady who had corralled her fair share of wayward athletes. “A moment, please?”

  He offered me a gloved hand as we moved from the busy carpet to the slippery rink. When my first steps were too timid, Adrian sighed, hoisted me around the waist, and lifted me a few inches off the ice.

  He didn’t even grunt as he carried me to the tunnel.

  Show-off.

  Adrian deposited me next to the beautiful woman—one who shared my dark skin and petite stature. She held an iPad in her hand and flashed a practiced smile toward any curious player.

  But I knew that expression. It was an all-work-and-no-play-please-let-me-survive-this-madness-until-we-either-land-or-I-get-a-sip-of-something-from-a-tiny-bottle smile. The sort she’d perfected to remain professional and courteous, even when she was at her most irritable, vulnerable, and frustrated.