No, he sure doesn’t.
Luke sits up against the headboard, a sheet over his lap. I could spend hours doing nothing but staring at him, that body, those hands. Maybe I’m not so tired of writing for tropes.
“I still think it’s obnoxious,” I have to admit. “He’s mad at me right now, so I’m sure that had something to do with it. But it’s been a long time since he brought a random girl home. Imagine having to hear that three or four nights a week.”
“You have to cut him some slack. I know he’s a pain in the ass, but …” He scrubs his fingers through his hair until it stands on end, glowing in the light from my nightstand lamp. “It’s not for me to talk about.”
I turn on my side, propping myself up on one elbow. “Ginger?”
“You know?”
“Partially. I haven’t talked about it with him.”
“I didn’t think you had. He would never want to bring it up. It was a bad time. So bad that he quit the team.”
My throat tightens. Damn it, I didn’t want to go into this, and I sure don’t want to feel sorry for him. The jerk.
Even so, now that the door’s open, I can’t help but go through it.
“Can I guess what happened?”
He nods.
“Ginger broke it off with him and started dating Mark.”
“Basically, yeah. The three of us were all on the same team. It was fun, you know? But Matt didn’t want to go pro. He liked playing in college, but it wasn't his long-term goal, like it was for me and Mark. He and Ginger were dating and getting serious, but once she found out he had other career plans, well …”
“She dropped Matt and hooked up with Mark?” I finish for him.
“She wants to be a pro athlete’s wife. He was head over heels in love, and I guess she didn't feel the same way.” He turns to me with a snicker. “We’re talking about other people right now. What’s wrong with us?”
I have to laugh too. “You’d think, since I’m a romance author, my pillow-talk game would be on point.”
“You write perfect situations though, I bet.” He flops back down next to me, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear and cupping my cheek when he’s finished. “Your characters don’t have to suffer through people having obnoxiously loud sex with a thin wall between apartments.”
“That could be a funny twist.” I lean in to kiss him, silently deciding to focus only on him now. “I think we did a good job of drowning them out though.”
His brows lift. “Wanna go for round two?”
I wind an arm around his neck, pulling him down on top of me. “I thought you’d never ask.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“My first game. This is so exciting!” I cheer as I sit down next to Darcy, who’s becoming a good friend.
Not only does she give me the behind-the-scenes scoop of being a hockey girlfriend, but she’s also a nice person with a good heart.
Thank goodness I have her. I mean, who else could I rely on? Ginger? No, thank you. I’m too weirded out by her having dated Matt and, evidently, breaking his heart in a big way.
Darn it. I have to stop thinking about him. When did he start entering my thoughts at random times like this? And why, especially when he’s not my favorite person right now?
“It’s so weird, seeing the rink full like this.”
There isn’t an empty seat anywhere, which, for some reason, fills me with a sense of pride. All these people came out to watch Luke play.
Okay, not only him, but still. They won’t be able to take their eyes off him; I’m sure of it. And I sort of wish I had a jersey with his number on it, just so everybody knew …
What? That we’re sleeping together? Get real, Valentine. He hasn’t promised you anything. Right. Just because he’s good in bed—no, insatiable—doesn’t mean I’m jersey-worthy yet.
I have to keep my heart out of this.
Maybe somebody should remind said heart of that since it skips a beat when Luke sails onto the ice with the rest of the team. I clap until my hands hurt and shout until I’m almost as hoarse as I was after that first time the other night. And the second.
He looks great out there. I make a mental note to describe the absolute thrill of watching him glide effortlessly across the ice with determination and focus. He works hard. He deserves the screams from the fans when his name is announced over the sound system.
Once the game begins, I don’t know where to look. The practices I observed were fast-paced but nothing compared to an actual game. “I can’t keep up!”
“You get used to it,” Darcy assures me without taking her eyes off the players.
“How long does it take?”
“It takes a while. But I was already into hockey when I—”
Suddenly, Luke scores, and we leap to our feet, screaming.
“I didn’t even see him get the puck!”
“That’s how he is. It’s practically impossible to catch him!” Darcy’s eyes shine, and I can only imagine mine do too.
My heart’s pounding a mile a minute when we sit down. Just like that, the action on the ice gets going again with players crisscrossing and passing the puck back and forth. I glance over at the net and wonder what it must be like for the goalie, knowing so much is on his shoulders.
Me? I’d cross my arms over my head and curl up in a ball. I wouldn’t want a two-hundred-pound hockey player in full pads and sharp skates crashing into me. And I sure wouldn’t want our team’s fate in my hands. Talk about anxiety.
I practically jump out of my skin when one of the other team’s players slams one of our players into the wall not far away from where I’m sitting. It’s bone-jarring. “How do they manage to make it through that?”
It’s a rhetorical question. But dang, I don’t know if I’d be able to keep skating and playing like nothing happened after getting slammed into like that.
No wonder fights break out. I’d be raring for a fight too.
By the end of the first period, we’re up a single point. Luke’s goal. Our goalie is so fast, so agile, it seems that nothing can get past him.
That changes in the second period when they score two goals on him. I can feel the energy lagging, even among the girlfriends and wives surrounding me. Ginger tries to rally everybody, to get us to chant in unison, but even that’s not enough to overcome the roar from the opposing team’s fans as they cheer their second goal.
“It’s a lot more fun when we’re on top, isn’t it?” I muse to Darcy, who can only sigh.
“You get used to this too,” she explains. “They can’t win every game. But there’s a third period to go. Anything could happen.”
But here’s the thing I’m learning as the clock ticks down toward the end of the game and our team is down one goal: it’s not easy to have a cool head and play evenly, skillfully when time is running out.
“Ouch!” I grimace in horror when one of the other team’s players crashes into the wall, followed by none other than Mark. “Did he need to hit him that hard?”
Darcy’s either unable or unwilling to answer. Probably too wrapped up in what’s going on in front of us—or maybe she’s tired of hearing my questions. Besides, there’s no way to answer. We’re not the ones playing the game, so we can’t really judge what’s going on down there.
Suddenly, there’s loud shouting from the other side of the ice. The people sitting behind the Plexiglass push on the barrier when two players begin throwing fists.
And, oh my God, one of them is Luke.
“No, no!” I try to keep my feelings to myself since this is their world, not mine.
The people around me know more about the game than I do, and they don’t seem as upset about this as I am.
Well, they’re not the one dating one of the players currently ripping off his helmet throwing punch after punch with one hand while holding the guy’s jersey in the other, keeping him in place.
And the people sitting just behind them? They’re loving it, screaming for blood, pract
ically salivating. It’s primal, violent; they’re thirsty for it. I don’t think I’ve ever seen football fans act this way. They scream and shout and whatnot, but they don’t actively cheer like they want to see somebody’s head pop off and slide across the field.
Needless to say, both Luke and the player he fought end up in the penalty box. I can’t hear Luke’s shouting—but I don’t need to. I can read his lips and his face, and I know exactly what’s he saying.
“Does he do a lot of that?” I ask. After the way he reacted to that drunk guy at dinner, I have to know what I’m getting into.
“Hmm?” She glances my way. “Does he? Oh, no more than anybody else.” Then, she touches my arm, frowning. “Are you worried about that? Because you don’t have to be. Just because they’re violent out there doesn’t mean they’re violent anywhere else. If anything, playing hard and fighting helps work all that stuff out of their system.”
I can understand that. I don’t have to love it, but I understand it. I would feel the same way if he played any sport.
Although I don’t think fistfights are common in golf.
It’s killing Luke to be penalized. I can just tell. He wants to be out on the ice, helping his team win. Or at least helping them tie things up. He’s like a caged tiger, vibrating with energy, banging the end of his hockey stick against the floor as he shouts to the players on the ice.
The clock’s ticking, ticking, and it doesn’t look like we have a chance in hell of winning—until Mike scores and we have a reason to stand up and cheer again. He’s not the fastest or best player, but he’s good at feinting in one direction and shooting in another.
Luke comes flying out of the penalty box the very second he can, and the most amazing thing I’ve witnessed tonight by far is how the energy on the ice changes when he’s out there. He’s like lightning, zipping and zapping this way and that, and he forces the other players on both teams to elevate their game when he’s around.
He’s an inspiration. He’s a magnet, drawing my gaze. I follow him, follow his movements, his smooth skating. God, it’s like he’s in an entirely different league.
And he wants to be. Honestly—and not just because we’re dating—I think he deserves to be. He deserves to have his endlessly hard work pay off.
And when he scores the winning goal with only fifteen seconds left on the clock, the roof almost blows off. I don’t think I’ve ever screamed so loud in my life.
He looks so happy. Like he’s where he belongs.
Darcy throws her arms around me. “I’m so glad you were here for that!” she screams, and we both jump up and down.
I’m glad too. I’m glad I got to see him win the game for his team. It’s like he had to get that last hit in against his opponent after the fight on the ice earlier.
And he did. Is it wrong that I’m thrilled he did?
By the time it’s all over, I’m wiped out. “God, how do you manage to go through that game after game? I don’t think my heart could’ve handled much more.”
“It’s exciting, isn’t it?” Her eyes shine, and her face is flushed. “It’s like foreplay.”
“Darcy!” But I can’t help laughing because she’s right. I’m excited all over.
And judging from Luke’s affectionate greeting when he finds me outside the locker room, I’m not alone in this. “Come on. I don’t feel like going out with the team tonight.”
“You’re sure about that?” I mean, it’s not like I don’t want him to take me home and ravish me, but still. “I don’t want to get in the way of you and the team. They’ll give you hell for letting me lure you away, and you know it.”
“That’s what I like most about you, I think.” He kisses me again and lets his hands roam more than I’m comfortable with in public.
“What’s that?” I manage to pull his hands up from my butt until they’re resting at my waist.
“You’re so unselfish. You actually care about what the team thinks. You don’t want to make my life complicated.”
“Isn’t that how it’s supposed to be?”
“I always suspected, but that’s not how it’s been with other girls I’ve dated.” He casts a look over his shoulder, where more of the team is now leaving the locker room in search of some postgame fun. “Okay, one beer. Then, we’ll work on breaking that bed of yours.”
I never would’ve imagined the thought of a broken bed sending a happy shiver up my spine. But I wouldn’t have imagined getting turned on by a hockey game either. It’s that sort of night, I guess.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“What do you think?”
What do I think? I think this is a mistake. I think I hate feeling like a dress-up doll.
But since this is all in service of my grandmother’s big day, I need to bite my tongue rather than complain.
She’s behind me, seated on a sofa, enjoying a glass of champagne offered by the salesclerk. I can see her in the mirror, watching. Trying to look like she doesn’t have an opinion when I know for a fact that the woman’s never been without an opinion in her entire life.
She doesn’t want to sway my feelings.
Well, she couldn’t possibly make me dislike this entire situation more. I don’t like having to look at myself in a three-way mirror, having strangers commenting on my less than perfect figure.
I’m in a pink dress, though it’s a subtle pink with an almost-gray undertone. It’s satin, and it’s not exactly forgiving, snug at the hip, all the way down to my knees. “This isn’t exactly my style.” That’s diplomatic at least. I’m proud of myself for being so dignified in my response.
“This isn’t about your style, Kathryn.”
“I know. It’s about your wedding.”
“And having you beside me.”
She’s right. I stand up straighter. The woman wants me to be her maid of honor, for heaven’s sake. I cried buckets when she asked.
Even now, afraid to move too much, for fear of being impaled by a pin, I could burst out crying. My grandmother’s not much for emotional gestures, but she knows how to hit me in the heart when she feels like it.
“If you like it, I like it.” I smile at her in the mirror, and it’s a real smile, not something faked for her sake. “It’ll look great next to your cream suit too.”
“Many dresses will look fine beside my suit, dear, though having you in one will elevate it quite a bit. What use would it be if I placed a clothing rack next to me?”
She stands, folding her arms with a critical expression. “They cinched it too tight about the waist and at the bust. You have a lovely figure, but no woman feels confident when she’s stuffed into a sausage casing. May I?” She’s already handing over her champagne flute before she steps up behind me and starts releasing the pins holding the dress so close to my body.
The girl’s face is slack, pale, but she can only stand back and watch.
Grandmother must realize the effect she’s having on the clerk. She chuckles. “When you’ve been through as many fittings as I have in my seventy-six years, you have no choice but to learn what’s what. I would never consider myself a professional, but I’ve had my figure commented upon more times than I could hope to count. Which I most decidedly do not.”
The girl meets my eyes in the mirror.
“Yeah, try growing up with her as a grandmother.”
Grandmother scoffs, busy with her work, “One should be so lucky.”
She’s not wrong. And she’s not wrong about her skills as a dress fitter either because by the time she’s finished adjusting the dress, it fits like it was meant for me. I can actually move without being afraid I’ll split a seam.
“See?” Grandmother strolls around in front of me, nodding slowly. “She looked like a dominatrix before, as if it had been painted on her. All she was missing was a pointed bra.”
“Oh my God.” I’m dying for this poor girl, whose face went from milky to blood red in the blink of an eye.
“Well, you did. Wearing something so t
ight. Can you imagine? And to a wedding.”
I catch the girl’s eye. I’m sorry, I mouth.
Any more of this, and she’ll end up quitting her job. I wouldn’t blame her if she had any other clients like my grandmother.
When we’re relatively alone—the clerk scurried away with the champagne flute, maybe intending to down the rest of the bottle—I scowl at Grandmother. “You were mean. She was only doing her best.”
“She was doing you a disservice.” She straightens the hem along the bottom of the dress, which no longer hugs my knees but rather skims them. “If she wants to keep her job, she’d better improve at it. I could just as easily complain to her supervisor, but I won’t. How many people do you believe would be so generous as to offer free advice?”
Boy, she has a way of turning things around, so she sounds like the heroine, doesn’t she? I wish I were half as smooth as she is. And half as sure of myself.
“Well, I think this is the winner.” I turn to face her, arms out to my sides. “What’s the verdict?”
“I think it goes beautifully with your coloring and will look divine beside my cream suit.” She winks, eyes sparkling. “It isn’t fair for the maid of honor to outshine the bride, but I knew what I was getting into when I asked you to stand up with me.”
“Oh, please. You turn heads everywhere you go.”
That’s not just lip service either. She’s not only beautiful. She has a regal quality too. Class, effortless grace, refinement.
Even if she has a bad habit of bringing up pointed bras and dominatrices in fancy boutiques that offer champagne and charcuterie to their patrons. And she’s not one to stand back and explain what she thinks is the right thing, not when she has confidence in herself to get the job done. Why waste time suffering fools?
“Even so.” She pats my arms with an approving smile. “Oh, to be your age again. No, actually, I take it back. I believe I enjoy this age much more. I know who I am. I know what I want out of life. And I know there isn’t any time to sit back and wait for others to do things. If I want something done correctly, I must do it myself.”
Kitty Valentine Dates an Hockey Player Page 9