Twisted Wrister: A Next-Door-Neighbor Sports Romance (The Playmakers Series Hockey Romances Book 7)

by G. K. Brady

  Chapter 9

  Roses and Cookies

  Five days after delivering the cookies, Michaela walked past the boys’ door on her way to run errands. No need to slink. She hadn’t run into either of them, partly because they’d been on the road. Were they back now? They’d played a West Coast game last night, but she had little idea how their travel schedules worked.

  As if in answer to her silent question, their door swung open. There stood Blake, his tall frame blotting out the interior of his condo, his blond hair a bedhead mess, his green eyes wide with surprise. Her heart pounded a little harder. Because I’m surprised, that’s all.

  “Good morning. Where are you off to?” she chirped.

  He closed his parted mouth and jabbed his thumb over his shoulder, stammering, “Practice. Except I forgot something and I need to get it because I need it for … practice.”

  “Excuse me,” a woman’s voice called from behind him. He jumped out of the way as if he had no idea she was there. A mussed-up brunette in disheveled clothing squeezed past him, muttering about a walk of shame and needing to get home. Tempted though she was to bolt, Michaela held back, not wanting to climb aboard the elevator with the woman. The situation was sticky enough as it was.

  “Is that what you left behind?” Michaela huffed, fully aware she had no huffing rights—unless her disgust was directed at herself for being such an idiot. Doesn’t know how to kiss, my ass. She’d misjudged him, let herself get carried away, let that kiss dominate her thoughts for the past week. She’d let it move her world. It’s only because it’s been so long. The attraction she was feeling had to be cut off at the knees. The guy had a regular revolving door of women, and here she’d lost precious sleep over him that he hadn’t deserved. Like his roommate, he was nothing more than a typical cocky jock—he simply hid the cocky part behind shyness that was an obvious act she’d bought into. It had been effective.

  What a dummy! It wasn’t that she wanted to spend the rest of her life with the guy, but she didn’t want to go around kissing random playboys either. What if he had an STD? Could you catch STDs from kissing someone? She’d never felt a need to know before. It would be a helpful factoid to have on hand before she returned to dating sites. Remembering his penchant for trivia facts, she coughed out a laugh. Bet he knows the answer to my question.

  “She’s not … We’re not …” he stammered.

  “I suppose she’s your roommate’s date?” Michaela tossed out primly.

  “Uh, not exactly. I mean, she’s … I don’t know her,” he blurted.

  Seriously? Michaela withheld a comment about knowing her in the biblical sense and elbowed her qualms about sharing space with the woman. She hurried down the hall, only to have the elevator door slam in her face. Stairs it is.

  As she hurled herself through the door that opened onto the stairwell, her phone pinged. She glanced down … and groaned.

  Brad Hewitt: Morning, Michaela. Wondering if you’d care to meet me for lunch?

  Michaela: Sorry, Brad. I have tons of errands to run.

  Brad Hewitt: Perfect. I’ve got errands too. What if I pick you up and we combine efforts? Much more pleasant that way.

  Crap! Maybe she hadn’t misread the awkward coffee-room incident. He had often hinted at an interest in her, but it had been mild at most. Seemingly, his interest was growing or his efforts were becoming bolder. How many nice ways could she say, “Not in your lifetime,” before their working relationship became affected? There was an unfortunate chance she would soon find out, so she opted for another way out.

  Michaela: Very sweet of you, but I’m seeing someone and don’t think he’d be too keen on it.

  She tucked her phone into her back pocket, where she wouldn’t see Brad’s reply if he sent one. As she stood on the stairwell landing, she told herself her excuse hadn’t been a lie. She had literally just seen someone, and “seeing someone” was a simple matter of opening the door to the hallway and laying eyes on her playboy neighbor.

  Not that she would ever want her “someone” to be him.

  Two days later, April’s black eyebrows wiggled as she stood in Michaela’s office doorway. “Happy Monday. How are my favorite hot hockey players?”

  “How about, ‘How’s my favorite boss?’ instead?”

  “Well, I can see that you’re just fine, and while your neighbors are mighty fine, I can’t see them. Of course, if you invited me over …”

  “Don’t waste your brain cells on those two yahoos,” Michaela quickly retorted, ignoring the fact that she could still not get one of those yahoos out of her freaking mind. His warm, soft lips, his delectable mouth, those gorgeous green eyes—

  “Yahoos is not what comes to mind when I think about ways to describe them.” A salacious smile curved April’s lips.

  “You’re incorrigible.” Michaela shifted her gaze to her computer, pretending the land-sale contract was utterly absorbing.

  “Maybe, but you gotta admit, they are hot!”

  “And they know it,” Michaela scoffed, eyes still focused on the black type against white, but none of it registered. What did register, sadly, was the redhead kissing Blake and the breathy brunette who’d pushed past him into the hallway. A rather uncomfortable, unrecognizable emotion spiked inside her. “Those guys have a door that revolves more than subway turnstiles at rush hour,” Michaela grumbled. “I’ll say it again. Men are overrated.” Never mind that her neighbors were also alluringly cocksure and in jaw-dropping shape. “Sculpted” sparked to mind. Heat prickled Michaela’s neck in irritating fashion.

  “Neither of your neighbors is overrated. Since you don’t want them, can I have at least one?”

  Michaela rolled her eyes. “Remind me why haven’t I fired you?”

  “Because you love me too much. And you’d never figure out your schedule.” Smug triumph overtook April’s features.

  Michaela lifted her head. “Watch me!”

  Still standing in Michaela’s doorway, April struck a thoughtful pose with her finger pressed against her chin. “I’m actually contemplating a career change.”

  Panic streaked through Michaela, and she raised wide eyes to her assistant. “What? Since when?”

  April grinned. “See? I knew you loved me. But seriously, I think I should become a sports groupie.”

  “Technically, sports groupie isn’t a profession because you don’t get paid,” Michaela countered dryly. “Scratch that. You might get paid, but that gets into illegal territory.”

  “It’d be totally worth it.” April nodded to herself. “If you doubt what I’m saying, watch the Blizzard game tonight. And especially watch number twenty-one.”

  “Why? Who’s that?” Michaela feigned innocence. She’d looked up the team roster for some unfathomable reason and knew exactly who wore twenty-one. “And what makes him so special?” Maybe she’d peeked at a few minutes here and there, but she’d never devoted precious time to an entire game.

  “First of all, he’s your neighbor Blake Barrett. Second of all, he doesn’t wear an undershirt.”

  Michaela’s brows knotted together in confusion. “And this is noteworthy why?”

  April’s grin broadened. “He sometimes wipes his face with the hem of his sweater, which means he lifts it up and shows off all those glorious muscles.” She sighed dramatically.

  Michaela swallowed, trying to coat her dry throat while she locked out a disturbing vision that did funny things to her baser side. “On purpose?” she blurted.

  “No, not like he’s showing off. At least I don’t think so.” April seemed to ponder, then she brightened. “Tell you what, you watch tonight, and if he does it, we’ll compare notes tomorrow and vote on whether it’s a deliberate move.”

  Refocusing on her computer screen, Michaela muttered, “I’m sure I’ll be way too busy working to watch something as silly as a hockey game.”

  Hours later, she sat on her red couch, dinner perched on her lap, while she channel-surfed. “I need to catch
up on Bridgerton … or I’ve heard the The Mandalorian is good,” she mumbled. She tried not to analyze the fact that she wound up on Altitude Sports and somehow got sucked into watching the Blizzard, her eyes riveted to number twenty-one, whose sweater—or was it a jersey?—stayed down, like it was supposed to.

  When her phone chimed with a text, she jumped as if she’d been caught doing something naughty. Her shoulders eased when she saw who it was from.

  Paige: Still coming to the party?

  Michaela: Wouldn’t miss it.

  Paige: Good! Scott will definitely be there. Can’t wait for you to meet him.

  Michaela tapped out her reply: Looking forward to it. She set the phone down, wondering if she’d just lied. No. She was looking forward to meeting this Scott person. After all, she still needed a plus-one for the Steadman dinner, and he was the right candidate. She just knew it. Paige and Beckett wouldn’t steer her wrong. As she stared at the players racing up and down the ice on her TV screen, her mind wandered to whether she should be formulating a Plan B.

  Stomach fluttering, Michaela rang the doorbell and sucked in a calming breath. For an instant, she prayed Paige would open the door and tell her the party had been canceled. The door did open, but Beckett filled its frame. His face lit with a smile.

  “Come on in.” He stood aside and made a grand sweeping gesture with his hand. “Paige and I are really happy you could come,” he said as he helped her off with her coat. She darted a quick look at herself in a mirror hanging above a console table, confirming she’d made the right choice in attire. A silky white V-neck top with bold black flowers skimmed the waist of her black skinny jeans. The blouse’s long sleeves featured little peekaboo cutouts along the length of her arms to show off a little skin. Whimsical, but lawyer-appropriate. Her glasses were on her desk at home, and her curls were behaving themselves after being tamed with gel and a fat curling iron. Her high-heeled black booties gave her enough lift that she wouldn’t break her neck looking up at Beckett. She gifted herself an inner nod of approval.

  “Scott’s running a little late,” Beckett informed her as he hung up her coat, “but he should be here soon. In the meantime, let’s get you something to drink and introduce you to the rest of the folks.”

  Head on a swivel, she gawked as he led her toward the back of the house and the family room, open kitchen, and a huge solarium. Though she’d been in the house several times, she couldn’t help but admire the distinctive, beautiful Paige touches everywhere.

  A burble of happy chatter grew louder as they neared the family room. Michaela drew in a breath and readied her so-nice-to-meet-you smile. Honestly, she didn’t want to be here—a pile of work was likely reproducing on her desk at this very instant—but Paige was her client and friend. Michaela would stick around long enough to meet—and assess—Scott, then slip out while her hosts were busy entertaining other guests.

  Beckett touched her arm, yanking her from her scheming, and winked. “Martinis are this way.”

  Warmth suffused her. “You remembered.” Why can’t I find a guy like him?

  “Of course. You’re my wife’s attorney and a guest of honor. Hell, you’re the reason Paige set up this martini station. Chopin, right?” He guided her toward a sharply dressed man in black who stood beside a makeshift bar filled with assorted vodkas, gins, chilled glasses, and every martini garnish imaginable.

  She was both touched and dismayed—so much for sneaking out early tonight. “Yes. Thank you, Beckett.”

  He gave the martini-maker instructions while Michaela’s eyes swept the room, looking for someone, anyone, she knew and could glom on to in order to hide her awkwardness—the awkwardness making her unsure what to do with her limbs. As host, Beckett wouldn’t stick around much longer—in fact, someone else was already approaching him. Her attention was pulled to a group of tall, broad men clustered in a corner of the solarium with several pretty women. Something about them looked familiar, but before she could pin it down, Paige popped up and threw an arm around her shoulders.

  “Micky, I’m so glad you’re here! Love your top. Have you met everyone?”

  Michaela squeezed her back, amused that Paige’s free hand trailed behind her, clasped in her husband’s, who faced away from her while talking to someone else. They never seemed able to keep their hands off each other—which explained the huge swell of Paige’s tummy—and Michaela swallowed a pang of envy. “Thanks again for inviting me. And no, not yet. I’m still waiting for my martini.”

  On cue, the bartender flashed her a smile and handed her a frosty drink with a perfect lemon twist adorning its rim. Paige led her around the room, sweetly introducing her as the “best real estate attorney in Colorado.” If Michaela played her cards right, maybe she’d pick up a date for the Steadman dinner and a few new clients. Paige left her with Katie, Paige’s assistant and leasing agent. Katie brightened, her large brown eyes twinkling behind her round red rims. “Michaela, hi! Don’t tell me you’re flying solo too?”

  “For now. I’m supposed to meet someone Beckett works with, but apparently he hasn’t arrived yet.”

  Katie nodded knowingly. “Paige playing matchmaker again?”

  “I guess so,” Michaela laughed. “Is that something she does often?”

  “With people she likes.” Katie let out a wistful sigh. “I wish she liked me more.”

  Michaela raised her eyebrows. “Of course she likes you! She constantly sings your praises. You mean she won’t set you up?”

  Katie grinned. “She totally would. Problem is I know all the same people she knows.”

  Michaela waved her hand around herself. “So you know everyone here?”

  “Almost. If they’re Paige’s clients, I’ve dealt with them. If they’re Paige’s employees, well, ’nuff said. And if they’re Beckett’s peeps, they’re either guys he knows from Hockey World—and I avoid those guys like the plague—or they’re Paige’s clients. Or both. Which leaves me with a giant goose egg.” Katie laughed.

  “Why do you avoid guys Beckett knows?”

  Katie’s eyes widened as she seemed to realize what she’d said. “Oh, I’m sure whoever they want you to meet tonight is different from the usual … uh, knuckleheads.”

  Michaela burst out with a laugh. “Knuckleheads?”

  Katie’s eyes lifted to somewhere over Michaela’s shoulder, and she smirked. “Incoming.” She abruptly jerked a thumb to her left. “Just saw some folks I need to talk to. I’ll catch you later.” As Katie turned to leave, Michaela heard a familiar voice behind her.

  “Michaela?”

  Unwanted chills danced along her spine, raising the tiny hairs on her arms. Michaela slowly turned to greet her neighbor.

  Chapter 10

  I Think Your Sun Is in My Moon

  Blake’s spirits unexpectedly rocketed when the curly-haired woman turned and confirmed his suspicions about her identity.

  “Thought it was you.” His lips twitched in a smile.

  Silver eyes went round, though her half-smile told him she wasn’t unhappy to see him. “What are you doing here?”

  Unable to stop himself, he let his gaze sweep from her head to her pointed high-heeled boots before darting back up to her shimmering eyes. “So that’s why you look taller.” He groaned inwardly at his inane comment. He’d been trying to mask his blatant perusal, but which was worse? Having her think he was a perv or an idiot? With his luck, she probably thought he was both.

  She perched a hand on her hip and smirked. “No short jokes.”

  “I promise.”

  Michaela peeped at him from over the rim of her martini glass. “So where’s your sidekick?” Her eyes flicked over his shoulder as if looking for Ferguson.

  “If you mean my roommate, he’s not here tonight.” Blake couldn’t wait to tell Ferguson what he’d missed—it would serve the bastard right. Blake hadn’t wanted to come tonight, but Ferguson had insisted. Like the dumbass he was, Blake had caved. At the last minute, one mysterious text had
Fergs bailing on the party. Blake suspected it was the girl Fergs had hooked up with the night he’d invited Michaela out to the Detour. As for the flowers, they’d gone to the cleaning lady, so Michaela was still in the dark about Ferguson’s crush.

  “You need to make an appearance for both of us,” Fergs had insisted as he’d laid a too-tight palm on Blake’s shoulder. Yeah, that had annoyed the hell out of Blake, but now he had something to rub in his roommate’s face. He gave in to a smug smile.

  “How about your date?”

  Confusion wiped away some of his smugness. “My date?”

  “The redhead? Or was it the brunette? Or maybe you’re hoping to find someone here to practice your, um, skills on?” She leveled twinkling eyes on him, then took them for a tour around the room as though she was looking for someone.

  “The brunette the other morning—” he began, prepared to spill the truth, but he bit it back, recalling Ferguson’s wistful expression when he’d talked about Michaela. Of course, that was before the new girl, Tracy, but still, Tracy was just a momentary distraction—according to Fergs—while Michaela was the “real deal.” Blake made little sense out of Ferguson’s actions. Why get “distracted” when the “real deal” was in your line of sight? Then again, Fergs insisted he was “working up to” asking Michaela out again, and Blake decided to take him at his word. He wouldn’t blow his friend’s chances.