by G. K. Brady
Blake turned off the engine and looked at his friend. “Why would that make me feel better? And why are you done?”
Fergs shrugged. “Yeah, well, she was a fun fuck and all, but it ran its course.”
“Just like you predicted it would.” Blake pulled in a breath and puffed it out. “Who ended it?”
“Why does it freaking matter?”
Blake had no idea why, but it did. Maybe it struck a little too close to home. His mind whirled, pondering whether M would still want him when he returned in ten days. Or a month from now. Six months. A year. Why his mind fixated on the end of something that was just getting off the ground confounded him.
“I don’t know. Just wondering if you’re okay with it, that’s all.”
Fergs snorted. “I’m fine with it. It was only about the sex anyway, and that’s easy enough to find anywhere. Just watch me on this trip.” He threw open his door and hopped out, peering in at Blake.
“What, you planning to fuck your way up the West Coast?”
Fergs grinned. “I can throw a little action your way if you’re up for it. Ha! Get it? Up for it.”
Huh. Was that a white flag Fergs was extending? Blake offered him a half-smile. “Thanks. I’ll let you know if I’m interested.” Not gonna happen. He was already impatient to get home—and he hadn’t even left yet.
On the plane, while half of his teammates slept around him, he pulled out his phone and scrolled until he landed on the picture he’d taken of M this morning. She’d kill him if she knew, but he hadn’t been able to stop himself. Her head was turned toward the camera, her sex-tousled curls tumbling over her closed eyes. Her pretty pink lips were parted, and he stiffened thinking about sliding his tongue—and other body parts—between them. The sheet covered her ass below the dimples on her lower back, hinting at her cheeks where they kissed her thighs, leaving her legs and the smooth skin on her back completely exposed. The girl thrashed in her sleep, and the covers paid the price. Blake had seen this pose before; it was one of his favorites, second only to her on her back.
From this angle, her tattoo was on full display, and his eyes traced the vines snaking along her delicate bent arm. His mind filled in blanks—the tip of his tongue on those vines and other parts of her—and all that came before she’d passed out in the pose he’d captured. The pleasant memories made his dick throb painfully behind his zipper. Good thing he sat in his own row. With one last longing look, he stowed the phone before he could really embarrass himself, promising to spend time with her later when he was alone.
Like Fergs, Blake told himself it was about the sex, and his borderline obsession was because the sex was beyond incredible. Mind-blowing. A whole other level. But he wasn’t sure he bought his own story. He had a bad case of M; hopefully, he wouldn’t need a cure.
When they reached the hotel, Blake followed Mac up to their room and called her while Mac used the bathroom. “Hey, just got here. What are you doing?”
“Cleaning up last night’s mess.” He could hear the cute little smirk in her voice.
“I hope it brings back good memories.”
“Mm-hmm, that and the sore muscles you left me with.”
“Hey, mine are sore too.”
She laughed. “Well, good. At least I’m not suffering alone. So a game tomorrow afternoon, then where to?”
“We’re headed to Vegas for a few days. From there, it’s southern California, and we work our way north to Vancouver. When we’re done there, we head home.” And I can’t wait. “How about you? What are your big plans for the week?”
“My usual sixteen-hour days at the office, where I’ll hopefully slay a few dragons and earn a shiny golden penny.”
“I have a feeling that whatever you set your mind to chase, you’ll catch. Look what you’ve accomplished already.” No doubt he was awestruck by her, but he meant every damn word. “You’ll get that account you want so badly.”
“Thanks,” she sighed. “Not sure how bad I want it anymore, though, and that worries me.”
Mac walked out of the bathroom, threw himself on the bed, and started playing with his phone.
Blake turned his back on the goalie and dropped his voice, a few alarm bells ringing in his head over what M had said. “Why? I mean, why wouldn’t you want it anymore?”
“I don’t know. Being at Steadman’s opened my eyes a little, and I’m not sure I like what I saw.”
This was a surprise. “What did you see?”
“My future?” It came out as a question.
Concern and intrigue twined inside of him. Concern because he detected vulnerability in her voice, and intrigue because he wanted to learn what she thought and why. He realized he wanted her to run to him with her problems. “What’s in that future?” he prodded.
She let out a long exhale. “Very little control over my own life. A lot of bowing and scraping, long hours doing other people’s bidding while I sacrifice my personal time. And after I’ve paid my dues, I earn a partnership in a giant wheel and become part of what perpetuates it. I thought that’s what I wanted. It’s what I’ve worked so hard for. But now? The blinders are slipping. I’m seeing it up close, and I’m not so sure it’s for me.” She paused for breath. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get all maudlin on you. I just … I guess you’re my Fiona substitute.”
Ranking the same status as M’s best friend swelled his chest with something warm, fuzzy, and prideful. “Hmm … so does this mean I have to wear heels and talk in a high, squeaky voice?” He glanced over his shoulder at Mac, who seemed to be ignoring him, though a telltale quirk at one corner of his mouth told a different story. Bastard.
M burst into a fit of giggles, and Blake’s chest ballooned a little more. He’d made her laugh, and he’d pulled her from a bleak place. “That’s my girl,” he murmured, unsure she could hear him.
“First of all, you goof, Fiona doesn’t talk in a high, squeaky voice, and second of all, she only wears heels for special occasions. She’ll be here for Thanksgiving, and you can see for yourself if … if you want to. No pressure, though.”
He chuckled. “Okay. No heels and no high-pitching. And yeah, I want to.” And I want you to meet Amanda. Not his mom so much. His mom might send M running for the nearest exit.
“Phew!” she mocked. “Glad to hear you won’t go changing that voice.” Her own tone dropped into the smoky range. “I like it just the way it is. Kinda low and sexy. That rumble does funny things to certain parts of me.”
Oh Jesus! His cock jumped, and he bent at the waist, placing his elbows on his knees to hide his growing problem. “Really? I’d like to hear more about that, but right now I’m—”
“Oh shit! You’re sharing a room with someone, aren’t you?”
“Yep.”
She giggled. “Okay. No more sexy talk for you, big guy. Don’t want to embarrass you.”
“Might be too late for that.” He grinned like an idiot. He’d never had anyone to call before, and he liked it. A lot. Liked the idea that someone who gave a shit might be waiting for him to come home. A curly-haired, silver-eyed someone that he gave a shit about in return. A hell of a lot. “But maybe save it for later?”
“I can do that. Is it okay to say I miss you?”
Hell yeah. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
“We haven’t known each other very long, and things feel like they might be moving a little … fast.”
“Not sure the time matters as long as we’re both on the same page. For what it’s worth, I feel the same way.”
A pillow sailed from the other bed and pegged Blake in the head. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, stop talking in code and get it over with already!” Mac grumbled. “Pansy-ass.”
“What was that?” M asked.
Blake glanced over his shoulder. “That was my roommate. Bit of a jackass, if you ask me. But all goalies are weird.”
“Oh! You’re rooming with Dana McPherson?” He could pick out the pretty blush in her voice and wished he could see it i
n her cheeks. “I’ll let you go.”
“Okay. Call or text me if you need anything.” What the hell does that mean? He had no idea why he said it, only that it felt natural coming out of his mouth.
When he hung up, Mac cocked an eyebrow at him. “Can I assume you took my advice and decided to go after the girl? Or was that a guy? You were talking about high heels and shit I don’t wanna know about. Next time take it out in the hall or the bathroom, dude.”
Blake chucked the pillow back at him. “Asshole. None of your business, but it was a … woman.” Not a girl. A very hot woman.
“Yeah? Do I know the unlucky lady?”
“Yeah, I think you do. Mia knows her for sure.”
“Mia? Oh Christ. Please tell me it’s not her crazy mind-fuck sister.”
Blake snickered. “Nah, I think you’ve told us all enough scary stories that no one would go near her.” His dick back under control, Blake reclined, lacing his hands under his head as he stared at the popcorn ceiling. “So when did you first know Mia was, you know, the right one?”
“Shit, I don’t know. Never really thought about it.” Mac turned on the TV and lowered the volume on a basketball game. “Maybe when she was the only woman I could think about? Like I said before, I couldn’t get her out of my mind—like a damn tune that gets stuck in your head. Pleasant, but it doesn’t go away, and it’s distracting as hell.” Mac chuckled, a knowing gleam in his eye. “When I met Mia, I wasn’t looking for anything beyond a little fun. But when you least expect it … Let’s just say I was smart enough to realize women like her are rare. I mean, she was someone I could really talk to, be myself with, let down my guard. But first I had to convince myself she was the one, then I had to convince her. That, bro, took some dedication.” He shook his head, though his grin remained intact. “Totally worth it. Wish I’d met her sooner.” His eyes glazed over for a split second before he asked, “So who is she?”
“Paige Miller’s attorney.”
“Michaela? That cute little thing with the dark fuzzy hair?”
Something toothy roared inside of Blake, and he went into defender mode, something he’d only ever done on a smaller scale with Amanda. “It’s not fuzzy. It’s curly,” he bit. Asshole.
“Sorry, dude,” Mac chuckled. “Guess I didn’t look that closely.”
Blake’s mind landed back in M’s bed, her tight curls wound around his fingers. Normally, he’d be thinking about the upcoming game, what opposing D-men he’d go up against and their goalie’s weaknesses. Instead, he was totally distracted with thoughts of her.
Yeah, he got it now.
Blake braced his stick against his knees, poised, ready for the linesman to drop the puck so he could beat the son of a bitch facing him and explode toward the net. They needed a goal. Bad. Then they needed a few more. Irritation rocketed through his veins, not helped at all by lack of sleep from his late night at a Vegas nightclub. He’d attended a buddy’s bachelor party he hadn’t wanted to go to in the first place, and the fatigue was catching up with him at the worst time. Plus, he hadn’t talked to M for three days. He ground his back molars, ready to take out his frustration on Anaheim.
The puck finally hit the ice, and Blake crossed sticks with the other guy, battling for it, pulling it toward his wingers. Not a clean win, but Quinn managed to corral it and head toward the O-zone. He passed it back to Blake, who dished it off to T.J. T.J. one-timed it, but the goalie smothered it. Damn it!
Another face-off, in their zone this time, and the Anaheim center won. But Blake shoved him off the puck and stole it. Fired it. Missed wide. One of their defensemen slashed his calf, and Blake jabbed his stick into him without looking. A modicum of satisfaction spiked inside of him when he felt the impact and heard a grunt … without the ref seeing the obvious spearing penalty.
The puck came off the boards, and Blake dashed to it. It fluttered against his blade, and he shoveled it toward the net. Somehow the damn thing snuck between a few skates and the goalie’s pads and went in. A dribbler, an ugly goal, but it counted. His teammates mobbed him, and he ran the gauntlet of fist bumps along his team’s bench.
“All right, boys,” T.J. growled. “Let’s get back to work and show Mac he doesn’t have to fucking stand on his head for every win. Let’s get this one for him.”
They were behind three-to-two, and the clock was winding down. Coach LeBrun kept Blake’s line out, and Blake leaned over for the next face-off. Eyes riveted to the ice in front of him, he whispered to the Anaheim player, “Hey, dickhead, your laces are untied.”
“Fuck off, asshole. That’s mites crap.”
It might have been mites crap, but Blake threw him off just enough to win the draw and fire the puck at the net. The goalie smothered it again, unwilling to give up the rebound. LeBrun gave them the signal to stay out. Blake faced a different Anaheim player this time.
“Hey, Barrett,” the jerk said. “Your girlfriend sucked my dick the other night.”
One corner of Blake’s mouth curled wickedly. “Yeah? Guess a pencil dick is a welcome change once in a while. No choke hazard,” Blake fired back. He’d heard the chirping, the trash talk, his entire career. Nothing fazed him anymore. But until now, he hadn’t had a girlfriend to get riled up about. Not that he had one now, but he was closer than he’d ever been, and the thought of M on her knees with someone else—
He understood how guys got thrown off their game. Not that it mattered because he won the face-off. And carried the puck to the net, squaring himself up to the goalie, looking at the goalie, like he was going to shoot it himself, only to pass it to Quinn, who one-timed it. Before the netminder could react to the pass, the puck was in the back of the net.
Yes!
In the end, the Blizzard squeaked out a win in an overtime shootout, with Blake scoring a perfectly placed shot top-shelf, earning him the number-one star of the game. Nice, but earning the two points was what really counted. Come tomorrow, everyone would forget, including him. Jubilation from the locker room extended to the plane, where teammates slapped Blake’s back repeatedly—even Gage Nelson, who’d given up his spot on the first line and might not be able to take it back for a while. He seemed to have no hard feelings, though it had to be tough. No, Gage, one of the alternate captains, was all about the team, which was why he was a locker room leader.
The only guy who didn’t show enthusiasm was Fergs, sulking in a seat a few rows back. He’d only seen five minutes of ice time on the fourth line, but Blake couldn’t be bothered trying to soothe the guy’s ego. It was his own damn fault he was playing like he was ten strides behind.
When Blake finally got a few moments to himself, he plunked down in a seat and checked his phone. His heart kicked up when he read a text from M. First star! Good job, big guy. You put the team on your back tonight. Very impressive.
Wow. The fact she had not only watched but was making something out of his effort added an extra slap to his happy.
Blake: You still awake, Curvy?
MW: For a few more minutes. Thought I was Curly?
Blake: Curvy and curly. Best of both worlds. He couldn’t stop himself and added, You were impressed, huh?
MW: Very impressed. No lie, that was kinda hot.
Blake: Do I get a special prize when I get home?
MW: Could be.
The little tease. But he loved it.
Blake: We still have a few games to go. What do I get if I score a hat trick?
MW: How about me in your jersey? And nothing else?
A groan rumbled in his chest. Shit. Now he was as hard as the metal struts holding the plane’s wheels. At this rate, he’d either wind up with blue balls or he’d have to head straight to the shower as soon as they reached their hotel room in San Jose.
Blake: Tempting as that is, how about you in those heels you wore to your boss’s dinner … and nothing else?
MW: You’re a better hockey player than you are a negotiator.
Blake: ???
MW: A hat
trick is three goals. If I were in your skates, I’d be bargaining for the jersey, the heels, AND a third fantasy.;-D
Fuck yes! His giddy mind raced with the possibilities. M in nothing but whipped cream. In nothing but a chain belt. In nothing but a leather thong. Do they make leather thongs? He was so intent on those possibilities and the ache in his pants that he paid no attention to what was going on around him. As he prepared to tap out a response from the depths of his dirty mind, his phone was swiped from his hand.
“What do we have here?” Ferguson sniggered. “Sexting? No wonder I couldn’t get ahold of you! You were busy banging someone.”
“Give me that!” Blake bellowed, flailing at Ferguson’s arm, but Ferguson easily stepped out of his reach.
His eyes scrolled over the screen, his smirk growing. “Cute. Maybe I should send this chick a message for you, Bear. Who is this anyway? Who’s MW?”
Panic welled inside of Blake, and he coiled, ready to launch himself over the back of his seat. He stopped mid-spring when the phone was wrested from Ferguson’s grip.
“MW stands for ‘Mystery Woman,’ dickhead,” Dave Grimson snapped. Stormy eyes drilled enough holes through Ferguson to turn him into a slice of Swiss cheese. Their captain tossed the phone back to Blake.
Blake gulped. “Thanks, man.”
“Protect that shit, rookie. Good game, by the way.” Grimson gave him a nod and sat back down in his seat.
Blake wasn’t sure if protecting that shit meant the phone, M’s identity, or the relationship. And the fact he hadn’t been a rookie for years wasn’t a point he was about to argue with the guy who’d not only thrown him another compliment but who’d saved his—or M’s—ass.
The announcement to turn off their electronics came over the speakers, and Blake quickly typed one last message to her: Too many fantasies where you’re concerned. Picking one takes a lot more thought. Gotta turn off our phones, but you can bet your beautiful ass I’ll be contemplating this all the way to San Jose. ’Night, Curvy.
Blake shuddered at the close call, and a fresh wave of panic rose up inside him. Mac knew who M was. He needed to talk to him, tonight, and ask him to keep quiet until Blake could finally tell Ferguson. And that confession had to happen very soon.