Foreplayer

by Kate Meader

  Moving faster than a Grizzly on a honey-soaked jogger, Cal grabbed the phone from Theo’s hands. “Not for your eyes, child.”

  “Hey, what was that about? Who’s Lady M?”

  Luckily he’d put an alias for Mia in his phone because no man’s business was his own around here.

  “Not your concern, Kershaw.”

  “You’re giving tips on blowjob technique—”

  “I am not.”

  “—because that’s the kind of thing you should ask Burnett.” He called out to fellow defenseman Cade Burnett, who was standing at his cubby, zipping up a pullover. “Hey, Alamo, you’d probably consider yourself an aficionado of all things BJ, right?”

  “Who wants to know?”

  “Foreman’s dispensing blow job advice to someone. Figured as you’re on both ends as giver and receiver, you’d be the man to ask. I know what I like, but only you know how it feels to have your mouth wrapped around a—”

  Cal held up a hand. “Stop right there, Superglutes. I do not need any advice on this. Just a little joking around with a friend.”

  Theo studied him. “It’s giving me ideas, though.”

  “For what?”

  “Your nickname.”

  Burnett snorted. “Oh, look out! Once Kershaw thinks of a name, that’s it, you are stuck.”

  “Yeah,” Theo said, warming to the topic. “Knob job, hoodie wash—help me out, Alamo.”

  The Texan picked up the thread. “Slurping turtle, blowmance—”

  “All right, all right, can it,” Cal cut in, catching the eye of Reid Durand who had not yet gone into the shower. That guy really put Cal’s back up. “I will not be accepting any BJ-related nicknames.”

  Theo chuckled. “That’s the beauty of the nickname rules, Foreman. You don’t get to decide as I am painfully aware. You think I would have come up with Superglutes if I had a choice in the matter? That was all Hunt’s doing. Wait—Foreman.” He rubbed his chin. “Foreman, Fore … skin. Might have to let that one percolate.”

  That was all he needed. Kershaw percolating.

  Cal grabbed his gym bag and headed out, ignoring the new buzz of a message on the phone in his sweats’ pocket from the monster he’d unleashed.

  He threw his bag in the car’s trunk and took a seat behind the wheel. With a surreptitious look around—though he was doing absolutely nothing wrong here!—he checked the message from Lady M.

  Blow jobs, buddy. Best technique, hands off or tongue only? And deep throating? Is that really a thing guys like? Uh, why?

  He closed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to read the rest, but that only started a movie reel on the inside of his eyelids. One with a head of dark hair positioned between his legs, bobbing up and down, blue-flamed eyes raised to his, her soft, supple mouth sliding along his …

  This was not part of the deal. He hit dial on the phone.

  “Foreman! What’s up?” The sound of something mechanical drowned out her speech.

  “Mia, we can’t do this.”

  “What? Oh, hold on a second.” She scolded someone gently—it sounded like the dog. “Sorry, I’m making a fruit smoothie for myself and Gordie Howe’s lunch. So what’s going on? Did you get my messages? Sorry to be so in your face about it but I think it’s time to move past first base, if you know what I mean.”

  When had this become necessary? He could enquire more about why she felt a need to go Triple-X on their text exchanges.

  Or he could draw a line in the sand.

  “Yes, that’s what I’m calling about. I can’t be having these conversations with you.”

  “On text, you mean? Worried about prying eyes?” She chuckled as if that was funny. It was not.

  “Everyone is pretty nosey. But that’s not the problem.” Or the only problem. He hauled in a breath. “Mia, this isn’t right.”

  She went silent.

  “Mia?”

  “What isn’t right?” She sounded hesitant and worst of all, hurt. But he’d started down this path and he had to see it through.

  “It’s not appropriate for me to be discussing these things with you. I did say this already.”

  “Why? Because it’s locker room talk?”

  “Yeah. It’s the kind of thing you should discuss with someone you’re close to. A girlfriend.” Not him. Jesus, as if he would ever be good enough for Vadim’s precious sister.

  Where the hell had that come from?

  “So you’re not my friend?”

  “I’m not your girlfriend.” And I’m certainly not your boyfriend. I would destroy you.

  “I don’t really have anyone I can talk to about this.”

  “Don’t you have friends in New York? Or college?” She’d been a star on her team at Harvard. Surely she had buddies, though if she didn’t play much anymore, maybe that was related. He got the impression he’d unearthed something crucial here yet he couldn’t put his finger on it.

  Why had Mia come to him for help?

  “Yeah. Sure. I can do that.” He could hear short, jagged breaths. “Sorry to have bothered you. I thought—well, it doesn’t matter.”

  “Mia.” Shit, he’d fucked up here. He should have let her down gently, but the BJ talk was a little too on the nose, a little too sexy. “I’m happy to give advice about the male mindset but the sex stuff feels like we’re in dangerous territory.”

  “I get it. It’s fine. Don’t worry, Foreman, you’re off the hook.” And then she hung up.

  Mia waved at Tara from her seat in the corner of the coffee shop. They had met a couple of times since running into each other after Levi Hunt’s wedding and had kept in touch with the odd text here and there. Tara’s motives puzzled her.

  Mia couldn’t help being suspicious. After her college experience, she had found out quickly who her true friends were. In withdrawing her complaint against Drew and labeling it a mistake, she’d been dismissed as a flake, an attention-whore, and a bitter harridan determined to tear down a promising young man’s career. And those were some of the nicer things said about her.

  Now Mia barely spoke with her college friends, even the ones who knew a version of the truth. Watching them go on to great success in women’s hockey was a foul-tasting pill to swallow. It made her a bad person—she knew that—but she couldn’t deny the envy she carried around with her like a deadweight where her heart should be.

  Tara, who Mia should have nothing in common with, was making an effort with her. Perhaps she really liked Mia (though on days like today, Mia wondered what there was to like). Perhaps Tara was staying close because of Mia’s Rebels connections—she certainly wasn’t shy about her ambitions. Perhaps she still had a thing for Foreman.

  Mia didn’t like that idea much, but then, right now, she didn’t like Foreman much either. She would never have gone to him for advice if Tara hadn’t encouraged it, and now he was bailing because the mere idea of discussing more graphic, ahem, needs with someone like Mia must be a real turn-off for him. Not that she wanted him to be turned on, but she’d hoped he could be an adult about it.

  “What’s wrong?” Tara put down a huge bag and an even huger iced latte.

  “Nothing.”

  “Liar. You look like a smacked arse as my British granny would say.” She plopped in her seat. “Is it something about your guy?”

  “No. Well, sort of. Foreman’s being a jerk.”

  Tara squinted. “What did he do?”

  “I asked him a few simple questions about—” She lowered her voice. “Blow jobs. And he got squirmier than a snake. Said I’d crossed the line and it would be weird.”

  “What did you ask?”

  She showed Tara their text exchange. Tara scrolled back. “You guys text a lot.”

  “We’re training together. Or we were. He’s in camp now so he probably won’t have time.” This morning she’d blown him off—ha!—and hadn’t even bothered to hit the ice for practice.

  “He wants to talk to you. You’re ignoring him.”

  Fo
reman had sent a few texts since their blow-up—double ha!—telling her they needed to “talk.”

  Tara was staring at her curiously. For God’s sake, this was her bright idea.

  “Listen, there’s nothing going on with me and Foreman. I’m not interested in any hockey players, and especially not guys who can’t go longer than a couple of months without needing to insert their dicks into the nearest available woman.”

  Mia looked up at that moment and clashed gazes with Kennedy, the pink-haired barista, who was clearing the table beside them.

  “Oops, sorry,” Mia muttered.

  Kennedy laughed. “Oh, don’t mind me. I hear all sorts here. Kind of like Downton Abbey where the big wigs act like the servants are deaf, dumb, and blind.”

  Mia shook her head. “I’m not a big wig and I certainly don’t think of you like that! I just have a big mouth.”

  Tara giggled. “She does. And incidentally, I don’t care what you do with Cal. Told you, he’s not on my radar anymore. But maybe …”

  “Maybe what?”

  “He is pretty good at fulfilling a lady’s needs. I’d be interested in a little strings-free return to the Foreman well if he didn’t think I was after him for something more serious.”

  From the woman who expected a marriage proposal four weeks ago.

  “I was hoping to benefit verbally from his vast experience, not in any other way.”

  Yet this notion of Cal being good at giving the ladies what they liked was sneaking under her skin. Already had, if she was honest. Those forearms of his were awfully distracting.

  “But there’s no substitute for the real thing. And Cal Foreman has got a very real thing.” Tara laughed at Mia’s frown. She turned to Kennedy who was still picking up trash and showed her phone with a photo of Cal from the Rebels website.

  “Hey, would you hit this if you had a shot?”

  Kennedy gave it a frank assessment. “Is this a trick question?”

  Tara made a told you so gesture with her hands. “Who wouldn’t want to go there?”

  “I wouldn’t!” Mia exclaimed, possibly with more passion than necessary. “I have someone else on my radar, remember?”

  “But that doesn’t mean you can’t have a little fun in the meantime. Sounds like you’ve scared him off with your frank sex talk, though. Weird, because I wouldn’t take Cal for a prude.”

  Just around Mia. He didn’t see her as a sexual target so talking about it freaked him out. Where men were concerned, Mia was the equivalent of sexual lava.

  Mia turned to Kennedy. “I’m Mia, by the way. This free spirit and dispenser of sexual wisdom is Tara.”

  Kennedy curtseyed, drawing Mia’s grin. “I’m Kennedy, dispenser of caffeine and collector of trash.”

  They chatted a little more and Mia took Kennedy’s number so she could arrange for dog walks while she was out of town at her Olympics tryout. A minute later, Kennedy was back to work while Mia tried to change the topic of conversation to what Tara did for a living. Apparently she was “between jobs” but was vague about how she usually earned her coin. Those Prada purses didn’t pay for themselves.

  “Ooh, look, is that Reid Durand?”

  Mia glanced over her shoulder to where Tara was staring, bug-eyed and drooling. Sure enough, Reid was standing at the counter, waiting for his drink.

  “Call him over! I need an intro.”

  “Really? I don’t know him all that well.”

  “Do it for me!”

  Reid had just picked up his drink, but turned back when Kennedy said something. After an exchange of words, he scowled and walked away, while Kennedy stuck out her tongue behind his back. She caught Mia’s eye and shrugged, which made Mia laugh.

  “Looks like he’s in a bad mood.”

  “Ooh, I love that snarly beast thing he’s got going on,” Tara said, then louder but in a deep voice that was supposed to mimic Mia, “Hey, Reid.”

  Reid flicked a glance their direction, then strode over, looking resigned. At over six feet with dark hair, moody slashes for eyebrows, and ice-blue eyes that never seemed to heat up, he rarely escaped a situation unnoticed.

  “Mia,” he grunted.

  “Hey, Reid, how’s it going?” She lifted her coffee cup. “Do you know Tara?”

  Tara thrust out her hand and Reid took it reluctantly.

  “So what’s your poison?” Tara asked cheerfully.

  “Probably arsenic.” He slid a glance to the coffee counter, where Kennedy was laughing at something one of her co-workers was saying.

  He turned back to Mia. “I hear you’re training with Foreman because your brother isn’t up to the task.”

  “Wow, Reid, so glad to see you’re settling in and making friends on your new crew.”

  That earned her a half-smile. Mia didn’t think she’d ever seen one on him before, and it really transformed him.

  “A word to the wise.” He leaned in. “Be careful with your texts looking for advice about sensitive topics. There are eyes everywhere, Lady M.” He raised his cup and headed back the way he’d come.

  How did—? He must have seen Cal’s phone screen. Those texts had been sort of risqué, she supposed, and that tracked with Cal’s reaction about his nosey teammates. She had probably put him in a tough spot.

  “Lady M?”

  “Must be my name in Foreman’s contact lists.”

  “Aw, that’s sweet. Or maybe it’s sexy. He’s trying to keep you a secret.”

  Perhaps. The whole situation made her uncomfortable so she was glad when Tara moved on to how good Reid Durand’s ass looked in gray sweats.

  Mia walked into the Rebels HQ and headed up to the front office suite to meet Harper for lunch. A crowd had gathered around one of the desks, and as she got closer, the reason became clear.

  Newborn babies were in the house.

  The Rebels had recently welcomed a couple of future players to their ranks. Theo Kershaw and his fiancée Elle, were now the proud parents of a little boy called Hatch, merely a couple of weeks old. Right now, he was nestled in Theo’s arms while the office staff awed, cooed, and clutched at their ovaries. But he wasn’t the only Rebels player present.

  Cal was also here—and carrying another baby dressed in a pink Rebels onesie.

  He hadn’t spotted her yet, so she took a moment to watch how he handled himself.

  Kind of amazing, actually.

  Or perhaps she was just ensorcelled by the man’s forearms, which seemed to be displayed to flexing, dark-haired perfection while the baby nestled in them. Forget the newborn. Those forearms were the real star, obviously designed to inspire aw-inducing and ovary-exploding groans from females the world over.

  “Hey, Mia,” she heard in a soft voice behind her.

  The most handsome executive in pro sports, Dante Moretti wore the smile of a proud papa. Cal must be holding his child, Rosie, who was a couple of weeks older than Hatch.

  “You trust that lug with your kid, Dante?”

  “Cade’s on hand, ready to make the catch.” The warmth in his voice, referring to his husband, Cade Burnett, who hovered nearby in bodyguard mode, was a beautiful thing.

  “How’s life as a stay at home dad?”

  “Never a dull moment. Though I do miss it around here.”

  Giving up the general manager job he’d worked so hard for, so he could devote himself to his new family, was quite the sacrifice. She’d always liked Dante but this upped him even higher in her estimation.

  He focused on her more closely. “How are you doing these days?”

  “Good. Training hard.”

  “Right, with Foreman.”

  Cal must have heard his name mentioned because he finally dragged his gaze away from Rosie and spotted Mia. His eyes sparked, flaming from their usual deep brown to a dark golden whiskey. Still carrying Rosie, he walked over to where they were standing with Burnett trailing him as the safety.

  “Not answering texts anymore?”

  He wanted to do this he
re? Annoyed, she went on the defensive. “I’m not at your beck and call, Foreman. Now, hold still so I can look at this gorgeous girl.”

  She leaned in, suddenly conscious that her head was close to Cal’s, and inhaled that newborn scent mixed with something more potent—just-showered hockey hunk. Tara’s words about Cal’s talent for fulfilling a lady’s needs came back to her, whacked her upside the head, and left her blushing all over.

  “She’s a real cutie, isn’t she?” Cal said, his voice low and husky.

  “Yeah, she is.”

  “One day, Foreman,” Burnett said.

  Cal smiled, a gesture that seemed to encompass Mia, whose heart had started a heavy, thudding beat. “Maybe.”

  “You’d have to do a better job of not scaring women off at weddings,” Theo quipped.

  Foreman laughed, ever good-natured, but Mia could tell it bothered him. Media attention about the post had died down but obviously his teammates hadn’t received the memo.

  Burnett held out his arms. “Think I’ll take my daughter back before she starts to bond with her Uncle Cal.”

  They did the switch off and after a few minutes, the suite was cleared of babies and rubberneckers. Mia headed into Harper’s outer office where Casey, Harper’s assistant, smiled at her.

  “Her last meeting is running late and I was about to head out for lunch. But I can wait with you, if you like.”

  Casey was pretty cool and a great one for gabbing about hockey, but Mia would never stand in the way of a woman and her next meal. “Off you go and eat. I can manage by myself for a few minutes.”

  On her way out, Casey exchanged a few words with someone and not five seconds later, that someone appeared. Cal Foreman, the baby whisperer himself, stood at the entrance to the suite.

  “We haven’t finished our conversation.”

  She checked her phone. “I’m quite finished, thanks.”

  He walked in and half-sat on Casey’s desk, right opposite. Something about the position spoke to her—or to places below her waist—probably because it stretched his sweats taut against thick, lumberack thighs and showcased a very impressive bulge.

  First the forearms, now the thighs and the package. Damn you, Tara Becker!