Mac’s bullshit meter crossed the red line. What the hell was going on? Did she have coverage the whole time? He hadn’t considered it after his own cell failed. Surely, she would have said something after the fire. None of this made sense.
He helped himself to a two-finger serving of Donaldson’s whiskey, the hard liquor searing his throat. She touched his shoulder and he recoiled, slamming the glass onto the bar. “Don’t. You’ve been playing me, Doc, and I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all.”
Sam frowned, hurt and something less defined flitting across her expression. “I thought you’d be happy. We can get out of here now. Uncle Thomas is sending a car tomorrow, as soon as the next storm front passes through. That’s good news, isn’t it?”
Sure. If she was telling the truth.
“What did you want to tell me?” he asked abruptly, swinging around to rest an elbow on the bar.
She stared at him, her gaze puzzled. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
The phone rested on the counter between them—a ticking time bomb. “I heard you, Samantha.” She winced at the use of her full name. “You told your uncle I deserved to know what’s going on. I couldn’t agree more, so talk.”
She lowered her eyes, hiding from him. “It’s… nothing. I just wanted to let you know how well your treatment is coming, and Uncle Thomas wanted me to wait until he can explain it as your doctor.” She grasped his arm and looked at him with deceiving blue eyes. “You should be happy, Mac. You won’t need an operation. You’ll be able to return to the game by next season, for sure.”
Next season.
He jerked away from her touch, anger carrying him across the room. “What about this season, Doc? I’ve worked my ass off to get where I am, and you’re telling me my chances for the cup have gone down the drain?” He swore and punched the mantle over the fireplace, barely aware of the skin breaking on his knuckles. “What the hell did I hire you for? You’ve been nothing but trouble since you arrived. I’ll be happy, as you so eloquently put it, to get off this mountain and never see you again. That’s the only thing I’m looking forward to right now.”
He turned to glare in her direction. She wavered like a sapling in a wind storm, her eyes jewel-bright against the pallor of her face. Guilt broadsided him. Damn his hotheaded temper. What if he’d been wrong?
“Sam,” he said, and took an awkward step forward.
“No.” She lifted a trembling hand and backed away. “I think you’ve said enough, thank you. I… I’ll be in my room—packing. Let me know when the car arrives.” She turned and walked away, her back ramrod straight. He’d hurt her. And the damnable part of it was, he was the one left aching.
14
Sam threw the last of her clothes into the overflowing suitcase laying open on the bed, then attempted to close the lid, but no amount of pushing and shoving would get the darn zipper to move. Frustrated, and near tears, she rolled off the bulging bag and stared at the ceiling. She wasn’t used to people yelling at her the way he had. Her family treated her like a princess—more so after her father died—which fueled her hunger to be independent and succeed in her chosen field. And, as to the men in her life, up to now, she’d been the aggressor. The one to break things off before they became serious. She had a plan; career first, family later—much later.
She pulled a downy pillow close and hugged it to her chest. Why did it matter if Mac hated her? Because, she’d failed. That’s all this was. His therapy and the request from the coach was her chance to fast-track her business into a secure position and she’d ruined it. It had nothing to do with whether she liked the man or not—at this moment, most definitely not—it was business.
And she was the Princess of Monaco, too.
They had a connection. The air practically vibrated with electricity every time they were in a room together. If he wanted to deny their attraction and pretend nothing had happened, so be it. She could accept that, it was probably for the best.
If only it didn’t hurt so much.
Her heart jumped at a knock on the door.
“Sam, can I come in for a minute? We should talk.”
She turned her head and stared at the door. “I think we’ve said it all, Wanowski. Go away.”
The knob rattled. “Come on, Doc. You owe me.”
She entertained the thought of ignoring him until he gave up, but he was right—damn him. She cast the pillow aside and stood, brushing the moistness from beneath her eyes as she strode to the door. A long inhale and slow exhale later, she unlocked and opened the door. Mac stood there with hunched shoulders and hands in the pockets of worn jeans. Her pulse skipped a beat.
“This isn’t a good time.” She glanced at the mess on her bed. “I’m busy.”
He put a palm on the door she’d started to close. “Let me in, Sam. Please.”
Sure she was making a mistake, but helpless to turn him away, Sam stepped into the room and nervously began to fold the clothes in her suitcase. “What do you want, Mac, an apology in blood? I already explained…”
He took the satiny underwear out of her hand and tossed it aside, before turning her to face him. “As you may have noticed, I have a tendency to talk before I think. It gets me in all kinds of shit, believe me.” He smiled, but it faded when she didn’t respond. He tipped her chin up and frowned at the obvious signs of her distress. “Is that because of me?”
She snorted and jerked free. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m catching a cold, it makes my eyes water.” No way was she going to admit he’d hurt her feelings. Tired of keeping the truth from him, Sam perched on the edge of the mattress and fidgeted with the zipper on her suitcase. “There’s something you should probably know—” she peeped at him through her lashes, caught his sudden stillness, and looked away, “—when your coach hired me to come out here and care for you, it was with the stipulation that I slow down your therapy.”
“Have you no conscience?” He grasped her wrists and gave them a shake. “That’s my livelihood and you’re treating it as though it’s a game to you.”
She tensed at his growing anger and hurried to correct his misconceptions. “To keep you from reinjuring your knee. That’s all, I swear.” His fingers cut into her wrists like a set of manacles. He was scaring her. “Let go, Mac, you’re hurting me.”
He immediately loosened his grip, his eyes contrite when he noticed the reddened skin. “God, Sam, I’m sorry. I would never intentionally…”
She cupped his jaw, the golden-brown stubble tickling her fingertips. “Shh, you don’t have to apologize. I should have explained it better. I have the upmost respect for what you do out on that ice and if you ever saw me on skates, you’d know why.” She smiled, then realized how close they were and dropped her hand. “Physiotherapy is a two-way street, Mac. It can only work if the patient is onboard with the treatment.”
He couldn’t seem to look away from his fingerprints on her arms. He took her hand in his and lifted it to his mouth. She gasped as his lips feathered over the hollow of her wrist, the touch soothing and erotic at the same time.
“So soft,” he whispered, his breath raising goose bumps along her spine. “Why is it I can’t keep my hands off of you?” he mused. “You exasperate me almost as much as you turn me on.”
Sam barely heard him, her attention entirely focused on those lips and what they were doing to her pulse. She whimpered and he smiled against her skin. Cheeks fiery, she tried to yank her arm free, but he was having none of it. Instead, he wrapped her hands behind his neck and traced a line of kisses along her arm, leaving a trail of fire in his wake.
“I think I’m going to have to kiss you,” he murmured, his gaze on her tingling lips.
She let out a shaky breath. “I don’t think that’s a good—” He dipped his head and their mouths met. She was pretty sure there were sparks involved. A deep, almost involuntary groan seemed to rise from his chest and now she was the one smiling against his lips.
He tipped his head back fa
r enough to meet her gaze, his own eyes hooded. Hot. “What’s so funny?”
She shrugged, warm under the heat of his regard. “When I get nervous, I laugh. It’s an involuntary reaction to overloaded stimuli…” The words petered out at his bemused expression.
“Are you saying I make you uneasy, Doc?” he grinned. His big hands slid down her arms and rested on the bed, forcing her to lie down or bump faces. Mac’s smile grew in triumph. “You were saying?”
Holy Batman. Talk about sensory overloads. The scent of cedar clung to his clothes, a perfect accent to his overwhelming masculinity. The forearms bracketing her shoulders—bared by rolled up sleeves—bulged with a latent strength that made her girly parts quiver. She bit her lip and tried not to squirm, but he picked up on her tell, his gaze narrowing on her mouth.
“You tempt me, woman. You’re dangerous,” he muttered, just before seeking her lips again. He licked the spot she’d worried with her teeth, the sensation causing her heart to stutter. “Open for me, Sam,” he whispered.
And she did.
* * *
Mac woke to a dark room and a sleeping blond blanket. Sam had draped herself over his chest, her cheek resting against his heart and their legs entwined. He lay there for a moment breathing in the scent of their passion. A sense of rightness filled his chest. She was perfect. Never before had he laughed during sex, but Sam’s quirky humor had turned the intimacy into something more than affection. Tenderness for the woman in his arms tightened his throat. He was falling for Samantha Walters.
He brushed the messy hair away and pressed a kiss to her forehead, smiling when she murmured a protest and cuddled closer. Her full breasts nestled his ribs, triggering a response he wouldn’t have thought possible after the night they had just shared. She was incredibly responsive, keen, receptive. They were good together. He wanted to see her after this was over. He hadn’t even asked about her job or where she lived—whether there was another man in her life. The last thought soured his stomach and he cast it aside. Besides, it wasn’t like they’d promised undying love before hooking up. Free agents and all that. Like his career at the end of this season. He was looking at an empty future without the playoffs. Shit, he was older than half the guys on the team and had the battle scars to prove it. The scouts were always on the search for the next big thing—his days were numbered, and he would have been fine with that if he could have ended in a blaze of glory. Instead of the dream of having his number retired, he was going to end up a has-been player looking for coaching jobs, or God help him, a sports caster.
What would Sam think of him then?
He ran his hand down the length of her hip, the bare skin soft and supple with an underlying thread of steel that reminded him of her personality. She flexed and stretched, welcoming his touch even as she moaned at getting drawn from her rest.
“Hey, Sleeping Beauty. Time to wake up, you’ve put my arm to sleep,” he teased. He gave her backside a light slap and she squealed, sitting up in a rush, boobs bouncing and hair flying every which way. Mac grinned, enjoying the view.
She stared down at him indignantly. “That was rude, mister. If that’s how you treat all your lady friends—” Her nose scrunched up adorably. “—it’s no wonder you’re single.” Her eyes widened. “You are single, aren’t you?”
He tucked his arms behind his head, the better to take in the fire he’d stirred. “A little late to ask me that now, isn’t it? I could ask you the same.” He waited for her to reassure him,
And waited.
Instead, she rolled out of bed and eyed their love nest as though it contained a nest of scorpions. She waved a hand up and down the length of his rather impressive body, if he did say so himself, but kept her gaze on his face. “You… I… this was a mistake.” She looked so distressed he was tempted to take her in his arms, but damn, he didn’t much like where she was headed with this.
“What do you mean, a mistake?” he said, sitting up and casually bending his good leg so his foot could rest on the inner thigh of the other leg. Her gaze landed on his growing erection and she glared like it was all his fault—hey, he was a guy, sue him.
“You know darn well why,” she snapped. “I’m employed by your boss. It’s… unethical.”
He snorted. “Babe, if you think this is wrong, you should see what happens on a road trip.” He sighed, aware he was burying himself deeper. “Look, as long as I’m not your boss, it’s a non-issue. You’re making too big a deal out of this.”
She frowned and crossed her arms under her bare breasts. He almost went cross-eyed and lost his train of thought. “Easy for you to say, it’s not your job on the line. You have it made with your multi-million-dollar career goofing off chasing a puck on the ice. Some of us have real responsibilities.” She covered her mouth, as though realizing what she’d said. “Mac, that’s not what…”
Now it was his turn to get upset. What gave her the right to judge him? He’d worked every bit as hard as she had for his dream. He should have known she wouldn’t understand—she wasn’t his type. “Come back to bed, honeybun. We get along better when we’re doing dirt, than when we talk. Let’s skip right to the good stuff.” He lay back and rolled his hips, trying to be as obnoxious as she seemed to think athletes were—which begged the question, why was she even helping him?
She stared at him with a mix of hurt and disgust, then turned without another word, and walked into the bathroom, closing the door with a too-quiet click.
Guess the honeymoon was over.
15
Coach glared at the idiot powering his way down the ice as though the rest of his team weren’t waiting in the wings for the pass he was supposed to make. How many times did he have to go over this shit before they listened?
“Pass the puck,” he yelled, along with the players warming the bench in front of him. “Idiot,” he growled as the forward from the opposing team scooped it and raced the other way—passing the puck. And since all the WarHawks were on the other end, which left their goalie guarding the net on his own, it only took a couple of fast maneuvers and they scored.
Game over.
Aware the cameras were focused on him, Dan kept a stoic expression while inside his guts burned. If they kept this up, the team wouldn’t make the playoffs and if they didn’t make the playoffs he was screwed. How had he let himself get into this mess?
The teams met at center ice. The WarHawks yanked a glove off and shook hands with the winners, one by one. His guys were tired, frustrated, and quickly losing hope. Maybe he shouldn’t have gotten rid of Wanowski so soon. Too late—what was done, was done. All he could do now was damage control.
He carefully straightened his crumpled tie and headed down the narrow hallway leading to the dressing rooms, dragging his heels on the rubber flooring. Normally, the musty, sweaty, icy perfume created by the Zamboni soothed the tension that followed him like a shadow, but today it did nothing to dispel his fears. One more game. After that they were out of the standings and their shot at the cup was over. Not that they could be allowed to win anyway, but he had to make it look good for the big money to drop. His life depended on it.
“Good game.”
Dan turned and waited for Doc to catch up. His friend sported a few more gray hairs every time he saw him—hell, so did he. They were two dinosaurs in a sea of faces that seemed to get younger with every season. Well, after this year he could retire in style. He just had to get through the next couple of months.
“What was so great about it? We lost.” He folded his arms over a barrel chest. His kid ragged on him to exercise more, try the Keto diet that was all the rage—until the next big fad came along—but he wasn’t having it. He liked a cold beer and a big steak, and he didn’t see himself giving it up for that salad crap.
Doc rubbed a grizzled jaw. “Well, that’s true enough, but our boys made them work for it. Did you see that move by Lazlo? He blocked three guys until Donaldson could get by and score. No one gets past that Croatian.” He chuc
kled.
It was true. The WarHawks were a formidable team. The key players, including Wanowski, had played together for a long time—they operated like a well-oiled machine. He had a feeling that was part of the problem tonight, they missed their captain. They better get over it; they were up against the best in the league next week.
The locker room was subdued—a stark contrast to victory celebrations. Towels littered the floor, B.O. blended with the fresh scent of soap from the showers, and men chatted half-heartedly while changing into street clothes.
Guilt made Dan’s voice harsh. “What the hell was going on out there? You pansy-asses know what side of the ice you’re supposed to be protecting? ’Cause I wasn’t seeing it.” He slammed a locker door shut and the room went silent. “You screwed up tonight.” He stared each man down, daring them to argue. When they remained silent, morose, he sighed and did his job. “That’s okay, everyone has an off-night, but we can’t have a repeat next week or we’re done. You got that?”
“Ya, Coach. We try harder next time,” Lazlo assured him. “Will Wanowski be back before the playoffs?”
Dan cursed under his breath and ignored the questioning glance from Doc. “Just worry about your game. I’ll handle Wanowski.” Literally. The guy was a thorn in his side.
Doc clapped the Slavic’s back. “My niece is his therapist, Hans. She assured me just yesterday that he’s almost fully recovered and will be back in plenty of time for the next game.”
Dan frowned. Why hadn’t he heard anything about this? What the hell was he paying those two idiots for if they couldn’t even take care of one beat-up, has-been hockey player? “I thought the storms were too bad to go up the mountain?” he asked. Hewett had assured him no one was moving in the blizzard conditions. And besides, Wanowski’s truck was little more than scrap metal after the fire.
Skating on Thin Ice: The Men of WarHawks- Book 1 Page 7