Cross Crease (On The Edge Book 3)

by Elizabeth Hartey

  “You and Wolfe practically burst into flames whenever you’re near each other,” Nikki yells over the celebrating fans and our own loud clapping. “You guys better do something about the slow burn going on between you or when you finally get together you two may combust into a zillion scorching embers.”

  But Nikki’s observation is wrong. D isn’t smoldering for me. The heat from the hot Winds goalie is blowing in my direction, but I seem to be the only one in slow-burn mode.

  ***

  Nikki and I make our way to the locker room door to congratulate the guys and wait for them. I’m at the door every home game, whether they win or lose. If I’m even one minute late, D texts me to see if I’m okay.

  Ever since he moved to Los Angeles, we spend more time together hanging out rather than texting or video chatting. We meet for lunch at least three times a week and go surfing on the weekends when he doesn’t have games. He’s almost gotten good enough to beat me to shore, but not quite. Sometimes we go to the movies or hike up Runyan Canyon. Even though we see each other much more now, we remain in the best friends-who-hang-out-category.

  The strange thing is, although we have no problem hanging out in public places, he avoids being alone with me like I’m the original Ebola virus carrier. Outings, in public places, are a regular occurrence. But if he comes to pick me up, he never comes inside. He’ll call or text to tell me he’s outside and he’ll wait in the car for me. Same thing happens if I go to pick him up at his new condo. When I get there, he tells the doorman at the desk to let me know he’ll be right down. And at night? Like when I hang out with him after games? He makes sure there’s an entourage going with us. He’s sure to have some super model type or other draped over his shoulder at all times. He never does a repeat performance with whichever flawless beauty is decorating his arm. But it’s still enough to break my heart a little.

  And every time he does it I tell myself it’s time to forget my silly schoolgirl mission. To accept the fact D is never going to agree to take my virginity because we’re friends and I’m Dak’s little sister.

  I’ll be starting my Physical Therapy internship next week. Maybe it’s time for new beginnings in every way, time to reconsider my options.

  “Hey. Do you work for NASA? Because you’re out of this world.” I smile and wrap him in a tight squeeze.

  Pressing my cheek against his jersey—wet with sweat and oozing his manly, soapy scent—there’s a familiar swirl in my stomach. I’m beginning to question the funny pick-up lines game we’ve played forever. It was cute when I was fourteen. But now, every time he innocently teases me with one, a strange aching twinge zaps my heart.

  “Do you work at Starbucks? Because I like you a latte.” He chuckles and squeezes me back. I inhale him and remind myself this is just one friend greeting another, the same way we’ve done a million times in the past. Nothing more.

  “Eww. You’re sweaty gross,” I cringe, and push away from him. I don’t really care about the sweat. I’d stay wrapped up in his arms forever, sweat and all, if he showed the slightest indication he wanted to stay wrapped up in mine. “And I didn’t think you could get much cornier, but that was pretty bad.” I disguise my hurt by teasing him.

  “What? I thought it was pretty clever. Besides, it’s true. I do like you a lot,” Wolfe’s voice softens. For a moment our eyes lock. His silver eyes seem to sparkle just for me.

  “C’mon, bébé. Everyone’s waiting. Hurry and shower.” Miss Swimsuit Edition cover model breathes her thick, French-accented request into D’s ear and breaks my greedy moment. He takes a step back from me at the interruption.

  This is crazy. These ping-ponging thoughts and actions have been going on for two years. It’s exhausting. I’m not some starry-eyed teenager anymore. I don’t need the ooey gooey, crazy-in-love thing. I just need to get laid by someone who doesn’t see me as a fragile porcelain doll, someone who can vanquish my virginity. I want it to be D, but maybe it’s time to forget my teenage obsession with my best friend.

  “Yeah. Be right out.” D holds a wait a minute finger up to Frenchie but doesn’t take his eyes off me. “We’re headed over to the Flying Puck. Dalt and Nik aren’t going because they want to get back to the kids but you’re coming, right?”

  “No. I…I…” I glance at the long-legged, flawless beauty tugging on his arm and she flashes a perfect, white-toothed smile at me. I smile in return before she walks back to the group waiting for D.

  I suppose some women might want to scratch out the woman’s eyes who will be with their man, but I’m determined to face reality. D’s not my man, and he never will be. Reality sucks big time. She’s the type he wants: gorgeous, glamorous, exotic. It’s not her fault she’s…perfect.

  “Give me a minute, Gigi. You okay, Pip?” And there it is. I’m Pip, and she’s freakin’ Gigi.

  “Yeah. I mean no. I’m…I’m not feeling too good. I’m going to head home. I just wanted to say great game tonight. You were on fire out there.” My eyes are starting to burn as I hold back the imminent tears.

  Dammit. I will not cry. Why now for Pete’s sake? I’ve been lusting over this big dope for seven years, I have to pick this place and time to have a complete meltdown? I turn toward the exit. I have to get away from him.

  “Wait, Heaven.” He grabs my arm and stops me from walking away. I can’t remember the last time he called me by my actual name. It should make me happy but instead, being the muddleheaded little fool, I am, it only makes me want to cry more.

  He closes the space between us and says softly, “What’s wrong? Did something happen tonight? Who do I need to crush?”

  His lips are so close to my face, I can feel his warm breath feather my cheek. If I turned my head our lips would be touching. This is ridiculous. I’m trembling like a love-struck puppy.

  I’m a twenty-one-year-old woman who has never let another man get beyond a few kisses and awkward fondles because no other man has ever compared to the man standing next to me. This has to stop. I’m sure I’m the only twenty-something virgin left in LA, maybe in California or on the planet! Who do you need to crush? How about yourself? You big dumbass.

  “Nothing happened.” I pry his hand off my arm. “Nothing ever does. That’s the problem. I…I mean…I have to go. I have a date.” The lie falls from my mouth.

  I don’t know why I said it, but I like the way it makes his expression change from concerned big brother to angry…I don’t know what, but he looks angry. At least anger requires more passion than brotherly concern.

  “A date? I thought you said you didn’t feel good? What do you mean you have a date?” His thick brows pinch, making him appear even more intimidating than his dark features and six-foot-three frame usually do.

  “You know. A date? The thing two people who like each other do. They go out alone, have fun, maybe go home alone together and…well, you know. Like what you’ll be doing with Gigi tonight in some bathroom stall somewhere.”

  His silver eyes darken to a stormy grey, making him look even angrier. I don’t feel like crying anymore. I’m bold, empowered. Sass is my bitch. I start to walk away, but he grabs my arm again, this time a little tighter.

  “The hell you are,” he snarls.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You are not going to do what me and Gi…I mean…who are you going out with? We never talked about this.” He raises his voice. The crowd waiting for him stops conversing. Every head turns to see what’s going on.

  “Stop it,” I whisper. “You’re making a scene. What will your friends think? And since when do I need to talk to you about who I’m going out with?”

  “I don’t give a fuck who hears us.” He glares at the stunned group waiting for him. Apparently, his wordless stare sends the message to disregard the crazy man still decked out in his goalie uniform yelling at his friend. Every head turns at the same time and resumes their conversations, ignoring me and D.

  He opens a nearby door and tugs me inside. It appears to be an equipm
ent closet filled with hockey sticks, nets, buckets, and other things I don’t have time to process before D drops his helmet and gloves and pushes my back against the closed door. He stands in front of me with barely enough space between us to keep us from touching.

  “What are you doing, Pippa?”

  “What am I doing? What are you doing? You’re not my father, and I don’t need another big brother getting all up in my personal space. And stop calling me Pippa! I’m a twenty-one-year-old woman! I’m not your Kewpie doll.” For a fleeting moment, his brows twitch in questioning sadness.

  “What the hell does that even mean? I never thought you were my fucking Kewpie doll,” he hisses back at me, his angry scowl returning. “I’m just saying, we’ve always discussed who you date and how you want to wait for the right guy before you…before you…”

  “Before I what? Fuck?” I snap back. “You’re right. I’m certainly not your fucking Kewpie doll. Also, I’m pretty sure my waiting for the right guy was your fucked-up idea, not mine.”

  “Don’t. You never talk like that.” He shakes his head and runs his hand back over his sweat-slicked hair.

  “No, I never talk like that, and I never do it, either. But it’s going to change. I guess I’m going to have to start looking for the right guy. Apparently, he isn’t going to come knocking on my door. Seems to have worked out pretty good for Dak and Dalt. They fucked all over the place before they found their Ms. Rights and now they’re living their happily ever afters. And look at you. You’ve got a new woman every few days who’s willing to humiliate herself for you. Why is it okay for you guys, but not for me?”

  “I’m not looking for a fucking happily ever after, and besides, you just said it. We’re guys!” He punches the door behind me.

  “What!” I smack my palms against his pad-covered chest. It’s like smacking a brick wall. “Don’t even go there with the ‘we’re guys’ crap. I’m not looking for a forever after, either. I just don’t want to do this anymore.” I wave my hand between us.

  “Do what?” he says in a quiet voice and steps closer.

  “Beg you for something you’re not willing to give me.”

  “Don’t do this, Heaven.” He closes what little space is left between us, towering over me. My small body is enveloped by his massive, strong presence. My breasts squash against his chest protector.

  “Don’t fuck some random guy.” His soft words ricochet off every sensory nerve in my body. I involuntarily arch into him. Even through all his pads, I feel the rumble in his chest as the growl moves up and out of his throat.

  “I don’t want to fuck some random guy,” I whisper. “I…I want it to be you. You know I’ve always wanted it to be you.” I close my eyes and part my lips, waiting. Waiting for the inescapable kiss he seems to want as much as I do. But then the weight of his glorious body is gone when he steps back. I’m left cold and trembling against the door, alone. Alone, like I am every time he walks away from me.

  “I…fuck. No…” He shakes his head. “Don’t be a little fool.” He dips his chin and doesn’t look at me.

  “A little fool? I just told you I want you to fuck me and your only response is to call me a fool?”

  “I’m not what you need,” he mumbles, glancing up at me from under his long, dark lashes.

  “You’re exactly what I need, D,” I state, my voice adamant and strong. “I’m twenty-one, a graduate student in a doctorate program. I can recite every muscle in the body with origin and insertion and how those muscles respond during sexual exertion. I have the useless knowledge to describe the way the blood flows and which hormones are released during an orgasm. But I’ve never had a chance to experience what happens emotionally and physically between a man and a woman during sex.”

  He shakes his head like he doesn’t like where this is going and wants me to stop. But I keep right on telling him like it is.

  “I don’t want to know the science of sex, D. I want to feel it.” I lower my voice to a velvet whisper. I’d like to be touching him with my hands, but since he’s still covered in protective hockey pads, I’m going to use my soft words to caress him. “I want to feel the trembling excitement when a guy undresses me. I want to feel the warmth rushing through me when he runs his hands down my body and touches me in secret places, places where he can feel what he’s doing to me. I want to smile in satisfaction when I stroke him and realize the power I have to make him respond. I want to explode into white-hot flames and lose all control when he pushes into me and takes me over the edge.” If he touches me in secret places now? No amount of protective gear is going to keep me from touching him—everywhere—in return.

  He groans and runs his fingers through his hair again. “Pip. Please,” he begs me like my words are causing him pain. But I show no mercy.

  “You’re right. It shouldn’t be with some random guy.” I place a hand on his cheek. “And despite what you think, I’m not such a little fool. Who better to share a first-time experience with than my best friend? A friend who cares about me.”

  He’s looking straight into my eyes when I finish explaining all the reasons why he should be the one to deflower me. I can almost see flames in his half-lidded, covetous gaze. I’m confident he understands. But then he shoves my hand off his face and closes his eyes.

  “I…damn it. I can’t.” There’s such grit in his voice, for a second I think he’s going to punch the wall again. Instead, he blows out a huge breath. His voice drops to a whisper. “I do care about you. You’re…I’m…I have to fucking go. Gigi’s waiting.”

  “Gigi’s waiting? Really? You really are a jerk. You know that?” I huff out.

  “What the hell are you talking about, Pippa?” The angry tone returns to his voice. No one is whispering now. He’s angry with me. I’d laugh if I weren’t so flattened by his response. “Why are you doing this? You know we can’t. We’re friends, and you’re Dak’s baby sister, for chrissakes.”

  “I’m no one’s baby anything.” This time when I shove him, he loses his footing and steps back, giving me time to yank the door open.

  “Maybe not. But you are my best friend,” he says in a hushed tone.

  “Yeah. You’re my best friend too,” my tone matching his. “But sometimes…I really hate you.” I turn and run from the closet and down the hall. This time he doesn’t stop me from leaving.

  ***

  My shiny white Audi convertible glistens under the LED lighting in the VIP lot outside the players’ entrance. I drop into the driver’s seat and grip the steering wheel in an attempt to keep myself from sobbing. I will not fall apart.

  D doesn’t come after me. I didn’t expect him to. Gigi is waiting. Dammit. I should’ve known better.

  Ironically, Wolfe’s so-called reprobate status may have been the very reason I fell so in lust with him and chose him as the designated recipient of my V-card. Well, besides his model face and Mr. Olympia body.

  My dad says I’m a sucker for taking in strays. A broken things collector, so to speak, confident I can help them or fix them: cats, dogs, birds, turtles, and even people.

  I’m obviously no expert on damaged, beautiful bad boys, but in my opinion, those guys weren’t born bad. Something happened to them somewhere along the way which froze their hearts inside those picture-perfect exteriors.

  I don’t mean bad boys who are robbing banks or selling drugs on street corners. I’m talking about the guys who think they don’t want any long-term commitment or affection and definitely aren’t interested in giving any. The guys who don’t have to work at being attractive. They nonchalantly ooze sex from every pore, and the ladies flock to them. They use those willing women one after the other and then discard them with a casual ‘see ya.’ I mean, what is it with these guys? They have the power to turn intelligent, level-headed women into quivery, giggling idiots. And I’ve joined the ranks. It’s infuriating.

  I push the ignition button and then the button for the power roof. It’s a warm September evening in Santa Ana�
�although, I’m shivering like it’s December in Aspen. I tug the elastic band from my wrist and wrap it around my hair in a ponytail. Even though I’m shivering, I relish the brisk wind blowing across my face as I fight the traffic leaving the arena and drive the few miles to my bungalow in Long Beach. I can’t wait to get back to the tranquility of waves crashing onshore. Maybe the repetitive sound will lull away the mess going on inside my head.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket. I take it out and throw it onto the passenger seat without looking at it. I don’t want to talk to anyone right now.

  I almost wish my date lie wasn’t a lie. Having a meaningless someone to screw me senseless would be a welcome distraction, wipe D from my mind.

  The phone vibrates against the leather seat with another incoming call. I’m stuck in jammed up traffic trying to exit the stadium, so I pick it up. The screen lights up with Wolfe’s stunning face. His eyes are looking directly into my camera lens with a slight squint, giving him a real wolf’s dark, predatorial appearance—the one it gets when it’s ready to overwhelm its prey. I took the photo a few weeks ago when we were walking down the beach after surfing.

  It’s unsettling as I stare at the screen and recognize the power Wolfe’s face has to destroy all sense of self-preservation. He has a face no woman can resist. The kind which looks like he’s had the best freaking orgasm of his life—or he’s about to give you yours. Sultry wolf eyes which say, ‘I’m going to devour you’and full plump lips which silently say, ‘let me.’

  In the photo, he has a Winds cap turned backward on his head, and his long hair is hanging to his shoulders, the salty ocean water making it even more wavy than usual. His tanned muscles are glistening with water droplets, and the way his sexy glare pierces right through the screen shoots aching sensations down to my core.