Fighting against Gravity: A Standalone Enemies-to-Lovers Sports Romance (An Ice Tigers Hockey Romance Book 3)

by Isabella Cassazza

  Should I open the door? Standing up would mean having to use my over-exhausted arms again. This isn’t my house. And I don’t know where Michael is. “Michael?”

  No answer. For all I know, he might be asleep.

  The doorbell rings again. My gaze finds my crutches, but my arms are begging me not to get up. To say they’re sore doesn’t even come close to what they are. They are screaming and yelling at me to cease any kind of movement and accuse me of weighing too much for their nonexistent muscle mass.

  The bell rings a third time. Where the hell is Michael? Even if he was asleep, he should be awake now with the constant ringing. Our host doesn’t have one of these chiming doorbells. No, his has a straightforward shrill ring.

  I sigh and pick up the crutches. “Come on, Johnny. Let’s see who is at the door.”

  It takes ages and two more rings to reach the entrance. Rings that become shriller the closer we get to the door. How can Michael endure that sound? I’m sure he’s awake, just too lazy to open his own door.

  Once I’ve reached the entrance, I’m confronted with the next problem. When I open the door, no one’s there. Technically, no one can be since we made sure to close the gate behind us yesterday.

  Thinking of how long the distance from the driveway to the house is, my arm muscles tighten up before I can take a single step forward. No way I can walk to the gate and back on my crutches. “Hang on. I need to figure out how to open the gate,” I yell in the direction of the waiting car where a guy with sunglasses is about to reach for the bell button again.

  He lifts his head. “Okay.” Thank God he got the message. Another of these shrills would have burst my eardrums for sure. Johnny’s had his ears covered with his hands since the second ring. Clever boy. If only I had four hands.

  I enter the house again and turn to what I hope is the intercom. Crap, how the hell does one operate the touchpad. I lean my crutches against the wall, put one shoulder against it for support, and tap on the screen twice. A big mistake. If I thought the doorbell was shrill, the alarm system beats it times ten.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Michael snaps at me as he hobbles around the corner, bare-chested but with a towel around his hips.

  “Umm….” I take one step to the side and swallow. Wow, that man has pecs. Giant pecs. And that six-pack… “There’s, uh, there’s someone at the door… uh, gate. I… I didn’t know how to open the… gate.” I swallow again, while heat creeps up my neck.

  I have seen naked men before, but he’s in a different category. Michael’s physique is… godlike. I’m staring. Totally. And it’s a complete coincidence that I pull my lower lip between my teeth. I thought my lady parts were dead. But if they were, they’ve just been revived. I don’t think they’ve ever felt more alive. More ready to….

  I blink twice and swallow. Johnny pulls at my leg, trying to hide from Michael who’s attacking the touchpad with rapid swipes and repeated taps.

  “You’re scaring Johnny.” I blink again, then turn my attention to my little son and caress his hair. He seems okay, more curious about what Michael is doing than being scared of the big man.

  I treat myself to another view of hunky male. His back muscles aren’t shabby either. I tilt my head to get a better view. Nope, not bad at all.

  Michael narrows his eyes when he turns his head to me but ceases the angry poking. Poor touchpad must feel like a punching bag now.

  The silence that follows is uncomfortable to say the least. He totally caught me staring at him. Then a shadow appears in front of the milk glass, and I have to reach for my crutches and hobble-jump to the side to avoid being hit by the door when it flies open out of nowhere. If it weren’t for the thick arm under my breasts, I’d be lying on the floor now.

  Shit, I didn’t close the door completely. Thank God for Michael’s quick reaction.

  “Thanks,” I breathe more than I say since his upper arm is pressing against my left boob this very minute. His thick-like-a-tree-trunk upper arm. How have I not noticed his arms and shoulders? He looks… fantastic. He has to with all that protein powder he consumes.

  Before he can do more than utter something incomprehensible under his breath, our guest bursts into the hallway—a giant with a big smile. He’s at least a head taller than Michael and broader in the chest area. Where were all these men hiding in the past years?

  “Hello. I’m Sergei, my friends. I heard we have some hungry mouths to feed?” He brushes past us and heads inside, carrying two big baskets filled with all kinds of vegetables and other stuff.

  “Who is he?” I ask while Sergei turns around the corner.

  “I hired a chef,” Michael says as if it’s the most normal thing in the world.

  “A chef?” My head flies around. Who hires a chef?

  Michael shrugs. “Yeah. He cooks for a living.”

  I blink rapidly. “Why’s he here?”

  He frowns. “He cooks.”

  “For whom?” I narrow my eyes.

  “For us.”

  “Didn’t you like my dinner?” I glare at him.

  “I’ve eaten better.” And with that, he heads to the living area, leaving me to pick up my jaw from the floor. Did I think him uber attractive a minute ago? Screw that. His character ruins the godlike definition of his arm and shoulder area. I’ve eaten better? The bastard. I might not be a gourmet chef, but I won’t let him bash my meatloaf. It’s fantastic. I won’t let him crush my confidence. I—

  “Mommy, wat is te funny man doin ’ere?” Johnny pulls at my leg and looks up with his big eyes.

  “He’s a cook. He’ll cook for us.”

  “Hmm.” Johnny crinkles his nose.

  Yeah, “hmm” is what I’m thinking too. God forbid the guy makes frog legs or other disgusting stuff for us. It might end in another vomit disaster. Or in one of my son’s temper tantrums.

  “Come on, Johnny. Let’s have a look at that chef.” Better to find out right away if the meals are suitable for a toddler’s taste.

  “Are you sure you won’t share the recipe with me?”

  Sergei clears the table for us and fills our glasses again. Water for Michael and fresh fruit juice for Johnny and me. I could get used to being served everything, though I don’t want to know what kind of hourly rate Sergei is asking for.

  “I can’t. My family honor is at stake, beautiful lady.” He bends down in a dramatic bow and kisses my hand. Just to see Michael’s surly face, Sergei is worth every penny he gets paid. The Russian chef is as good of a high-class entertainer as he is a cook. And fantastic with children.

  Johnny had the evening of his life and ate everything Sergei put in front of him. My little boy isn’t a super picky eater, but until this evening he wasn’t a big fan of Brussels sprouts and asparagus. Until Sergei let him help prepare the vegetables and turned preparing them to dramatic storytelling. Our chef is a born actor, an artist in the kitchen, and his dishes are to die for.

  Maybe Johnny will even take to fish and seafood at the end of our stay. The next few weeks don’t seem as gloomy anymore. I know it’s part of the show and has more to do with pleasing his clients than actually flirting with me, but his compliments, honest or not, make me happy. They make me feel a few inches taller than I am and are a much-needed boost for my destroyed self-esteem when it comes to men.

  My sharp tongue is the only protection I have against being hurt again. It’s not something most men want to deal with and certainly aren’t attracted to. Princess-like girls with breasts bigger than their brain and no opinion of their own, that’s what men want—at least it was what Steven wanted.

  “Don’t be sad, beautiful lady. Here is a flower for you.” Sergei’s voice breaches my dark thoughts. He snaps his finger, and a red paper rose appears out of nowhere.

  “So, now you’re a magician as well as a chef?” I take the flower from his hand and caress the petals. When was the last time someone gave me flowers? I don’t remember.

  “I have many talents.” He win
ks, and my cheeks flush.

  “Shouldn’t you prepare our breakfast? I won’t pay more than the agreed hours.” Michael’s harsh voice ends the magic.

  I glare at Mr. Grumpy and turn back to Sergei. “Thank you, Sergei. I can’t wait to learn more about your… talents.”

  Michael’s expression turns from sour to deadly. Something that lifts my spirit even more.

  “Stop flirting with the chef,” he snaps.

  “I didn’t flirt with him. If I had, you would have known it.” I don’t give him time to reply, but push my chair back and reach for my crutches. “Come on, Johnny. Let’s help Sergei in the kitchen.”

  “I pay him to do that,” an angry Michael says behind me.

  “I enjoy cooking and want to learn from him.” I really do. Michael’s I’ve-eaten-better-comment still stings.

  A minute later, the cane scratches against the floor behind us and fades as its owner moves down the hallway. I win.

  “Little Johnny, what would you like for breakfast tomorrow?” Sergei kneels down in front of my son once we’ve arrived at the kitchen island.

  “Fluit—”

  “Johnny.” I give him a stern look when his head flies to me.

  He pouts but then turns back to Sergei with a better request. “Tsereal.”

  Sergei slaps his hands over his heart. “We’re not making just ‘cereal.’ We’re making”—he taps Johnny on his nose—“kasha. It’s a traditional Russian porridge. You’ll love it.” He picks up Johnny and turns in a circle. My heart goes out to my little boy. He squeals and throws his head back in delight.

  Just as with Nessy, Johnny is mesmerized by the male attention, and my heart hurts. It’s something I can’t give him. Maybe I’m wrong to have given up on dating altogether. Maybe there is someone out there for me, someone who will love Johnny and me. But I have no idea how to reenter the dating pond. I wish I could work less, but I can’t afford to pay for more help. The weeks ahead will eat up my hard-earned savings account sooner than I can so much as blink.

  I curse my stupidity again. I should have never fallen for Steven. I certainly should have never relied on his promises to stay with me forever and support me when I bought the shop and took on a loan to renovate it.

  When I got pregnant he promised to pay for help so I could stay at home with Johnny for a year. Financial stability, that’s what he promised me. We could have had that, if he hadn’t run away with the first bombshell that showed an interest in him and abandoned me and his promises on the spot.

  What was I thinking? A man like Steven never falls for a woman like me. Not permanently. I should have known that from the beginning, but certainly when I found the picture of a stunning blonde in his car—his sister—according to him. A sister he didn’t have. A so-called sister I found him locking lips with right in front of our home when I was seven months pregnant and had closed the shop on time for a change. A drunken mistake, that’s what he called the kiss.

  I was too desperate not to believe him. I didn’t want to be alone with a newborn. I couldn’t imagine being alone with a newborn. And yet that’s precisely what happened.

  Even worse, I ended up alone with too much debt to pay off with only one income. The dating pond will have to do without me, I’m better off alone. I’ll never subject myself to the disappointment again that comes with being left. And I’ll never trust a man again. I’ve learned my lesson.

  “It breaks my heart to see a beautiful woman so sad.” Sergei saves me once again from my dark past.

  “Sometimes being sad is necessary.”

  He scratches his chin. “You’re a wise woman. In Russia is good to be sad. We are… how do you say… melancholic. Drink some vodka. Complain. Is good.”

  I laugh. “Well, I would prefer not being wise, but thank you for saying that. And vodka is great.”

  “I bring some tomorrow. We drink. To sadness.”

  I laugh. “We’ll do that. But you shouldn’t drink and drive.”

  “One glass.” He lifts two fingers, contradicting himself.

  I stretch out my hand, and he shakes it. I’m not attracted to the big Russian, but I sure can use a companion right now. It doesn’t hurt that our banter is driving our shared opponent crazy.

  Not bad at all.

  Chapter 11

  Michael

  Silence. Beautiful silence fills the house. Something that hasn’t been the case for the past week. Unbelievable how much noise the little boy makes when he’s around his mom. Not when he’s around me. Not anymore.

  Since I yelled at him this morning for nearly dropping another one of my designer glasses, he hasn’t spoken to me and refused to let me help him on the toilet again. I have no idea how Ellie and he deal without my help. Maybe she’s more secure with handling the crutches now.

  Not that you will hear me complaining. I can do without poop on my hands just fine, but I might feel a little left out since it’s hard to tell whether he or his mom is Sergei’s biggest fan.

  That man is… a little too flirty with Ellie for my taste. If it weren’t for his food, I’d have fired him already. But I want to eat healthier again.

  Ellie believes I survive on protein powder and eggs. The simple truth is, I can’t cook. My mom cooked at home, and I’ve gone out to eat ever since I moved to Boston. Why waste my limited time to learn something that others are way better at?

  I have more than enough time now, but I’d rather not experiment in the kitchen as long as Ellie and Johnny are in the house. The last thing I need is them making fun of me.

  Sergei knows his way around the kitchen; even the little guy liked the fish variation with steamed vegetables he served us tonight. Ellie might have been hurt when I criticized her cooking, but I had to do something after I witnessed her sway around the kitchen on unsteady feet while boiling-hot pots and pans were in constant danger of tumbling over.

  The next morning I called my agent and asked for a chef. I still have to pay him for another six months, so he can damn well work for his money. As always, he did an excellent job and found a cook in no time.

  For the next few weeks, Sergei will join us at noon and prepare our lunch, dinner, and breakfast for the following day. I never had a personal chef before, but it’s something I could get used to. Though I should have asked for a female chef.

  I plop down on my bed and pull my shirt over my head. I want to shower before I call it a night. A bath would be nice. The problem is, I’m not sure I could climb in and out of the bathtub on my own. I told my dad not to install one of those ugly devices for extra support. Even though I shuffle like one, I’m not an old man yet. Getting old isn’t a joke.

  Shaking my head, I slide down my pants and then push up with the help of the cane. Shower it is. A long, steamy shower to relax.

  I open the door to the bathroom and my gaze falls on the shower stall.

  I pause in the doorway. A shiver runs down my spine. I can’t help it. It’s not the first time I’ve used the shower since my second accident. Until now, I pushed back the memories whenever they threatened to climb to the surface. Tonight red droplets of blood appear in front of my eyes and I’m unable to shut them out.

  My hands tremble when I open the glass door.

  I need to schedule an appointment with Dr. Winter and open up to her, but something is holding me back. I don’t want to be judged. I don’t want others to think I’m crazy. I just want to forget.

  Erasing my memories should be easy. The bathroom looks like nothing bad ever happened in here. Everything is brand new and shiny. Why can’t I be that way?

  I exhale. I won’t give up. I deserve a second chance at life.

  My strides are determined when I walk inside the shower. Then I drop onto the new shower stool, lean the cane on the wall, open the faucet, and turn the heat close to boiling to banish the cold from my veins. The water calms me. Maybe because I don’t associate it with what happened. I didn’t take an actual shower that day. Thank God. It would be a pity if I c
ouldn’t enjoy the water running down my body anymore.

  I wash my hair and rinse it twice before I use the conditioner. The smell of peppermint infiltrates my nostrils. The guys teased me a lot because of my shower and cream routine. I couldn’t care less. Their problem if they get wrinkles and lose their hair. I won’t. Self-care is important.

  So is keeping my balls hair-free, something I have neglected lately. Blow jobs feel so much better with hair-free balls. Not that I’ve received any lately, which is something that needs to change. I need to get laid. Soon. If my dick rises when I look at Ellie’s breasts, something’s going completely wrong.

  She isn’t my type. But I might have been wrong thinking her eyes are her best asset. Her breasts look fantastic, and I’d bet my left ball they come without silicone.

  The silicone ones aren’t bad, but nothing beats the real deal. My dick thinks so too and rises to full size while my balls tingle. Fuck my life. I need to come. I stroke up. And down again. Each time faster than the previous one. Ten strokes is all it takes and I explode all over my hands and the shower floor. I drop my head against the wall and enjoy the warm water on my face and shrinking dick. I’m not sure when I last felt as relaxed as I do now.

  I still need to get laid. Time to go through my contacts again and find someone who’s down to fuck an ex-athlete—the crippled version of Michael King.

  I sigh and wash the rest of my body with my favorite shower oil. I haven’t called one of my fuck buddies ever since Kendra refused to see me. There’s no going back to the hockey-playing part of my life. And they were part of what’s gone. I should just find new hookups, preferably women who have no idea that hockey even exists and have no idea about my former career.

  And ones that won’t mock me because my bad leg is thinner than the good one. I’ve lost my hockey quads already. Who knows what my shins will look like in a few months.

  My skin is in real danger of looking like a prune when I turn off the faucet and push myself off the stool. Grabbing the cane with one hand, I open the shower door with the other—without paying enough attention to the puddle of oil on the tiles.