by Elise Faber
“Freeze.”
Mandy.
He glanced behind him and couldn’t hold back his grimace. Shit. Note to self, don’t turn fast and don’t move the entire right side of your body.
“I said freeze, you big lug,” she muttered. “Not move.”
“Then don’t sneak up on people,” he grumbled.
“Cranky again.” She laughed softly. “Men are such babies when it comes to pain.”
“I don’t want to hear the spiel about natural childbirth again.” He gritted his teeth when her fingers slipped under the collar of his shirt to feel the muscles of his neck.
“It’s not a spiel.” Her thumb pressed hard enough for him to hiss out a curse. “It’s the truth. You’re just cranky that you’re not playing. Now, hold still or I’ll have to pull you down below for treatment and you won’t be able to watch the game.”
“I would just like to point out that we block one-hundred-mile-per-hour slap shots.”
“And women keep having babies.”
“With epidurals.”
“Because we’re not stupid,” she countered, gripping his jaw and tilting his head one way and then the other before returning to the massage. “I also would like to think that I’d get out of the way of one of those shots. Or at least wear some of those thick ass pads that Brit has.”
They both paused and watched Brit line herself up to block a puck on the ice, holding their breath against the booming sound it made when connecting with her shin guards.
She popped back up and made another save, this time covering the puck for a whistle.
Mandy glanced at him, shook her head. “Goalies.”
“Now they’re the crazy ones.”
She grinned. “I’ll agree with you on that.” Her fingers drifted a little lower. “Your shoulder is hurting, too.”
Blane went to shrug and winced.
“That’s a yes,” she said. “I can’t work on it here without giving the fans a show, so make sure you see me after the game.”
“I don’t want to take time away from the boys.”
Her eyes flicked to his, narrowed. “And I don’t want you to miss any more games than you have to.”
The crowd erupted as Mike picked an opposing player, sending him neatly over his shoulder when the young gun didn’t keep his head up. The kid took it well, popping back to his feet and joining the play as the Gold took the puck down to the opposite end of the ice.
Stefan snuck in down low, avoiding the player guarding him, and got off a nice shot their goalie stopped and held on to.
The ref blew his whistle and the red light came on, signaling a TV time-out. A replay of Mike’s maneuver began streaming on the Jumbotron, and the ice crew came out, running their shovels across the surface to collect the snow that had been created from both teams.
Coach huddled the team close and was drawing something on his whiteboard.
Blane sighed. “I’ll come down.”
“I know you want to get back out there.” Mandy rested her hand on his shoulder. “I want you there, too.”
His lips twitched. “You just want to get rid of me.”
Her mouth followed suit. “Maybe.”
She turned for the door, pausing when he called, “Mandy?”
“Yeah?”
“I thought you were avoiding me.”
She’d practically hidden in her office the entire time he’d been down in the PT suite, popping her head out periodically when Dr. Carter called out a question but generally keeping her distance.
He’d known why. He’d pushed her too far the previous evening, after she’d already been shoved clean out of her comfort zone.
But dammit, he’d expected something that morning.
A softening to the distance she kept with everyone, for him to be . . . fuck, was his mind really going there?
He wanted to be special.
Barf.
He’d never given two shits about being special before. He wasn’t one of the best players in the league, though he worked hard and put up good numbers.
But he wasn’t an all-star like Brit and Stefan, and he was fine with that.
He earned his place. He’d had a long career.
That was all he had ever dreamed of.
And he’d spent so much time focusing on hockey, fantasizing about a relationship that would have never, ever worked out, pretending it wasn’t the right time yet, that he couldn’t risk her career—
Yes, he’d been in love with Brit for half his life.
She’d lived in his house for several years when they’d both been teenagers playing junior hockey. Blond, lithe, and beautiful, Brit also had a huge heart and was incredibly down-to-earth, and the entire team had crushes on her. But she’d friend-zoned him from the beginning and with her living in his house, it wasn’t like he could hit on his “surrogate sister.”
So friends. He’d figured he could live with that until they were older, until things changed.
Except, things hadn’t changed and Blane had finally realized that what he’d imaged as true love wasn’t that. Of course he loved Brit, wanted her to be happy, and he’d also loved the idea of having his best friend as the person who completed his life.
But then she’d found Stefan, and Blane had realized she could have never completed him.
He needed to complete himself.
Look at him being so healthy and shit.
Mandy’s chuckle pulled him out of his head, her words further so. “I was avoiding you this morning.”
He hadn’t expected her to admit it so readily.
“Evals come with a ton of paperwork,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand.
Blane pushed out of the chair and crossed over to her. “Really?” he asked. “That’s how you’re going to play this?”
Her smile stayed fixed in place, but her eyes went sad, and that loss of spark hit him right in the gut. “That’s how I’ve got to play it, Blane. This job is all I have, and I c-can’t— I’m sorry. I just can’t.”
He forced his tone to go light, to curve his mouth up into some semblance of a grin. “Well, the good thing is that I know all about coming in second to a career, so at least there’s that.” He turned back for the game. “I’ll see you later.”
“Blane,” she whispered, but he didn’t face her, just strode over to his chair and determinedly watched the game. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine,” he said and felt her hesitate before she left.
Second best. Yeah. That was a familiar feeling.
Nine
Mandy
* * *
Mandy went back to hiding in her office. Which was where she should have stayed in the first place.
Idiot.
She’d seen Blane wince one time on the live broadcast before the camera had cut back to the players on the ice and she’d all but run upstairs to the box he was watching the game from.
He was hurting. She needed to save him.
Ha.
She needed to run. To keep her distance because the dream last night had been too good, because the memories were too real, because his kiss had made her stupid.
Her kiss, she reminded herself. She was the cause of all this trouble. She’d started it and so she was the one who needed to finish it. Which meant she had to force her relationship with Blane back into the strictly professional, if slightly friendly, box from which it had burst.
Her contract forbade fraternizing with the team. She knew that. He knew that. Some quick sex wasn’t worth losing her job or the inevitable tension that would come when their interlude came to an end.
No matter that the kiss had blown every single one of her previous sexual fantasies out of the water.
The man’s mouth and tongue were better than any penis—
Okay. She was getting off track.
The point being, this job was important to her and she couldn’t risk it. Also, there was the fact that Blane would soon be under contract negotiations becaus
e this was the last year of his current deal. He was older, and this was probably his final chance at a really good contract.
How could she possibly risk that for a couple of orgasms?
She couldn’t.
Groaning, she dropped her head onto her desk. Then there was the fact that he played hockey. The risk that he might turn out like her father.
Wouldn’t that be the real mindfuck in this whole played-out scenario?
If she somehow ended up just like her mother. Unhappily tied, never measuring up, lonely.
Except Blane wasn’t like that.
She sighed and lifted her head, rolling out her shoulders before reaching for the salad she’d packed for dinner.
“That green stuff will kill you,” Blane said from the open door behind her.
Mandy jumped and the container flew from her hands, landing on the floor. Luckily, the lid stayed on. “So will stalkers who sneak up on people.
“I knocked,” he said. “You were too busy groaning to hear it.” He grinned. “I’d be groaning, too, if I had to eat that.”
She shook her head. “You do have to eat it. This is straight from the nutritionist handbook.”
Blane wrinkled his nose, and Mandy’s heart pulsed. The man was way too cute for his own good. “I like PR-Rebecca better.”
“Nutritionist-Rebecca has you all playing better than ever.”
A shrug. “PR-Rebecca has brownies.”
“I know. Now I’ve got you thinking about those chocolate squares of deliciousness, too, huh?” Mandy grinned when he gave her a sad look and nodded. “They’re like two sides of a very evil coin. One will torture you with veggies and the other will fatten you up with baked goods.”
“It’s true.”
“So?” Mandy asked when he didn’t say anything further. “What brings you down to the dungeon earlier than ordered?”
Blane started to shrug then froze and clenched his jaw. “Figured you’d be busy after the game. Thought you might want to get me out of the way now so you don’t have to stay late.”
Mandy had wanted him to come by after the game because the PT suite was currently empty, the other staff off to grab dinner, Gabe and company on the bench. This was her quiet time, but this was also a dangerous time for Blane to be there because they were alone.
But she couldn’t tell him that.
Not when she was trying to shove him firmly back into the friend zone.
Friends didn’t worry about being alone with each other.
“Never mind,” he said when she didn’t move. “I don’t want to interrupt your dinner.”
He turned to leave, and Mandy noticed the stiff set of his shoulders, the tilt of his head. Immediately, guilt filled her. He hadn’t come down to get her alone or to disrupt her meal.
He’d come because he was hurting.
Not that one of her stubborn hockey players would ever admit that. They might be babies when it came to shots and deep tissue massage, but they were still “tough” and didn’t like to show any sign of weakness.
And she’d been about to leave Blane suffering because she was having difficulty separating her attraction to him.
Nice.
She pushed to her feet. “Are you kidding? I’m looking for any excuse to not eat the damned stuff. Come on.” She slipped by him and patted the nearest table. “Shirt off, hop up.”
Opening the drawer, she surveyed the contents then began pulling out what she’d need and stacking it on the tray next to her.
She rotated to face him after she’d finished, mentally preparing herself for the visceral shock that always came when seeing Blane without a shirt. What she wasn’t prepared for was for him to still be wearing one or for him to be struggling with his tie.
“Damn,” he muttered before dropping his hands and tilting his head to stretch his neck.
He didn’t look at her as he began fumbling with his buttons, biting back a curse every time he lifted his right arm.
“Stop,” she ordered, thinking that someone out in the universe must really hate her. “I’ll do it.”
This would not affect her. He was a patient. Nothing more.
Lies.
Every last one of those was a fucking lie.
Because when she walked around the table and stood before him, it didn’t matter that they were currently standing in a huge room blazing with fluorescent lights. The space shrank and darkened, until it was as intimate as if she were undressing him in a candlelit bedroom.
Blane’s breath caught when her hands came to his tie. “I’ll come back—”
“I’ve got it.” And despite everything, her voice was husky, her pulse thundering.
Slowly, she slipped one end of silk free from its knot and tugged it from the collar of his shirt. It fell, landing soundlessly on the floor. She reached for the buttons—
“Don’t.” His hand caught hers.
“Ignore it,” she murmured. “Please, just ignore it.”
A nod, his teeth so tightly clenched that she could hear them grinding in the near soundless room.
Her fingers fumbled with the first button, struggling to push it through the little oval hole in the cotton for a long moment before she managed. They both released breaths when that first inch of skin was exposed. The space behind her navel quivered in need and her thighs trembled, but she ignored her body and reached for the next button.
This one was easier. It slipped free and more of his chest was in her view.
Another shoring breath, another button, another inch of skin.
She could do this. She was a fucking professional.
But then she undid the last fastening and spread his shirt wide.
Her breathing was rapid, her hands shaking but still she pressed on, carefully helping him slip the cotton from his shoulders.
Oh, fuck.
So much skin. Her mouth watered, dying to taste, to run her tongue along the hard plans of his chest, down around the squares of his abdomen.
She sounded like she’d run a fucking marathon, and she might as well have with as much as her body ached to go to him, to rub herself against him, to slip his pants—
“Shit,” she hissed and slammed her eyes closed.
He was hard.
And not his chest.
Fingers cramping, palms itching, she forced herself to turn back to the table. “Up you go.”
“Sorry,” he muttered, sitting down and putting his shirt over his lap.
“Happens,” she lied. Because it didn’t fucking happen.
Or very rarely anyway. And definitely not from just taking a shirt off. Maybe during a thigh massage, but she usually was able to dissuade any funny business because though a thigh massage might sound like a good idea to a few of the young ones, the older players knew it wasn’t comfortable. Frankly, it bordered on painful, and that was typically enough of a mood killer, young or old.
Blane lay down and closed his eyes, his lips moving in a way that looked like counting.
“What are you doing?”
“Thinking about player stats,” he gritted out.
She frowned. “Why?”
“Because I have a fucking boner and I’m trying to get it to go away.”
Her hands froze, the bottle of topical pain relief lotion six inches from his shoulder. “Oh.”
“Yeah,” he muttered. “Oh.”
Mandy bit her lip, tried to stop the sound from escaping. It didn’t work.
Blane’s eyes flashed open, darkened to espresso by a combination of irritation and attraction. “Are you seriously laughing right now?”
“Uh-uh.” She shook her head, chest still shuddering from stifling her giggles. “Nope.”
“Oh, my God,” he groaned. “You are. I’m in pain over here and you’re cracking up about it.”
Her amusement faded and she quickly opened the bottle. “Shit, Blane. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have—” Moving rapidly, she spread the lotion onto his neck and shoulder. “That was wrong of me.
”
His left hand came up to stay her wrist. “That’s not the pain I was referring to.”
Heat flashed across her cheekbones. “Oh.”
He rolled his eyes. “You and your ohs.”
She snorted.
“You’re laughing again.”
“It’s a ridiculous situation.” She began massaging the pain cream into the knotted muscles of his neck and shoulder. “Flip over,” she told him. “This will be easier from behind.”
One brown brow rose and her cheeks flared hotter.
“Shut up, you.”
“I’m not the one who’s doing all the sweet-talking.”
She motioned for him to turn. “Lips. Zipped. Roll onto your stomach and we’ll kill two birds with one stone. Erection gone”—she made a popping sound with her lips—“and I’ll be able to get some of the knots out. You have spasms all over.”
Blane shifted so that he was facedown. “That’s not the only place I have—”
Mandy gently, but persistently forced his face down into the table. “Don’t finish that sentence.”
His shoulders shook in silent laughter, but thankfully his sentence remained unfinished and finally, she got down to real work. Some basic massage since that wasn’t her specialty—they had a full-time masseuse on staff for that—but it loosened the muscles enough for her to help him with some stretches. Then came the TENS machine, followed by ultrasound.
By the time the final buzzer for the game sounded, Blane’s muscles were relaxed and he was snoring on the table.
Erection to snoozing. Yeah, she was totally irresistible.
Twenty minutes later most of the players had finished with the press and began filtering into the PT suite.
“You killed him,” Brit teased, coming over.
“It’s a gift.” Mandy shrugged. “But seriously, I doubt he got a good night’s sleep with all that muscle pain.”
“Yeah.” Brit sat on the next table over, her finicky shoulder already on full display. She winced when Mandy set an ice pack onto the offending limb then flicked her gaze toward Blane. “So when’s the wedding?”
Mandy’s eyes shot over to Blane’s snoring form before lobbying a quelling glare at her friend. “Brit,” she warned.