by Elise Faber
Mandy
* * *
Mandy shot awake around six, heart pounding. She pressed her hand to her chest for a second, trying to figure out why she felt so off.
Oh.
Because she was alone.
Her bed was empty, the side that Blane had slept on cold.
“It’s for the best,” she murmured. How many times had she told him that it was only for the one night? He’d obviously listened.
That was a good thing.
Sighing, she slid from beneath the covers and stood.
Ouch.
Every single muscle in her body was sore. In a good way. In the best way. But . . . she wanted more.
And this was why she didn’t make rash decisions late at night, while feeling emotional about her past. Blane had given her a string of the best orgasms of her life as they’d worked their way through her stash of condoms, but she’d also opened up a part of herself to him, and she didn’t know how that was going to work out.
Would it be awkward at work?
Would he just jump to the next girl?
No. That wasn’t fair. Blane wasn’t one of the guys on the team who dated anything with a pulse. He was steady and solid. He focused on the game.
But what if he wasn’t interested in her any longer? What if he’d gotten his fill and was done?
What if she wanted more?
Because, dammit, she kind of did.
He’d held her tightly the night before, resting his chin on her head, each of their heartbeats slowing, their breathing returning to normal.
The contact had felt . . . nice.
Ugh. No, that wasn’t the right word. It was just that her job was filled with contact, with touch. But it was always her touching the players and honestly, often times she was putting them through some discomfort in order to get them back into fighting shape.
They didn’t touch her.
Which was probably a good thing and spoke of a healthy work environment.
But sometimes days would go by before she realized that she hadn’t had a single “normal” touch—a hug, a fist bump, a brush of someone’s fingers against her arm.
And it had been years since she’d been held by a man.
Plus, if she was continuing with this honesty thing, she’d never been held like how Blane had held her, never felt safe and important and valuable.
He’d made her feel that way.
So it was just perfect that’d she woken up and found herself alone.
She walked naked to her bathroom and pushed open the door. Then promptly shrieked and whirled around.
Apparently she wasn’t alone. Steam curled around the room, caressing her skin in hot damp tendrils. The sound of the shower was obvious, now that she was actually paying attention.
She’d walked in on Blane naked. Again.
Heat teased her spine. Fingers brushed down her nape. “You’re making this a habit.” He kissed the spot behind her ear, the one that never failed to make her shiver. “Though”—he trailed calloused fingertips down her arms then forward to cup her breasts—“I like this version of you bursting in on me better.”
Mandy’s gaze drifted down and her stomach clenched at the site of Blane’s big hands cupping her breasts. “I’m sorry,” she breathed as his thumb traced over the hard peaks of her nipples. “I didn’t realize . . .”
He tugged her closer, until his chest pressed against her back, until the hardness of his erection nudged at her bottom. “I’m an early riser.”
She snorted.
“You’re as bad as some of the guys.” He chuckled. “I didn’t mean it that way,” he said, half-scolding, though amusement was ripe in his tone. “I was going to run out and surprise you with breakfast.”
Aw.
A blip sounded in her brain, reminding her that this man was dangerous, but she ignored it as she turned in his embrace. “What would you have gotten me?”
“Chocolate croissant and a dirty chai latte.”
Her lips curved. One, because that was her exact order and two, because watching his mouth form the word “dirty” was a treat in itself.
“You know my order?”
He shrugged. “I pay attention.”
“Mmm.” She rubbed her nose against his throat, loving the way he smelled, the way the stubble of his unshaven jaw caught her hair. “Well, how about we get breakfast later?”
“Yeah?” he asked, hand coming up to cup her nape. He hissed out a breath when she nipped his neck. “What could we possibly do now?”
She leaned back, waggled her eyebrows. “I may have a few ideas.”
“We should probably get to them before the hot water runs out.”
“I have a tankless water heater.”
He grinned. “God, I love it when you talk dirty to me.”
“Soft-close drawers,” she whispered, her own smile impossible to contain. “Farmhouse sink.”
“Fuck, you’re hot.”
She burst out laughing. “I like you, Blane Hart.”
He scooped her up in his arms. “Good. Because I like you, too, Mandy Shallows.” One brow came up. “Now tell me that you have more condoms.”
“What will you give me for them?”
“How about an orgasm?”
“Make it a double.”
He rolled his eyes. “Greedy.”
“I just know my man.”
Blane froze and she realized her slipup, but instead of letting her talk herself into a full-on panic, he just kissed her until her brain turned to mush, until she was concentrating so hard on trying to catch her breath that she couldn’t have summoned a frantic thought to save her life.
“Condoms?” he asked when he eventually broke away, both of them breathing hard.
She pointed to the cabinet and he used his free hand to open the drawer and pull out a packet.
“Orgasms now,” he said, stepping into the shower with her. “Dirty chai’s later.”
“Why does that sound like the title to a bad porn film?”
He set her on her feet, testing the temperature before nudging her into the hot water. “If you’re still able to make snarky comments, then I’m clearly not doing my job right.”
“I’m always able to make snarky—”
His lips came down on hers, hard and demanding.
She broke away after a minute, pulse pounding, breath coming in short staccato puffs. “See. It’s impossible to stop. Sarcasm is just part of my—oh.”
His hand slipped between her thighs, and she forgot all about snark and sarcasm and witty one-liners.
“I swear to God,” he said, dropping to his knees and tossing one of her legs over his shoulder, “you making that noise is the sexiest sound in the universe.”
Her hips tilted toward his mouth, so close that she could feel his hot breath mere centimeters away from where she wanted it.
“See if you can make me make it again.”
A smirk as he closed the distance between them and flicked his tongue over her clit.
For the record, Mandy made the sound.
More than once.
Sixteen
Blane
* * *
It felt fucking incredible to be back on the ice again.
Blane ran through his usual pregame warm-up—skating two circles around their half of the ice, a brief stretch along the boards, a few shots to help Brit focus and to loosen up his arms.
The buzzer blew, and they cleared off the rink to let the Zambonis come out to clean the ice.
This was the time that some coaches would come in with last minute comments and things to watch out for, but Coach Bernard didn’t work that way. He’d said everything he wanted to say earlier in the day and, instead, left them to their own devices, which usually meant Frankie came in to talk to Brit, and Stefan gave some sort of motivational speech that was punctuated by bad jokes from Max.
“We should watch the—”
“Latest episode of The Bachelor,” Max interjected w
ith a cheeky grin. “You would not believe who he gave a rose to. I mean, Celina is just such a bitch.”
Stefan was well-used to the interruptions by now and he’d confided in Blane that he actually thought the casualness in the locker room in these moments relaxed everyone so they played their best hockey.
Not that there wasn’t something to be said for being focused and intense.
But there were times that too much tension made them cautious, everyone holding their sticks too tight and afraid to make a mistake.
And Max actually had some self-control. He didn’t usually make asinine comments when Stefan was really trying to make a point.
“How many women are left?” Stefan asked, proving that he was a good captain. “Six?”
“Four!” Brit chimed in as Frankie left.
Mike shook his head in disgust.
“Shut it, you.” Brit pointed at him. “Sara told me that you watch—”
Mike chucked his glove at her. “You’re not allowed to talk to my wife anymore.”
“Oooh!” Max clapped his hands together. “Dish, Brit. Now.”
“Children,” Stefan said, interrupting them before they could really get going. “It’s fifteen minutes until game time. Can we focus?”
Brit and Max made faces, but they both shut their mouths as Stefan went over a few last points and by the time he’d finished, the guys were dressed in dry gear and ready to play.
Brit led them back to the ice.
The crowd roared as they strode into view, lights flashing, music blaring as the team took a few quick laps and then settled onto their bench, the starting lineup at the blue line and facing the flags.
As always when he played, the anthem was a total blur. A few quick notes and then he was readying himself to take the first face-off of the game.
A short blare of a whistle, jockeying to get his stick in the best position to win the puck back to Stefan, and then . . .
The ref opened his hand.
The introduction of composite sticks—rather than wood—meant that the sound of his and his opponent’s sticks colliding didn’t sound like it used to. Instead of a crack or a snap, they almost made a zipping noise as he battled for the puck.
But neither the fight nor the sound actually lasted more than a fraction of a second.
Wait. Wait. Wait. A breath. Then go, go, go!
Blane won the puck back to Stefan, and his team was off.
A pass to Mike, who flicked it up the boards to Blue. Over the line and into the offensive zone. A blocked shot that Blane managed to recover and send over to his other winger, Trent. Another attempted shot that was deflected up and out to the netting for a whistle.
And that fast the first shift was over.
Blane skated to the bench less than thirty seconds after he’d started, feeling winded and exhilarated all at once.
The offensive coach tapped him on the back as he snagged a towel to wipe his visor.
“Nice start.”
He nodded in response, handing the towel back to one of the trainers and squirting some water into his mouth before refocusing on the game.
The second line was struggling to get the puck out of their defensive zone, and Brit had to make two really strong saves in a row in order to stop them from being down barely a minute into the first period.
Finally, they got the puck out and hurried for a change. The third line jumped onto the ice and spent half a minute in the other team’s end before returning for the fourth line to take their turn.
Then Blane was on again and skating hard with the puck down the right side of the ice.
He saw the skater coming for him and dodged, turning enough that the hit only grazed him and he slipped by, managed to get a pass to Blue’s stick, who pulled off some sort of dipsy-do maneuver around the defense Blane could have never hoped to make.
Blue broke toward the net, made another deke, and . . . was picked.
Just that quickly, play moved back into their zone.
Back and forth, sprint up, sprint back, shoot, pass, hustle, work, breathe hard in between whistles.
Again. And again. And again.
The period ended in a tie.
A quick chat from Bernard, a few pointers as they tore off wet underclothes, skates, and gloves and swapped them for dry ones.
Then they were back on the ice for the second period and the third.
More hits, more face-offs, more battles along the boards for free space in front of the net—
The puck found its way to his stick and he shoved it home.
Fuck, yeah.
Blue rushed over and hugged him. Stefan, Mike, and Trent following suit as they skated for the bench.
They were now in the lead with two minutes left.
Blue nudged him on the bench, a smirk on his face. “I do all the hard work and you steal my goal?”
Blane grinned. “Better lucky than good sometimes.”
“Don’t you know it.”
Blane squirted him with water, but they were both laughing. The young one wasn’t so young anymore, and he’d gotten good with a snarky comment.
They both focused on the game then jumped on the ice when Bernard wanted them out there instead of the fourth line. The opposing team pulled their goalie and added a sixth skater, making it a struggle to get out of their own end.
But eventually they did, Blue managing to scoop the puck up just past the red line and carrying it down for an empty net goal.
They skated back to the bench, relieved to have the cushion of the extra point.
“See,” Blane said. “I’ve left the easy ones for you.”
Blue snorted and shook his head.
A few minutes later—Brit having not needed that second goal because she’d secured her shutout—both teams skated off the ice and headed for their locker rooms.
Media first. Then showers and the PT suite for those who needed it, the pools or the weight room for those whose routine demanded it.
Dr. Carter had wanted to give Blane one final check after the game, so freshly showered, he headed that way.
Well, he would have gone there anyway, but Doc had given him a pretty excuse.
Mandy had been avoiding him again. Well, they’d had the best fucking shower sex of his life, followed by a breakfast filled with their usual joking and banter. But then they’d both gone to work and when he’d texted her after practice yesterday, she’d ignored him.
Then had given him a wide berth that morning.
And even now, she wouldn’t look at him. She’d glanced up when he’d walked into the room and then quickly looked away, focusing on Blue’s hand.
The disappointment that had been festering since the previous evening grew.
Sighing, he submitted to the stretches and exam that Mandy’s assistant—even that made him grumpy since usually she would have looked at him herself—put him through and then waited as Doc looked over his paperwork.
“All’s good, Blane,” Dr. Carter declared not much later.
“Thanks, Doc.”
Doc nodded, hesitating for a moment before indicating the table at the end of the row. “You should probably wait for Mandy to check you out though.”
“Wh—”
Blane’s protest cut off when he saw the look on Doc’s face.
“She likes you, Blane.” He sighed. “And she never likes anyone. Don’t give up now. Go for it.”
Blane glanced around, dropped his voice. “I’m not giving up, but it’s kind of hard to go for something when it’s all one-sided.”
“If it were all one-sided, she wouldn’t be avoiding you.”
“You noticed that?”
Dr. Carter shrugged. “Kind of hard to miss the sexy eyes you two keep throwing at each other.”
Sexy eyes? Blane ignored that for the moment. “She has barely looked at me.”
Doc pointed to the TV screen and Blane squinted, relief pouring over him when he saw that her gaze was fixed on the two of them.
/> “She’s good at hiding,” Doc said. “But not that good. You just need to know when to look.”
Blane sighed. “That’s not all. She’s worried about her job.”
Dr. Carter’s face went hard. “You going to fuck her over?”
“No. Of course not, but I don’t want to hurt her either.” Blane shoved a hand through his hair. “She’s scared, fucking petrified, no matter what I say—” He blew out another breath. “And frankly, I don’t know how to get through her walls.”
Doc nodded. “I’ve known Mandy since med school, so I can tell you this: she’s never looked at anyone the way she looks at you.” He rolled his eyes. “Part of me can’t believe that we’re even having this conversation. But, we are, and dude, she’s into you.”
Blane flicked his gaze over his shoulder, watched as she examined Blue’s hand. She was beautiful, capable, and a puzzle he’d yet to completely solve. “Maybe,” he said, slanting Dr. Carter a rueful look. “But how in the hell am I going to get her to take a risk on us?”
Doc clapped him on the shoulder. “I’m guessing she’s going to make that leap herself.” A beat, his eyes flicking to the reflection again. “Just be patient. She’ll come around.” He lowered his voice. “And talk to Pierre for fuck’s sake. Take that fear away for her, at least.”
“I wi—”
“Blane?” Mandy asked, slipping between them. “Is everything okay with your neck?”
Doc nodded. “Everything looks good on my end, but I’d like you to evaluate his flexibility at C-five and six again. I’m not sure these numbers are right.”
“Definitely.” She pointed to the table, her eyes meeting Blane’s for a fleeting moment. “Have a seat. I’ll be over in just a second. Gabe, I need you to check on—”
Blane shot Dr. Carter a grateful look then sat down and waited for Mandy, plotting his next move.
He wasn’t going to let this chance slip through his fingers.
Not with Mandy on the line.
Especially not when he had the feeling that she was it for him.
Seventeen
Mandy
* * *
Mandy finished chatting with Gabe and was then pulled into the pool room to take a look at another player’s knee, and then the conditioning coach wanted her advice on a stretching routine.