by Elise Faber
Two simple words filled with such intensity.
“You’re welcome.”
She thought she’d surprised him with the reply, but what was she supposed to say? It’s okay? It wasn’t okay. The blasted man nearly had gotten himself flattened on the street. And her, for that matter. Though she only could reasonably blame herself for that.
If she hadn’t pulled him back—
No. Now was not the time to think about losing people, whether it was a stranger or a loved one. Mia straightened her shoulders, snapped, “Well, don’t expect me to do it again.” With that, she turned away and began to lay out the pads, one in each delineated square on the foam mat. She needed to stop chatting and start getting ready for her class. “Keep your head up, check for traffic before you enter a crosswalk, and always be aware of your surroundings.”
She was aware of him shifting, the door closing behind him. “Is that what you tell your kids?”
It was. But he didn’t need to know that.
Her eyes tracked his movements through the mirrors at the front, along the sides of the studio, and so she saw when he took a step forward, shoes mere inches from her mat.
“Freeze,” she snapped, whirling to face him, pointer finger in full force.
Two brown brows lifted, but he dutifully stopped. “Is there a reason I’m playing statue?” he asked dryly after a few seconds.
“Do not take one step onto my mat with those dirty shoes.”
Those brows went higher.
Then he shifted, one foot going behind the other as he toed off one sneaker then the remaining. He made as though to step forward again then stopped, eyes coming to hers. When she didn’t order him to Freeze again, he walked onto the mat and crossed over to her, reaching for the pads in her arms. “I can lay these out for you,” he said.
She resisted the urge to hug them against her chest, not wanting to let this man get close, to touch things that belonged to her, and definitely not wanting his help.
He knew it. One or all three, she couldn’t be sure, but somehow, even though she deliberately flicked her eyes to the mirror, checked her face was set into the blank teacher mask that always got her kids to behave, this man knew she wanted to refuse.
His smile was knowing, his eyes soft. “I’ve made you late,” he cajoled. “Let me help.”
The mental war took all of three more seconds.
She was running late.
And multitasking was easier with help.
“Fine,” she said, well aware that her tone still bordered on snap. “Lay one out in each square then also grab three blockers—the long foam stick with the black handles—and six large pads and stack them near the front.”
He nodded, seemingly unperturbed by both her orders and her sharp voice. After placing the pads, he moved to the storage shelves on the left side of the studio that held all sorts of equipment they used for classes. Confident he was following instructions, she grabbed her clipboard, refreshed her brain for the day’s curriculum, and snagged the electronic tablet the kids used to check in, bringing it to the small table by the entrance that had a plug for the tablet (no running out of power on her watch), and a bottle of hand sanitizer.
The kids—not the parents, because she was trying to do her part in raising confident, capable kids—cleaned their hands, then found their name on the roster for their rank, and checked themselves in before stowing their shoes in the cubbies and lining up on the floor. Then would come a warm-up, stretching, a quick talk (very quick and age-appropriate for this group of four-year-olds) on the week’s life-related subject—the current topic being what to do if a stranger approached. After that, they would kick and punch and yell, and then wrap up the thirty minutes with her version of Simon Says.
She was just plugging in the tablet when the door swung open and Brayden came in, his equipment bag that was nearly as big as him hanging from his shoulder. “Hi, Ms. Caldwell.”
“Hi, Mr. Montgomery,” she said. “Drop your stuff and help with the equipment.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She tapped the pin code to open the screen, pulled up the rosters for the classes, and was just setting it down when she heard him exclaim, “Liam?”
Spinning, she saw Brayden had stopped a few feet away from the man she’d pulled off the street and realized she’d been dumb to not identify the man as one of the new players picked up by the San Francisco Gold. In fact, she’d watched him play in the last game, bullied into accepting a ticket to watch the team from Brayden’s professional hockey player dad, Max.
As a player, Liam was smooth and strong, but struggling to adjust to a new team.
In his head. Struggling. Oncoming traffic.
Hmm.
Liam set down the last of the large pads and turned to Brayden. “Hey, man,” he said, extending his hand and executing some sort of complicated handshake. “A black belt, huh? That’s awesome.”
Brayden nodded eagerly. “Ms. Caldwell is the best. She’s really tough, and I’ve seen her kick so high she could almost touch the ceiling.”
Liam’s eyes flicked from Brayden to her to said ceiling. “Flexible as well as strong then, huh?”
Brayden nodded when Liam glanced back at him. “Yup. Ms. Caldwell says flexibility is really important.”
“Well, Ms. Caldwell is right about that.” Liam straightened.
“Ms. Caldwell is always right,” Brayden said as he made his way over to the clipboard. She wanted to reprimand him for talking but refrained. They usually chatted as they set up for class, and he was doing everything exactly as she expected. “No, we need the large blockers,” Brayden said when Liam reached onto the wrong shelf and before she could correct him. “Not the medium ones.”
The only difference was instead of chatting with her or Will—who was just walking through the door, a quiet, “Hi, Ms. Caldwell,” drifting to her ears—Brayden was talking to the gorgeous, unnerving Liam Williamson—professional hockey player, the sexy and lean pretty-boy new addition to the Gold she’d just snatched out of the path of a car. So, instead of snapping at the child she’d been teaching for close to five years now, she finished the rest of her prep while listening to them talk about the Gold’s upcoming games.
She was just reaching for the handle, readying to push open the door when she heard it.
“Are you taking classes here?” Brayden asked.
Her gaze shot over her shoulder, locked with Liam’s and saw the mischief bleed into his face.
Fucking hell.
No. He wouldn’t.
He. Wouldn’t.
She narrowed her eyes, gave him the ultimate Ms. Caldwell Death Glare.
Liam just grinned.
“No, bud,” he said. “No classes.”
Mia released a long, relieved breath then pushed open the door. Time for—
“Ms. Caldwell is giving me private lessons.”
Three
Liam
He was sitting in the corner of the studio, alternating between being impressed by the woman, a little scared, and more turned on than he’d ever been in his life.
The last was a problem because there were children around.
So, Liam had deliberately thought not about the way the white gi pants Ms. Caldwell was wearing clung to muscular thighs, swept over the delicious curves of her ass. He still didn’t know her first name, and all of the naughty schoolboy, teacher/student fantasies he’d had during his younger years were loving that fact. He, the adult male that occasionally made its presence known inside him, was less inclined to be popping a boner, especially considering the fact that her bending over was to help a kid who looked all of twelve with the positioning of his foot during a kick.
Brayden, Max’s son, had left about an hour before, after helping with two classes and taking his own. He’d barreled out the door with an equipment bag the size of an elephant dangling from his shoulder.
Now, Liam glanced at his cell. It was nearing eight, Ms. Caldwell hadn’t missed a beat
, and despite making his livelihood as a professional athlete, he was a little exhausted from watching her.
Although, that could also be because he’d barely slept the night before.
Wondering about hockey, about his future, about the messages on his cell from his brothers and father. Well-meaning and encouraging texts from his brothers. Critiques about his play and suggestions to do better from his father.
All sitting unread, the little red circle numbering nine in the upper righthand corner of the messaging app on his cell taunting him with every minute that passed.
He needed to read them.
He needed to go.
But he’d been fascinated watching Ms. Caldwell work. She was . . . absolute grace. Smooth and confident in her demonstrations, strong in voice, and demanding utter respect from the kids. Yet, his favorite thing he’d been able to witness was her humor. Small little jokes the kids wouldn’t pick up, but that the grownups did, earning a chuckle from the parents, from him.
Of course, when she heard him chuckle, her eyes narrowed, and she speared him in place with a ferocious glare.
Probably one that should have made his balls shrivel up.
Instead, it made his cock twitch.
Which then made him resort to thinking about those messages on his cell in order to control himself and not wonder if she’d use that sharp tone, those sharp words in bed.
He was waffling between opening the app and checking texts or ignoring them for the remainder of his time on this planet when he heard Ms. Caldwell ask everyone to stand, and directed the students in bowing out of class. Shortly after, the kids filed out, gathering shoes as they went, parents bundling them up in jackets to protect them from the winter breeze of a forthcoming storm making its way toward the Bay Area.
Liam had half-expected another class to file in, for Ms. Caldwell to go to her ever-trusty clipboard and gather supplies.
Instead, she answered a few questions from parents who lingered, hugged a teenage girl who seemed to be having a bad day, and then began taking pads down and spreading them out, wiping them efficiently with a disinfecting wipe.
He was on his feet before he thought about moving, toeing off his shoes without being asked this time, and walking over to the pads, picking up the ones that were dry and stacking them onto the shelves. “This okay?” he asked when she was nearly through with the row.
Her eyes, dark chocolate with flecks of hazelnut, met his for a long moment.
Then she nodded.
And something inside him relaxed. He brought the pads—smaller than the ones she’d just cleaned—down and lined them up to clean, switching places with her when she’d finished the first row to put those back up.
They repeated the process in silence. Her wiping them down, occasionally swapping out her dirty wipe for a clean one, him bringing the pads up and down on the shelves once they were dry. Him trying to ignore the way her ass looked glorious as she bent over in front of him. Her barely looking at him, definitely not noticing his ass.
It wasn’t until he’d stacked the last pad that she spoke.
“What are you still doing here, Liam?”
But he could barely hear her words, not when the sight of her going up on tiptoe to stow the container of wipes had frozen him in place.
Bare feet with blue nail polish—because, of course, he’d noticed. Slender ankles, the right one with a thin gold chain wrapped around it, smooth olive skin, the loose pants of her gi tugging at all the spots on her legs that hinted at strength—her calves, her thighs—and juxtaposed by thin, almost fragile-looking wrists. Shining black hair that trailed down her back in a thick ponytail, cute ears (who knew he would ever think ears would be cute?), a tattoo behind her left ear that was small and tucked away, something he wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t found himself cataloging every single thing about this woman.
Obsessed.
It was how he, the smallest of all the Williamson brothers had gotten into the NHL in the first place, how he’d shattered the records in high school, in juniors.
When he loved something, he was obsessed.
Not that he loved this woman; he’d met her that day, didn’t even know her name, but when he enjoyed something, when he was fascinated by it, and Liam strove to understand every bit of minutia that came along with the subject.
Skating.
Shooting.
Stickhandling.
Using differential equations in applied mathematics.
Ms. Caldwell.
Each required attention to detail in order to be successful. But only one was bordering on obsession.
Probably because it was mere hours old.
Probably because while math was interesting, he didn’t want to spend his life with his nose in a book.
And probably also because somewhere along his transition from college to professional hockey, he’d lost his confidence. It hadn’t come easy any longer, and God that sounded arrogant and egotistical, but the truth was that his playing in the NHL was harder than he’d ever expected.
And he was struggling big time.
Failing.
Big time.
“Liam?”
He blinked and tuned out of the thoughts in his head. “Sorry, what?”
“Why are you still here?” she asked, sharper now as she dropped down onto the soles of her feet. Why did he like it so much when she snapped at him? Probably it said something bad about him, but all he could think was that he would love to hear her giving him those same terse orders in bed. “Why are you smiling?” she asked, eyes narrowed, feet silent as she crossed to him and plunked her hands onto her hips.
“No reason.”
She huffed. “Sure.” A roll of those pretty chocolate eyes. “No reason, my ass.”
“It’s a fine ass,” he said.
She moved so fast that before he could process the movement, his wrist was caught in a lock that Liam knew if he moved a single muscle, the ligaments would tear, the bones would break. “You do not have permission to speak about my body that way.”
He turned his head enough to meet her eyes. “Understood,” he said calmly, even though he felt anything but. “My apologies.”
She snorted. “I could end your season with the twitch of my pinky finger.”
His heart thumped, but he couldn’t decide if it was out of fear or anticipation. If he couldn’t play the rest of the season, he might not have a chance to impress the Gold enough to keep him on for another season. But, on the other hand, if he couldn’t play, maybe this would be the death knell on his career and force him to choose another route.
Maybe he could be free.
But . . . did he want to be free? Would he miss the game, the way the cold air of the rink seeped into his skin, bit at his nose? Would he long for the speed, the impact of the checks, the comraderie and competition?
He thought he would.
And so, Liam supposed he had a little bit of fight left in him.
Enough to at least say, “You’re sexy when you’re threatening me.”
He half-expected to feel shooting pain, but instead she just released him, shaking her head as she returned to her little set of shelves on the edge of the floor and began filing some papers away.
“You know,” he said, moving to the table to retrieve the tablet and bringing it to her, “You still haven’t told me your first name, Ms. Caldwell.”
Was there the barest hint of heat in her eyes?
Liam squinted, but it was gone before he could be sure, and anyway, then she was talking again, and the acerbic words were going straight to his cock. “You still haven’t asked.”
Going still for a few seconds, backtracking their conversations, he realized he hadn’t asked, hadn’t even introduced himself. If Brayden hadn’t used their names, they would still effectively be the same strangers from the street. Except . . . not. Because this woman was—
More.
And he had the feeling she was more than anyone he’d ever met.
Reining himself in, he stuck out his hand for her to shake. “I’m Liam Williamson.”
Her fingers brushed his first, sending sparks along his palm, up his arm. Then their hands were pressed together, and her grip was firm . . . and great, his cock was hard again. Going harder when she slipped her hand free, spun away, and said, “I know.”
She strode to the door, pushed it open. “Goodnight, Mr. Williamson. Good luck with your season. I think the Gold might have another shot at the Cup this year.”
He took a step, thinking to regroup and come up with a plan to get this woman to like him, to go out on a date with him, to kiss him. But also knowing that he needed to return another day to fight. Except . . . then his brain processed her words.
That was the second time she’d said season, and now she’d mentioned the Cup and the San Francisco Gold. She knew he played.
Liam hadn’t told her that.
So she either followed the sport . . . or—
He didn’t know. She was a stalker, somehow had tracked down all of the Williamsons and was ready to go puck bunny. Right. He stifled a snort. That was about as likely as him receiving the Hart Memorial Trophy.
As in, nonexistent.
But all he understood was that he didn’t care how she seemed to know something about him, because the fact that she did made his heart leap and he wanted to share all the things, even knowing it was too much. Too fast. Too—
Insane.
He was being insane.
Yet, he found himself stopping on the mat, staying in place, asking, “How’d you know I play hockey?”
Still.
She could go so freaking still. A beautiful marble statue gilded gold from the overhead lights, a calm expression hiding so much underneath, all the strokes it took to create her, the chipping away of rock, the polishing of the rough spots. But even knowing it was all beneath the surface, he could only see the beauty on the outside.
“Ms. Caldwell,” he prompted.
She startled, let the door slide shut and bent to pick up his shoes, shoving them into his chest. “You need to go.”