Centered (Gold Hockey Book 9)

by Elise Faber

  So, it was certainly either the fatigue or brain fog (and not the man), that had her sighing and reaching over to unlatch the lock.

  Liam grabbed the handle, quickly opening the door, probably assuming—rightly, she could admit—that she’d regretted the move and wanted to lock it just as rapidly. But then it was unlocked, it was open, and . . . he was inside, mere inches from her.

  “Morning,” he said softly, his voice a little husky and way too sexy for her comfort.

  She shivered, stepped back before she caught herself. Dammit, she was a Caldwell. They didn’t retreat. They pressed forward. They bided their time before they struck—

  “Why do you look like you want to punch me?” he asked, still soft, though there was a glimmer of mischief in those stormy gray eyes.

  “Probably because I do,” she told him, crossing her arms.

  Instead of backing off or leaving, like she half-expected him to do—she had put him on his ass twice the day before after all, so he’d be stupid not to tread a little cautiously—he stayed in place, studying her closely. “You’re tired,” he said.

  Something unfurled inside her and she frowned, both at the words and the strange sensation pulsing through her.

  Not desire—that seemed to be at a baseline level that made her skin prickle, her pussy throb, her breasts feel heavy and aching when within eyesight of this man.

  It was . . . soft.

  Fluff.

  Uh-oh.

  Five

  Liam

  He watched Mia’s face gentle for the barest second, but then gentle was gone, her pretty brown eyes narrowed, and her lips pressed flat.

  “I was working out,” she muttered. “Of course I look tired.”

  “No,” he found himself saying, probably stupidly because he hardly knew Mia from Eve. But . . . there was something deeply tired about her this morning, as though the weight of the world was on her shoulders.

  He hadn’t seen it last night.

  She’d been impenetrable.

  But in the light of the early morning, his protective instincts flared.

  “No?” she asked with raised brows.

  “No,” he repeated, stepping closer. “You’re not physically tired. It’s . . . you’re tired”—he tapped his chest, the spot just above his heart—“here.”

  Mia shook her head. “What are you trying to do, Liam?” she asked. “Be the female whisperer? Or maybe, you’re that hard up from a lack of puck bunnies that you’re going after a normal woman like me?”

  “You’re not normal.”

  Outrage flittered across her face, and it wasn’t like he could blame her, because—shit—that had come out sounding a lot worse than he’d intended.

  “That’s not—” he began.

  Her face blanked out, going completely devoid of emotion. “Is one of those for me?” She nodded at the coffee.

  He floundered for a second, trying to decide if it would piss her off more to keep going with his explanation, to try and clarify what he’d meant with the whole not normal thing, or to just ply her with caffeine. “Yes,” Liam said, nodding at the cup in front, “caramel macchiato”—then to the one at the back—“white chocolate mocha.”

  She went still, whispered something that sounded like, “Fluff.” But before he could ask her what she’d said or what fluff meant, if he’d even heard that right, Mia lifted her chin and said, “And the bag?”

  “Bagel sandwiches.”

  Her eyes flared. “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why did you bring that stuff?”

  Um. Wasn’t that obvious? He thought she was capable and gorgeous and strong and—

  “You’re a puzzle,” he blurted instead of any of those “normal” things. Fuck.

  Her head tilted to the side, long black hair swinging behind her in a shining tail, brows drawn together as she scoffed. “You’re insane.”

  “Because I think you’re a puzzle?”

  “I’m the most straightforward person you’ll ever meet.”

  His lips ghosted up into a smile. “That’s probably true,” he agreed. “But I’m not talking about what’s on the surface.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  “You’re a puzzle,” Liam repeated, setting the tray of coffee down on the small table by the door, stashing the bag alongside it. He stepped closer, not near enough to touch, because he’d learned his lesson, but within proximity to see clearly that those brown eyes hid a little green. More secrets hidden beneath the surface. “Because on the outside,” he said, “you seem to be only hard edges and barbed wire, but there’s something . . . delicate inside you.”

  That wasn’t exactly the word he wanted to use, but he didn’t think Mia would like it if he substituted with the one he was really thinking—that being, fragile.

  Because there was something breakable and delicate about this woman.

  Crystal covered in steel.

  Get through the top layers in order to see the beauty beneath.

  “Delicate?” she asked with an arched brow.

  “That’s no comment on your ass-kicking skills, J.B.,” he said, lips tipped up, fingers brushing lightly over the bruise on his jaw that had emerged in all its purple-and-black glory from her elbow the night before. “You’ve demonstrated them quite efficiently.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t call me baby.”

  “J.B.,” he said quickly. “Like the letters. Not baby.”

  Her eyes remained narrowed, brow lifted. “What the hell does that mean?”

  He decided his best course of action was a distraction and picked up the coffees again. “Macchiato or mocha?”

  “Do you know how much sugar is in those?” she said, still not relaxing, that eyebrow still raised.

  It probably hinted at his fucked-up-ness that he enjoyed that brow, was amused by the sharp tone. But he’d never been attracted to weak women. His mom was “all brass balls and steel wool”—that was a direct quote from his dad, and although his parents had never shared the hidden meaning behind it, Liam had heard the phrase so much over the years that he knew he’d never be able to think of a more perfect description.

  She’d had to be strong and a little abrasive to deal with three boys, all only two years apart, and a professional hockey player husband who traveled for half the season.

  She’d had to have giant proverbial balls to deal with his grandfather.

  Hank Williamson, who had also been a professional hockey player, who was very much of the “men bring home the bacon, the women have kids” sect.

  Well, that wasn’t Liam’s mom. Not one iota.

  Fran had wanted a family—though Liam wasn’t sure if three boys under the age of six had been her plan. But regardless, he and his brothers had been born close together, and though she’d been involved at their schools and during sports, she’d also been a high-powered executive at a local bank.

  Not a pushover.

  Strong and capable . . . like the woman in front of him.

  “I think after that routine,” he told her, shoving the mocha in her direction since it was the less sweet of the two drinks, “you deserve a little sugar.” He let go when he’d perched it on her still crossed arms and she sighed, shifted carefully to grab it. “Let me guess, you take your coffee black?”

  She rolled her eyes but didn’t answer him.

  “You do,” he said. “Is that what makes you jump so high?”

  A snort. “I just prefer it black, okay?”

  “Are you a vegetarian?”

  Her head tilted to the side, probably at the sharp right turn in conversation. “No.”

  “A vegan?”

  Another head tilt, this time in the other direction. It was as cute as the tiny furrow between her brows. “No,” she said again.

  Liam grinned inwardly, thinking that Mia would appreciate being called cute in any fashion about as much as she’d appreciated him referring to her as delicate. Tempted as he was to say it aloud, just to
see her reaction, he figured he’d pushed her far enough for the moment, so he spun, retrieved the bag of bagels, and sat down on one of the chairs by the door, opening the folded top and pulling out the two sandwiches. “Bacon or sausage?” he asked.

  She frowned, that tiny furrow growing larger.

  “Bacon, it is,” he said, pulling the paper-wrapped sandwich out and waving it in her direction.

  The delicious smell of meat filled the space. Meat. Heh. Liam had to bite back a snort. The guys on the Gold had corrupted him. He used to be a mature twenty-five-year-old man who’d had a normal sense of humor. A couple weeks with the team, and he’d regressed about fourteen years.

  “Come on,” he said, focusing on the gorgeous woman in front of him instead of the middle school humor. “It’s my cheat day, don’t let it go to waste.” He grinned. “Or worse, don’t leave it around for me to eat. I’ll feel like shit tomorrow.”

  Silence.

  Stiff shoulders, an undrunk cup of coffee in her hand.

  He set the sandwich on the chair next to him, pulled out the sausage one—also, heh—and began eating. “Oh my God,” he mumbled through the sandwich. “This is amazing.” He took another bite, rubbed his stomach. “It might be the best bagel I’ve ever had.”

  Mia rolled her eyes.

  He chewed, swallowed, then took another bite. “Oh my—”

  “Is that sandwich going to make you come, too?”

  Liam inhaled and immediately started choking on the giant bite he’d shoved into his mouth, and apparently being near death was the one thing that would drive Mia off her spot on the mat.

  She crossed over to him, took the bagel from his hands and set it down on the chair, then knelt in front of him, ordered, “Lift your arms up.”

  He glanced at her, confused at what his arms had to with the fact that he was coughing like hell. Mia made an annoyed noise, leaned close, and grabbed his wrists, yanking his arms over his head.

  Immediately, his lungs eased, the urge to cough lessened, and he was finally able to suck in a deep breath.

  “How?” he asked when he was finally able to talk.

  She shrugged, making his nerves stand at rigid attention when he realized how close she was. Her arms were pressed to his. Her chest mere inches away. Her mouth—

  Close enough to feel her hot breath.

  “It doesn’t work if you’re really choking,” she said. “But it helps get a bit more oxygen into your lungs if you’re not, often relaxes the diaphragm enough for someone to regain their breath.”

  “And if a person was really choking?” he asked.

  The hint of a smile. “Heimlich is our friend.” She released his wrists but didn’t back away, and Liam found himself lowering his arms inch by careful inch in order to not scare her into putting some distance between them.

  “Thank you,” he murmured, once his palms were on his knees.

  Another shrug, head tilting to the side again. “What did you mean by Cheat Day?”

  He chuckled. “The Gold have a very strict diet plan for the season. No dairy, no sugar, no meat for the most part, no processed foods, no extra carbs or sodium, no trans fats—”

  “Is there anything you can eat?” she asked, and the humor warming those striking brown eyes had him clenching his knees in order to not reach out and tug her close, to see if she would taste like the interesting combination of sweet and tart that was her personality.

  “Plant-based protein. Water—” He broke off on a laugh at her expression.

  “First, water is drinking not eating,” she said. “Second, plant-based protein?” Her eyes cut to the bagel in his hands, the sausage patty clearly evident.

  “As I said, Cheat Day,” he told her. “Our nutritionist is strict, but she is also realistic.”

  “So bagels and coffee?” she asked, shifting back and standing. “That’s your Cheat Day?”

  “Live vicariously with me.” He picked up his breakfast sandwich then hers, holding it up to her.

  Her eyes went to his, held.

  Then she sighed, grabbing the bagel and sitting down. She left two empty chairs between them, and he knew it was as deliberate a gesture as was Nutritionist Rebecca’s meal plan. That being, exceptionally so.

  “This is you living vicariously?” she asked, glancing back and forth between the bagel and his face, expression incredulous.

  “I’m a simple man.”

  She snorted, rolled her eyes as she opened the wrapper. “I don’t think there’s anything simple about you.”

  “Is this a case of takes one to know one?”

  At his question, Mia froze and then she laughed—a tinkling sound filled with such humor, and he stared at her, wanting to capture it in his memory. He didn’t know what he’d said, but if it made her laugh like that, he’d do it again and again and again.

  “I am the most boring person on the planet,” she said. “I’ve lived in San Francisco my whole life, in the same apartment. I’ve even had the same haircut—just a trim every six weeks—since I was a little girl. My dad—” She cut herself off on a sigh. “Why am I telling you this?”

  “Because we have a connection,” he said, taking some of her tact and being blunt.

  Her gaze flew to his, away. “You just think that because I stopped you from turning into a San Franciscan pancake.”

  Liam grinned. “Maybe.” His voice gentled. “But I think it’s something else, too.”

  A shake of her head. “No.”

  Panic edged into the lines of her face, and he took a mental step back. He might not have been able to sleep the night before, he was so fascinated by the puzzle that Mia presented, but he was also . . . the invader here.

  And if he’d learned anything about this woman from the night before, from watching her run through the routine of kicks and punches on the floor, it was that she didn’t like surprises, that she preferred everything run exactly as planned. Her life had structure and expectations . . .

  Not a virtual stranger showing up at her door twice in as many days.

  And yet—

  Liam hadn’t been able to stay away.

  Patience, he counseled himself. Slow and steady and see if she turns out to be the fascinating creature you think she’ll be.

  Creature?

  Wow. He was bringing the romance and charm that morning. Good thing he’d kept that thought where it belonged—in his mind.

  He nudged the sandwich toward her mouth. “I promise it’s not drugged.”

  Mia scowled. “And is that why you keep pressuring me to eat it?”

  “Fine.” He snatched it from her, took a large bite and groaned in pleasure. “If you won’t eat it, I will.”

  “Rude,” she snapped, snatching it from him. “That’s mine.” She bit off a mouthful and immediately moaned, the sound going straight to his cock. “This is delicious.”

  “I know.” He took another bite from his bagel, more to shut himself up than because he could really taste the food. What he wouldn’t give to hear her make that noise again, preferably when they were both naked.

  They ate quietly for the next while, the silence only broken by his laughter when Mia took a drink of her coffee, winced, and immediately set it aside.

  “Not for you?” Liam asked.

  “That’s like eating a straight spoonful of sugar.” She got up, went to the water fountain on the side of the studio and took a long sip. “How can you drink that crap?”

  He shrugged. “What can I say? I have a sweet tooth.”

  She sniffed, walked back over, picked up the cup and handed it to him. “Well, I can say thanks for bringing it, but enjoy this addition to your Cheat Day.”

  Shoving the last bite of bagel into his mouth, he reached for the cup she held out.

  “Not going to protest?” she asked.

  A shake of his head. “Absolutely not. I’ll take my sugar any way I can get it, especially on Cheat Days.”

  “Oh boy.”

  Liam took a sip f
rom the mocha, which was his preferred coffee. He’d only gotten the macchiato in the first place because it was their starting goalie’s favorite drink, and she was pretty much the only female he’d gotten to know semi-well over the last few years.

  He didn’t date much, and he’d been traveling or traded to different teams so often since he’d made the transition to the NHL that it was hard to grow roots.

  Hell, he’d been shuffled between three teams in the course of twenty-four hours before the Gold had picked him up at the trade deadline. Liam pushed away the memory of how embarrassing it had been to be a Williamson who was so clearly on the leeward side of his career. Even until they’d retired, his brothers and father had been sought after. They’d made sure to go out on top.

  But they’d also been successful from almost the beginning.

  Exploding out in their rookie seasons, being valuable additions to their teams, leaders that helped their respective organizations win the Cup.

  Basically, they hadn’t struggled. Unlike him.

  “Not going to drink that one, too?” Mia asked.

  He shook his head, more to clear the negative thoughts than in answer. “No, I have practice tomorrow and a game the day after,” he said. “I might joke about my sweet tooth and sugar-inhaling abilities, but I don’t want to go too crazy and feel like shit on the ice.”

  “Hmm.”

  “What?”

  That hmm had been decidedly pleased, but she merely shook her head in answer.

  “Plus,” he said, “Nutritionist Rebecca’s food plan is legit. I don’t think I’ve had this much energy . . . ever.”

  “Nutritionist Rebecca?”

  He shrugged. “Not so funny story, we have two Rebeccas in the organization. They’ve titled themselves.”

  Mia’s lips twitched. “And what’s the other Rebecca?”