“Alright then,” I say, putting a little more twang into my accent. I pluck a pick from the case and rest the guitar’s weight in my lap before sliding my fingers over what are clearly new strings. I strum it, and it takes a little bit of fussing over the tuning pegs before it sounds just right. “You didn’t manage to get a capo by any chance, did you?”
“What’s that?”
“It’s a little squeezy thing that clamps onto the neck of the guitar and shortens the length of the strings.”
He appears to be confused. “A squeezy thing?”
“It raises the key,” I explain. “God, it’s so hard to talk to you sporty types.”
Van laughs. “We’re called athletes. That’s like calling you just someone who sings.”
“Okay, point taken.”
“Besides, don’t musicians speak their own language anyway?”
“Yes, we do. Much like hockey players. Now, shut up; I’m trying to sing.”
He makes the international sign for zipping his lips, and I laugh and pluck out the first few bars of Fiona Apple’s “Criminal.” When I sing the line about being a bad, bad girl, Van’s brows shoot skyward, and a grin lights up his face. I close my eyes, losing myself to the lyrics and melody. I sing, and for a few minutes I forget why I felt so trapped. I forget everything but the music, and it’s glorious.
I owe this man a lot—for saving my life, for taking me in, and for helping me to feel human again. For making me feel like something more than just a robot who’s been molded by the industry and the greedy hands of fat-cat label heads. I owe Van Ross everything. I’ve come to the realization that I might give him anything he asks in return, and right now, that terrifies me more than the thought of going back to my real life.
In the morning, I wake to Stella playing quietly in the den. She serenaded me last night as I made dinner, and I felt a tiny bit guilty Emmett wasn’t here for the show. Then again, a part of me was glad to have her all to myself. Especially because she was wearing my flannel without a bra and a button had worked its way open, meaning there was a little cleavage on display, and fuck me, but she has nice tits. Not too big, not too small . . . they’re just right. Now, if only I could convince little Goldilocks that sleeping in my bed would be the same. Though I may be screwed when it comes to the “not too big” aspect of this equation . . . or she will be, because I’m fucking huge.
Last night, Stella surprised me by playing all sorts of classic indie rock that I would never have expected a country singer to know. She talked about what it’s like to tour, and the songs her band play backstage to warm up. I loved the way her face lit up when she shared those details. She came alive, and her excitement was palpable, but it also made me wonder why she ran away from it all. I get needing time off to recharge, but this Stella Hart is not the same woman I found freezing to death on my mountain, and that frightens me, because Stella getting her groove back means there’s a real possibility she’s going to leave soon.
I like that idea about as much as I like skating suicides, but all of Canada is on the hunt to find Stella Hart. I know she’s been avoiding TV and the internet, and I haven’t shared that little detail with her yet because I don’t want her to panic and do something stupid like call her manager. She’s bound to find out soon though.
I roll over and check the time on my phone to keep from thinking about Stella leaving. Since I usually have the house to myself, Fridays are reserved for sleep-ins and jacking it to hot librarian porn. Unless we’re at an away game, training isn’t until the afternoon. I’m convinced that’s the coach’s way of keeping our boys from wanting to hit the town Friday nights, because we’re generally all too sore and in need of a soak in the hot tub—or an ice bath, depending on your injuries. Today, the team is in Boston, no doubt having their morning skate and getting ready to kick the Bruins’ ass, but there’s no rest for the wicked, because while our teammates are pounding their faces into the boards, our star defenseman Matias Torres and me will be training through our injuries.
Sometimes, I head into Calgary around noon so I can visit with Emmett’s group. It’s usually a lunch date, followed by field trips to the museum, bowling or some other blah activity that he hates, but today is a pretty special treat because coach is letting us have the ice for a group skate. Emmett had wanted to do something he was good at, and though I knew coach might bust my balls for asking, I could never say no to my little brother. I must have got coach on a good day, because three hours from now, my bro will be showing off his skills at my rink and proving to his friends that it is ice and not blood that runs through the veins of the Ross men.
Stella’s sweet voice beckons to me from the den, and if I didn’t think I’d frighten the poor woman, I’d run downstairs right now and listen with rapt attention, but I’ve got morning wood that even a pair of jeans won’t cover, so I head for the shower. Once I’m beneath the hot spray, I rub one out while I think about Stella on my couch, or more specifically, bending her over the back of my couch and fucking her until she can’t walk straight. Yeah, I’m definitely not big brother material. Not for her, anyway. I don’t even know if we can really be friends. I mean, all I think about when I’m with her is getting her naked beneath me, but I don’t know what the fuck to do with a twenty-seven-year-old virgin. I’ve been with girls before who were tightlipped about their virginity, and I’d learned too late that instead of a nice, easy, no-strings-attached hookup, I was unwittingly popping their cherries. Some guys get off on that shit, boldly going where no man has gone before, but not me. For one, the guilt about eats me alive, and two, I don’t date the women I fuck. Or any women, for that matter. I don’t have time for relationships. During the season, I’m gone more often than not, and until Stella, I haven’t found a single woman who didn’t treat my brother like he was something to fear or belittle. Why would I date someone who refused to see how extraordinary he is?
I wind up taking a little longer in the shower than I intend to because even after I’ve come my cock is still standing at attention and I can’t get her off my brain. I jack it twice in what feels like as many minutes. Shit. I am seriously fucking screwed. Which is funny, because I’m not screwing anyone in return. I can’t even touch her. If I start something up with Stella, there’s a good chance I’ll never see her pussy until I’m ready to put a ring on it.
I lean against the cool tiles and close my eyes. What the fuck is wrong with me? I can’t fall for the virgin occupying my house, and yet . . . she’s fucking me every which way from Sunday. I feel like a goddamn rookie because the angel downstairs deked me good and hard, and I played right into her hands.
When I head down to breakfast, Stella is no longer playing guitar but is in my kitchen, looking lost. “Morning.”
“Hi.” She turns on this megawatt smile that I have no doubt can be seen from space. “I hope I didn’t wake you. I just had an idea for a song and had to get it out.”
“Nah, I was already up.” Was I ever. I’m surprised my fucking beaver basher went down at all.
Stella’s staring now. She gives me a sheepish smile as she tucks a strand of pale hair behind her ear, and I realize my thoughts are probably written all over my face, so I clear my throat and change the subject. “How’s that work, exactly?”
“Songwriting?”
“Yeah, like you just create something from scratch and voilà, done?”
“Sometimes, yeah. Other songs take a little longer.”
“That’s pretty cool.”
She shrugs. “So is skating on a knife blade, especially when you’re as . . . er . . . big, as you.” I grin, and she squeezes her eyes tightly closed. “I left myself wide open there, didn’t I?”
“Wide open,” I say slowly. My smolder is as cheesy as the line I just fed her, but her cheeks pink up anyway, and it takes everything in me not to pull her closer and touch her in ways that will set her whole body on fire. Instead, I move passed her into the pantry. “Can’t find what you’re looking for?”
/>
“You don’t have any Captain Crunch, do you?”
“Nope, but I think Emmett has some Count Chocula in the back here.” I shuffle a few boxes of cereal out of the way until the count’s cartoon face is staring back at me. I have to keep sugary treats hidden, because the dude would consume the whole box in one sitting if I didn’t. Hell, even I might consume the box if it were right in front of my face. Eli eats that kind of shit all the time, but I can’t. My body doesn’t like it during season. I can handle copious amounts of liquor, though, and pancakes. There’s always room for pancakes.
I set the box down on the counter for her, and she grins up at me. It’s so fucking hard not to kiss her, but I am a man of steel. Okay, maybe that’s just my dick, because wouldn’t you know it? I’m hard again. Fuck me. I press the front of my jeans against the counter to hide my giant erection and set about making an omelet without turning around. It proves difficult, and I must look like a fucking hoser because Stella asks what I’m doing. I just sort of shrug, pull my ingredients from the fridge, and make breakfast without turning to face her. At least, not until she’s engrossed in her cereal and moaning like the count is doing more than just satisfying her cravings for empty calories. Stella throws her head back, her eyes closed as she chews, and that just makes everything worse. I practically fall into the chair opposite her, and watch as she swallows. A beat later, she opens her eyes, and a post-orgasmic smile lights her face. Until she notices me staring, that is.
“What? Do I have Count Chocula on my face?”
No, but you almost had something else starting with a C all over it. I clear my throat and readjust things down below. “Nope, you’re good.”
She leans back in her seat. “I haven’t eaten sugar like this in years. My trainer’s going to kill me when I get back.”
“I can help you work out if you want?” I’m hit with the mental image of me working her over, stretching out those slender thighs of hers, digging my fingers into the flesh of her hips as I pound inside . . . Fuck, Van. Get a goddamn grip. Because that was so helpful earlier this morning. Twice. “Not that you need to work out. Your body is banging, babe.”
She gives a nervous laugh. “If I didn’t work out, I’d be the size of this house.”
“Bullshit.”
“It’s true. I have an addictive personality. I’m terrible with self-control.”
I smirk. “Really?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I never would have guessed that about you.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re twenty-seven and have never been fucked.”
Stella’s smile vanishes, and her lips form a hard line as she narrows her gaze. Shit. I don’t mean for it to come out so harshly, but I can’t get her off my mind. Any of her. Her tits, her hair, her legs . . . Jesus, her legs. What I wouldn’t give to have them wrapped around my waist.
“Sex isn’t everything, you know?”
“Spoken like a true virgin.” I smile, but it isn’t reciprocated. “I could show you how good it could be, country. You wouldn’t even have to get up out of your seat. I’d put my mouth on you and make you come so fucking hard you’d wonder why the hell you hadn’t given it up the day we met.”
Fuck. I hadn’t meant to say any of that. She’s staring with her mouth hanging open, and the furrow between her brows says she’s not happy. It’s clear I’ve taken it too far. With her cheeks flaming and her expression hard, Stella gets up from the table and rinses her bowl in the sink.
“I’m sorry. That was out of line.”
“Little bit, yeah.” Her voice is tight, and she doesn’t turn around.
“Fuck. I’m sorry . . . I’m an ass.”
“Yeah, well most men are.” She sighs and turns to face me.
Her comment surprises me, because she’s never mentioned another man to me before. I mean, I’m not idiot enough to think she’s never dated—she’s Stella fucking Hart. I’d give up my left nut to be buried balls deep inside her—any sane man would—but this is the first time I’ve heard her sound truly bitter about anything.
As if she’s afraid I’ll press her on it, she hastily changes the subject. “It’s your first day back on the ice, right?”
“Not exactly. The team’s playing an away game against Boston, but I still have to train after Emmett’s social group.”
“I wish I could come.”
I want that, too. Call me a narcissistic dick, but I’d love to show her what I do. I’m not supposed to be on the ice at all, but what Coach doesn’t know won’t hurt him. “Maybe you can.”
She gives a humorless laugh. “Not unless I want to be found.”
“Hold on. I might have just the thing.” I walk away and dash up the stairs, rummaging through my closet for a disguise. Once I locate the small leather case, I head downstairs and tug my Crushers cap from the coat rack. Stella eyes me dubiously as I set the items down on the table in front of her.
“A ball cap and a pair of glasses?” She gives me a quizzical expression. “No offence, but I don’t think that’s going to stop people from recognizing me.”
“Works for me.”
She opens the case and puts the glasses on, and I have to take a deep breath and think about my teammates to keep from coming in my pants. I’ve always loved women in glasses. That naughty librarian porn just does me in. Stella adds the ballcap, and I swallow hard. “Perfect. Keep your face makeup free and no one will recognize you at all.”
She frowns. “Gee thanks, I think.”
“Come on, you’re beautiful either way. I just mean, no one’s used to seeing you without it, are they?”
“Not really.” She shrugs. “I’m from the south. We come out of the womb screaming for lipstick and big hair.”
“Well, then it’s perfect.”
“I don’t know.” She pulls the cap down over her head and I can’t resist tweaking the visor.
For a half-second, I think about just kissing her, but that’s a really bad idea. She made it clear just moments ago that that isn’t what she wants from me, and I know there’s no way I could stop at one kiss with this woman. Stella isn’t ready to fall into my bed, and I’m not about to drive her away with unwanted advances. If she were anyone else, I’d have had her naked five minutes after we met, and I certainly wouldn’t have felt any guilt over it, but she isn’t just anyone. So instead of trying to get into her pants, I touch her nose with the tip of my index finger and say, “You’re perfect.”
She scrunches up her face as if she doesn’t believe that, and I walk away before I do something stupid like convince her with my mouth and hands on her body.
“Are you sure this is going to work?” I stare dubiously at the ball cap in my hands. As far as disguises go, it isn’t much of one.
“Works for me.”
“Yeah, but you’re a guy.”
Van smirks as he looks from me to the Saddledome. It’s hard to believe that just a week ago I ran away from this very stadium. “Yes, I am. Thanks for noting that.”
“It’s different for men, but girls have hair, and boobs.”
“You noticed that too, eh?”
“Oh my god, you’re like a dog with a bone.”
He chuckles. “Woof.”
I sigh and shake my head. “Are we sure about the glasses, though?”
I slip them on and turn to him with a serious expression. Van starts to squirm, and a six-foot-four, two-hundred-pound man squirming in the front seat of his equally large Hummer is a sight to behold. “Yeah, we’re definitely sure about those.”
“Van likes to spank his monkey to women with glasses,” Emmett pipes up for the first time since we picked him up from the hospital.
Van slams his head against the steering wheel. “Buddy, remember how we talked about oversharing?”
I grin at Emmett, who holds his fist out so that I can bump it with mine, and when Van glances at me I push them farther down my nose and look over the rim with my best sexy librarian face. “Then
we can’t very well leave them behind, can we? Now come on, we’re going to be late.”
“You two go ahead. I may have to wait a little bit for the blood to drain from my cock.”
I chuckle, but heat claws at my face and neck as I put the ballcap on, tucking as much of my long hair underneath it as I can. “How do I look?”
“Like every wet dream I ever had,” he murmurs, releasing a loud breath.
“This better work, Van. I’m not ready to have everyone know where I am yet.” I’m not ready to leave. The longer I stay, the more I wonder why I spent so long working hard for a life of emptiness, a life alone.
“It’ll work.” Van opens his door and climbs out. Emmett does the same, but I shoot Van a worried look through the windshield as he rounds the Hummer to open my door. “Come on.”
“Okay.” I take his hand. He tries to pull away once I’m out of the vehicle, but I keep a hold of him by squeezing tightly, and I don’t let him go until we’re inside the rink.
I take the back seat for the drive home, and even though both men protest, I scramble in and shut the door before either one can do anything about it. Van is freshly showered, wearing jeans, a grey Henley and a hoodie. His hair is damp, and he smells amazing. He looks perfectly edible, which is why I don’t trust myself to sit beside him. The more distance I can put between us, the better. I can’t fall for this man. What would that even look like with our conflicting schedules? Besides, I’m pretty sure Van Ross prefers women with a whole lot more experience.
The boys climb into the car, and Van turns on the heat. Within seconds, the whole cab is filled with the scent of dry amber, ginger, and a hint of ocean. Oh god. I could just lick him from head to toe right now. I lean back against the headrest and close my eyes before I do something stupid like climb through the gap between the seats and curl up in his lap. What in the dickens is wrong with me? For the last two days, I’ve been staring at this man like a starving mutt at a barbeque. And seeing him on the ice with his brother, and the sweet way he had with Emmett’s friends, made me wanna lay down in the middle of that rink and declare that I was ready for him to make good on his promise to show me how amazing sex could be. After the way he held that one girl’s hand as he gently eased her out on the ice, I was fully prepared to give this man a whole hockey team worth of babies, and that’s not something I ever saw in my future.
Puck Love Page 8