by Elise Faber
“Hey,” he said softly.
The world went quiet. Still. Everything inside of her froze the moment she saw Stefan’s blue eyes, smelled his familiar scent.
“Hey,” she returned.
Scintillating conversation from the two of them.
But Brit didn’t know what to say or why he was there.
All she knew was that he affected her.
Safe and risky at the same time.
Stefan was a man who wouldn’t hurt her physically, wouldn’t cage her or throw her naked into a shower. But he was also a man who threatened to unfreeze her heart, to implant a bunch of barbed strands in the organ then grip tight the fibers.
The cool distance, her normal eminent focus was impossible to hold on to when he was nearby.
And if the contract currently sitting on her desk checked out, that pull wasn’t going to get any easier to deny.
Ding.
They turned as one at the sound of the elevator arriving, its doors sliding open with a whoosh.
Room service.
The worker was a young Hispanic man who’d delivered to Brit before. Mario wore his standard, a black polo and khakis, but this time his typically wide smile disappeared, and he stuttered to a stop in front of them. “I-is everything okay?”
Brit didn’t blame him for faltering. Stefan’s presence alone filled the entire space with tense expectation.
The tray rattled, and Stefan reached out to snag it. “Here. I’ve got it.”
Mario glanced at Brit, curiosity in his gaze. “It’s fine,” she said and put out her hand for the receipt to sign.
She scrawled her name then placed her usual cash tip into Mario’s outstretched hand. “Thanks.”
They watched in silence as Mario stepped back onto the elevator. When Stefan turned to face her, his hands held the tray rock steady, and the penetrating gaze he gave her threatened to turn her knees to jelly.
She wanted to close the distance between them, to feel the stubble adorning his cheeks on her palm, her temple, her inner thigh—
No.
Brit locked her knees. He was hot, no doubt. Even a little sweet. But she was tough. She was the first woman to play in a professional NHL preseason game, could out-squat half her teammates . . . and that was saying something.
So no, she couldn’t allow her legs to turn to jelly. She couldn’t soften toward Stefan, especially not with the truth of what she had to do.
Their interactions needed to be fake, distant, a facsimile of reality.
Because, otherwise, her heart was going to be shattered.
“What?” It was a defensive question. “I live in a hotel,” she said. “It’s not like I can get my Betty Crocker on.”
He laughed. “We need to get you out more.”
“Good luck with that.” The voice wasn’t hers.
Dan had come up behind her without her noticing. She jumped when he whispered in her ear, “Everything okay?”
She nodded.
“Dan,” her brother said, reaching past her to offer Stefan his hand.
Stefan glanced at the tray and back at her. His eyes had turned into flecks of ice, the dark black of his pupils standing out in sharp relief against the pale blue of his irises.
She would have chalked it up to jealousy, except Stefan didn’t seem like the type to get jealous. Plus, no man had ever bothered to exhibit such an emotion over her before.
It just didn’t compute.
So this must be coming from a captain-like place, protecting a teammate, looking after the team’s resources. It was the only thing that made sense. Except Stefan was glaring at Dan, and if looks could kill—
Pushing aside that thought, Brit reached out and snagged the tray.
“Dan, this is Stefan, captain of the Gold,” she said into the silence that had grown taut in less than a minute. “Stefan. Meet Dan, my brother.”
Holding the tray steady, she slipped back into the room. Enough of the worry and angst. Enough stressing about circumstances that couldn’t be changed.
She was going through with the fake relationship.
But . . . it wasn’t going to happen until tomorrow.
Until then, she was going to focus on the things that were easy to solve.
Fatigue. Boredom. Hunger.
The bed was cozy, the movie stupid but entertaining, and the food would be filling and tasty enough.
She ignored the voice in her head that said the hunger for the man outside her door wasn’t quite so easy a problem to solve.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Stefan
Her brother.
A ball of tension relaxed in Stefan’s gut. It was irrational, but he found he didn’t care.
Dan fixed him with a look that screamed he knew what Stefan’s visceral reaction had been at seeing another man in Brit’s room.
Rage. Liquid-hot rage that had demanded he sink his fist into the bastard’s face.
He’d resisted, barely. Mainly because he had no rights to Brit whatsoever.
At least that’s what he kept telling himself.
But it was getting increasingly more difficult to ignore the piece of him that wanted to claim her as his.
Damn the team. Damn anything that stood in their way.
His body was so in-tune with Brit’s that he heard the rustle of cloth as she moved through the room, the soft rattle of the tray, the click of an interior door closing.
The sound of running water filled the air.
“You like burgers?” Dan asked. He seemed as though he were studying every minute nuance of Stefan’s expression.
“What?” He blinked.
Dan rolled his eyes. “Do. You. Like. Burgers?”
Okaaay . . .
“Yeah.” Stefan shrugged. “Sure.”
“Good. There’s hope for you yet.” He turned and walked into the room, hitching his thumb at Stefan to follow him.
Brit’s brother grabbed the plastic key card sitting on the desk next to the television, turned, and fixed Stefan with a glare that could have peeled muscle from bone. “I’ll be back in an hour. You eat. You talk and take care of the pain in her eyes. But you don’t fucking touch. Got it?”
Stefan nodded. The water still ran in the bathroom as Dan left.
Brit’s room was pretty standard-issue for the Gold. Two queens, a wall-mounted air conditioner, a desk that doubled as a TV stand, and a small armchair shoved into one corner.
He sank onto the edge of the bed but immediately stood again.
“The bed? Really, Barie?” he muttered.
The toilet flushed, the water turned off, and anxiety gripped his gut. He hadn’t felt this nervous since sneaking into Tracey Rickman’s bedroom his senior year of high school.
Tracey’s dad had been very demonstrative during his whole boy-dating-his-daughter spiel. He’d even included props—a pair of scissors and a shotgun—and had been happy to describe what he’d do to Stefan if he ever hurt his “darling little girl.”
Just the memory had him shuddering.
The door to the bathroom opened, and Brit walked out.
“Ready to eat?” she asked. “I’m starv—”
Her words cut off as she spotted him standing in the space between the desk and the bed, his arms akimbo.
“What are you doing in here?” The question wasn’t snapped out as he’d expected. Brit had proven over and over how tough she was. But in this, she just seemed curious.
Cautious but curious.
“Your brother invited me in.”
Her brows pulled down into a frown, and he found that his fingers itched with the urge to smooth it away.
God, she was pretty.
Stefan liked women—all shapes, sizes, and ethnicities. He’d dated across the spectrum, but he had a particular weakness for the girl-next-door look.
Brit was that personified.
A light dusting of freckles across the
bridge of her nose. No makeup, slightly flushed cheeks, and delicately pouty lips that he wanted to taste.
Of course, she’d probably sock him if he tried.
His mouth twitched. Brit scowled. “Is there something funny?”
“No.” And because he loved the way she looked when she was a little discombobulated, he said, “I actually came to apologize.”
His mom had torn into him when he’d returned home after the game . . .
“The fire in your eyes wasn’t the good kind, Stefan,” she’d said. “It’s not healthy for you or the team.”
“It’s fine, Mom,” Stefan had replied. “And it worked. We won.”
Her scoff had come in the form of a loud snort. “Your team won because they were lucky and the opposing goalie let in two soft goals.” Then she’d hugged him, as if to soften the blow, and whispered in his ear, “You play better with a clear head. You know that. Bernard knows that. Fight fire with clarity, honey. With a blast of freezing-cold water that snuffs out the other team. Not with a blaze that will flame out quickly and ratchet up everyone’s tension.”
Of course, she’d been right.
Definitely about the way he’d played. His mom had a knack for seeing the game in a way that made it impossible for Stefan to ever discount her opinion completely.
What she didn’t know, however, was that her advice could also be applied to how he’d handled the situation with Brit.
“Apologize?” Brit asked, that frown back, his fingers burning with the need to stroke it away.
No. He’d promised Dan he wouldn’t touch, and he hadn’t come here for that anyway, would never take advantage of Brit in that way.
But—and it was a really fucking-big but—Stefan wanted to touch her.
“I shouldn’t have pushed you,” he said and forced himself to meet her eyes. “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want.” His throat got a little tight, and he cleared it. “I didn’t have the right to demand anything from you. I’m sorry.”
The pause as Brit processed his apology was long and uncomfortable. But just as he was about to say something else—to grovel further—she spoke.
“What if I’d said the secret was something you should really know?”
The question was quiet. Hesitant.
“How could it be?” he asked bluntly. “We hardly know each other. You’ve been with the team less than a month. What kinds of secrets could you possibly have that involve me?”
Her eyes dropped, and she murmured something he couldn’t make out.
Two steps brought him within touching distance, but he resisted the urge. Instead, he bent a little, crouched so that he could meet those brown eyes, and asked again gently, “What secrets?”
Time stretched. The frown disappeared, her expression softened, and he thought for sure she’d tell him.
Then her lids fluttered closed, a breath passed through those kissable lips, and when she looked at him again, all of the softness was gone.
In its place was something different entirely.
Heat. And determination.
He retreated a step.
She closed the distance, walking forward until her breasts were pressed firmly against his chest, until he could smell the delicate floral scent of her.
That fragrance was at odds with her career, with her intensity on the ice, but Stefan was beginning to think it might fit perfectly with the woman underneath.
She went up on tiptoe. Pressed her mouth to his.
And suddenly, thinking was the last damned thing on his mind.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Her lips were soft, her mouth slightly tart. She tasted of desire and just . . . sweet.
So damned sweet.
Heat arrowed straight toward Stefan’s groin, sensation exploding across his nerves. Liquid heat flooded his veins.
And Brit . . .
Her name was the sole recurring thought that cycled through his brain—Brit. Brit. Brit—until even that thought ceased.
He yanked her close, plastering her to his chest, and pressed them so tightly together that even a knife would have a hard time separating them.
Brit was tall, and he didn’t have to bend much to keep kissing her. He stroked his tongue across the opening of her lips, swept inside to taste her more fully.
Her hands tugged at the hair on his nape, hard enough that his mind cleared slightly.
Oh shit. He froze. Had she not wanted this? Was he going too fast? Overwhelming her?
Stefan yanked his head back, dropped his arms.
“Brit. God. I’m so— Oof!”
She’d shoved him. It was so unexpected that he stumbled back and went down . . . onto the bed. Not a second later, she was on top of him, straddling his hips and bending to kiss him again.
His body said, “Hell yeah.” But there was something in her body that began to make warning bells go off in his mind.
A stiffness, maybe. As though she were distancing herself from the moment.
Her hand reached between them and gripped the hard length of his erection.
His eyes rolled into the back of his head. Holy shit.
Maybe he was reading too much into this. Because Brit’s fingers on him, the rough strokes through the thin cotton of his sweats were heaven. He needed—
Stefan scrambled to hold on to his sanity.
But her fingers stroking him, wrapping around him and pumping . . . it was too damned good.
At least until he got a glimpse of her expression.
His arousal disappeared like so much smoke.
Because Brit’s eyes were wet.
No tears had actually escaped—the moisture was contained by her thick blond lashes—but the sentiment was there.
She was hurting.
And he had a fucking hard on.
Had. He’d had a hard on.
Stefan gripped Brit’s shoulders with gentle hands and set her away from him before sitting up on the bed.
Their breathing was rapid, loud puffs almost in unison.
“Why”—he began, but she went rod stiff, her eyes dropping to the garish red, blue, and gold patterned bedspread, and that quickly, Stefan banked the question. He stood—“don’t we eat before the food gets cold?”
She was frozen for a long moment, staring at him with wide eyes until he took the cover off one plate of food—the hamburger—and sat down to eat. “I’m assuming the chicken and rice is yours, but I’m happy to trade.”
“My brother—”
“Is giving us time to talk.”
Her lips pressed down into a firm line. “I don’t want to talk,” she said, petulance in every syllable.
Stillness invaded him, followed by confusion and frustration and . . . a shit-ton of anger. He had no clue what was going on with her, what strings she was pulling, only knew that he was ridiculously attracted to her, and that she was a damned good hockey player.
Beyond that, he was lost. Which pissed him off.
“And you wanted that?” he asked pointedly, tilting his head toward the bed.
Silence.
It stretched, fraught with tension, until finally, finally she whispered, “I did want it.”
“Bullshit.”
The word was torn from him, almost violent in the delivery. Brit jumped, but he didn’t feel guilty.
Not for pressing this. Not for trying to understand. Not for—
“You had tears in your eyes, and your body was stiff as a board,” he said. “You may think me a fool you can manipulate, but I damn-sure know when a woman wants to fuck me. And that”—he waved a hand—“wasn’t it.”
“It’s not— I—” Her voice was pained. “My past—”
All at once, he wondered why he’d come at all, why he’d bothered to think she needed an apology.
His behavior might have been atrocious, but hers was worse.
They’d been building something—camaraderie, a fr
iendship . . . the potential for more.
Her secrets had shit on that.
“You know what,” he said, plunking the cover back onto the plate. “I’m not hungry after all.”
He stood and left.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Brit
Tears.
The salty, stinging fuckers had been conspicuously absent from Brit’s life for a really, really long time.
Yet in the last few hours she’d shed too many of them to count.
About fifteen minutes after Stefan had left—the door closing with a firm finality that made her heart ache like hell—Dan had come back.
He’d taken one look at her face before shoving her over on the bed she’d still been sitting on and pulling her into his arms. They’d watched that stupid action movie from start to finish, her pretending not to cry and him pretending not to notice.
Now it was a quarter past four, and Dan was snoring in the bed next to hers. Their food from the previous evening sat untouched on the desk, and Brit was both not tired and beyond ravenous.
Quietly, she slid from the bed, snagged some clothes, and walked into the bathroom.
She felt vulnerable and fragile and completely deserving of Stefan’s frustration. He’d heard her talking to Bernard, knew she was keeping secrets that involved him.
After slipping on her sweats and tank top, she quietly left the room. Maybe she couldn’t run to the arena because of the media coverage of the team, but she damn-sure could tear up a treadmill.
Except the hallway wasn’t empty.
“What are you doing here?” she hissed, torn between going right back inside the room and sprinting passed the man sitting on the floor.
Stefan’s head jerked from where it had been resting, chin on his chest.
Long fingers thrust through his hair, mussing the dirty blond locks. “Waiting for you,” he said.
“Waiting—? You can’t wait in the hall. Why didn’t you just knock?” Her voice was slightly shrill, and she made herself modulate the volume. She might not be sleeping, but the rest of the hotel was. “If the media caught wind of you sitting outside my room, they would . . .”