by Chantal Mer
“This isn’t about hiding. This is about laying low until the vultures go to feed somewhere else.” He sounds like he’s speaking through clenched teeth. “You are so fucking stubborn.” Even though he sounds exasperated, there’s a touch of amusement in what he says, which brings a smile to my lips and lifts the weights that have been compressing my chest for the last five minutes. “Try to disguise yourself and go in through the back of the building. If they saw us walking the dogs, they’re going to spot Grinder a mile away.”
“We’ll be discreet,” I coax.
Another deep inhalation and I know what he’s going to say before he says it. “I’m sorry.”
“This isn’t your fault, Ash. I’m not worried.”
“You should be. There are still plenty of people who think I’m lower than dog shit.”
“Good thing I’m not one of them.”
“Yeah.” He sounds dejected like he believes every horrible thing anyone has ever said about him.
The downtrodden way he says yeah makes me want to throw my phone down and run to him. Wrap him in my arms and remind him of all the ways he is amazing until he believes it. I want to shield him from the assholes who judge him based on one dumb, impulsive move. “I know you, Ash.”
In the background, someone yells Ash’s name. “Gotta go.”
And without another word, I’m staring at my phone, the line dead and a boulder in my gut.
“Isaiah! Isaiah!” The sportscaster from our local news station is speed-walking across the street, dodging cars and icy patches like she’s a live version of Frogger. The camera guy behind her has a hard time keeping up. I cringe and automatically turn my head when a FedEx truck lays on the horn. Thankfully when I turn my head back, camera guy isn’t a splat on the road but is jogging and almost caught up to Sports Chick.
I pause because I know how tough it is to try to get people to stop and talk to you, even when it’s fun pieces, like the ones I do. Relief quickly flashes across her pretty features before the determined set of her mouth has me wondering if I can outrun her. After witnessing her Frogger moves, I’m not willing to take the chance, even though I’m a mere fifty feet from my home.
She glances over her shoulder. Camera guy nods from behind the camera on his shoulder, and Sports Chick extends her hand. “Trinity Jordan, with WGN.”
I take her gloved hand in mine. “Nice to meet you.”
“I was wondering if there was any truth to the rumors that have recently been circulating about you and former defenseman for the Houston Hellfire, Asher Delacroix.”
Returning my hand to my pocket, even though I have on the gloves Ash lent me, I rock on my heels. “And what exactly are the rumors?”
“There were pictures of the two of you holding hands and looking quite cozy while walking your dogs.” She smiles, but it’s the smile of a predator, and I know she’s looking for sensation, not substance.
I go for playful. “I thought you reported on sports.”
For an instant, the veneer of her TV face cracks a sliver when her made-up eyes widen, but it’s too quick for viewers to notice. “I do, and this is big sports news.” She turns and speaks to the camera. “For those of you who may not remember, Asher Delacroix took out Isaiah Blake in an illegal hit, injuring Isaiah so badly he had to quit the game forever.” She returns her attention to me. “You were only twenty. The fact that you have been seen holding hands with him is something hockey fans want to hear about.”
“Now it’s a fact that I was holding hands with him? I thought you were looking for confirmation of a rumor.” I’m being an ass, but the sensationalism of it all is rubbing me raw. I want to scream because Ash is a good man. Better than most of the people who will watch this segment and make their judgments based on however they edit whatever I say.
“I am looking for confirmation.” Trinity leans closer, her microphone in between us.
The chill of early evening is soaking through my wool coat, and the only thing I want to do is grab my dog and head to Ash’s. I want to welcome him home when he gets in later tonight. I want to kiss away the worry I know will be blanketing his face. I want to remind him that we—what we have developed in these few short weeks—is real and intense and worth whatever hassle we might have right now.
“I’m privileged to call Asher Delacroix my friend.”
“But after what he did to you… Do you think he’s the kind of man you should be associating with considering the work your non-profit does with kids throughout the country?” While she’s asking a question, we both know she means for it to be rhetorical.
Too bad I don’t care what she means. “If you think associating with someone who has built a life on giving people second chances, who advocates for those in need, who donates his time, money, and resources to causes he believes in, who wakes up every morning looking for a way in which he can help—whether that be big or small, is a poor choice…” I lift my shoulder. “Then, I guess he’s not someone with whom I should associate.”
Her mouth is parted slightly, her wide eyes blinking, the microphone hanging between us. Since she seems to be at a loss for words, I look directly into the camera. “Asher Delacroix is a good friend and a good man.”
Spinning on my heel, I call over my shoulder. “Have a good evening,” and jog up my steps.
Grinder greets me at the door, and once it’s locked and bolted, I sag against it. My phone vibrates in my pocket. When I look at it, I see I have five missed texts from the president of Hockey Included’s board of directors. I’ve heard all he has to say. Instead of reading his texts or responding to the dozens of texts I received earlier today from my network contacts and players I’m still friendly with, I kick off my shoes and head to my bedroom.
Time to pack and figure out how I can disguise myself enough to get into Ash’s building. I’ll worry about tomorrow morning, tomorrow morning. One thing I know for certain is that if Ash has time to stew by himself, he’ll bolt, and I don’t want to miss any time with him.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Ash
My brain is banging against my skull, and my muscles are lead weights encased in two tons of cement. Isaiah and I dominated the evening news cycle, not only in Chicago, but there was talk of it on the Hockey Network and NBC Sports. It wouldn’t have gotten near the coverage if I hadn’t “disappeared from life” as one of the newscasters had said.
Zinnia kept me informed of every new development as I tried to lose myself in cilantro, chilies, and the demanding pace of the dinner rush.
It didn’t help.
I could only think of how this was going to affect Isaiah’s fundraiser in two days.
But the thing that burned like a scalding pot to bare skin was seeing Isaiah—looking so handsome, his camel coat highlighting the golden tones of his brown skin—relaxed and smiling say, “He’s not someone with whom I should associate.” My insides were blistering with third-degree burns, and no ointment could ease the pain.
When I’d first heard it, I doubled over, close to dry-heaving into the trash can next to my desk. Thankfully, I was by myself. Witnesses were not needed for that display.
At least I know where I stand now. Not that I blame him. He has to look out for his non-profit. After the segments he did for the All-Star weekend, he’s on the verge of getting more national exposure, which would benefit, not only him but the work he was doing with kids.
And let’s face it, we all knew it wouldn’t last, knew Isaiah would come to his senses at some point.
I rub my chest, missing the fluffy feeling that’s been present since my first breakfast with Isaiah, and slip my key in the door.
It’s quiet.
Too quiet.
“Cila?” I don’t know why I’m whispering, but I am.
Nothing.
Closing the door, I look around. The lamp that’s on a timer in the living room is off, leaving the condo inky with darkness.
“Cila?” I call again.
Still nothing.<
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I flip the light switch and recessed lighting beams brightly. My stupid heart soars before crashing at the sight of Isaiah squinting and struggling to sit with Grinder on his chest and Cila on Grinder’s back. All of whom are on my couch.
Finally, Cila jumps off, her tail wiggling her butt so hard, she falls. Her sleepy eyes shining with excitement to see me. With one hand, I lift her to my face. “You’re a little traitor.”
She doesn’t care one iota. Her pint-sized tongue finds my nose while she squirms to get closer.
Grinder lifts his big head, his tail flopping once, twice, three times, before he drops his head back down on Isaiah’s front. “Get up, you big oaf.” Isaiah plants a kiss on the top of Grinder’s head before wiggling out from under the beast.
He shouldn’t look good in black pajama bottoms with red hearts and a red thermal crew, but he does. The shirt accentuates his defined chest and slim waist. His smile is the painkiller I need for my blistered insides, but before I collapse into him, I remind myself of what he said to the reporter. “Why are you here?”
The smile drops, and his languid body stiffens. “We agreed I was still coming over.”
With Cila tucked in my arm, I stride to the kitchen, for once wishing I drank, because a shot of whiskey or three seems like a good idea about now. Instead, I open the freezer and pull out a pint of the specialty brambleberry crisp ice cream I ordered.
I jab a spoon into the creamy deliciousness and scoop a massive amount into my mouth. It does nothing to cool the fire licking at my heels, which only pisses me off more. This is ice cream to be eaten with care, savored, enjoying every flavor and nuance, not to be gulped down in anger with the hopes of freezing out all feeling.
“You want to tell me what’s going on?” Arms tucked across his chest, Isaiah leans against the door frame, looking both aggravated and concerned.
“Why would you bother coming over if I’m not someone with whom you should associate?” I shovel another heap of ice cream into my mouth and squint through the brain freeze my carelessness has given me.
Isaiah shakes his head, uncrosses his arms, and strides into the darkened kitchen. Taking the spoon from my grip, the heat of him this close inflames and infuriates. He watches me watching him as he scoops out a healthy serving. Turning the spoon upside down, the tip of his tongue slides along the side. His eyes close, and a satisfied grin breaks free—like they do every time he eats something he loves…or comes—before he wraps his lips around the spoon.
I force my eyes to look at Cila, who’s whining her disapproval of not yet having gotten a taste. Yes, I’m one of those people who will share ice cream with my dog, even specialty ice cream that goes for fifteen dollars a pint. I stay focused on my spoiled puppy because watching Isaiah, standing barefoot in his pajamas in my kitchen at midnight, sucking on a spoonful of ice cream, is a recipe for coming in my pants.
“Damn, that’s good.” He stuffs the spoon back into the carton before taking it from my hand and placing it on the counter. Then he lifts Cila, gives her a kiss on her head, and puts her on the floor next to Grinder, who’s been silently wishing for ice cream to drop. Realizing they’re not getting anything, the dogs skip out of the room—well, Cila skips, Grinder is more of a saunter kind of dog.
Isaiah grips my hand, scoots closer so my thigh is resting between his, and wraps my arm around his waist. Then, presses my hand on his hip. His finger touches my chin, guiding me to meet his eyes. “I never said I didn’t want to be associated with you.”
When I try to back away, he’s prepared, and already has a grip on my hand while holding me in place with his legs as extra reinforcement.
“I saw you. They’ve been playing the clip on repeat.” The ice cream has left a sour taste in my mouth as I try not to replay the words he spoke.
“In all the time you played in the NHL, your words were never taken out of context? A clip wasn’t manipulated to make it sound like something the producers wanted rather than what you actually said or meant?” His thumb brushes back and forth over the pad of my hand, his strong hand clamping mine to his hip.
I want to believe him. I do. It’s just so damn hard.
Lips, cold from the brambleberry crisp, trace my jaw. “When she asked if I thought you were the type of man I should associate with, I was flip. I told her that if being with someone who did so much good wasn’t the kind of person I should associate with, then she was correct.”
“She’s right. They’re all right.” As much as I don’t want to—especially with is tongue making lazy circles on my neck—I try to warn Isaiah off.
“Nope.” He nips at my jaw. “They’re all wrong. I told you, Ash. I. Know. You.” Lacing his fingers with mine, he spins out of my arms and gives me a gentle tug. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t mean it. Being with you is the one place I always want to be.”
His words heal my blistered insides, and I follow him. “You’re sure?”
He huffs a humorless laugh. “Ash, it took me twenty minutes to hide all of my dreads in a hat. I walked six blocks out of my way and stopped every thirty seconds to make sure I wasn’t being followed. Then I spent the evening in a darkened condo because I didn’t want to let on that anyone was here while you were at the restaurant.” Tugging—not so gently this time—he leads me to my bedroom. “And I knew you’d be pissy, but I stayed anyway.”
Once in the room, he strips me of the coat I had yet to remove. “I love you in your chef’s jacket.” Unbuttoning the side, his hands smooth over then under the white tee beneath it. His mouth nipping and sucking at my neck and collar bone.
“I reek of the kitchen.” The smell of oil and smoke and whatever we cooked are imprinted on my skin and in my hair. Once home, I usually jump into the shower immediately, wanting to scrub the day away.
“I don’t care.”
Chef coat and tee drop to the floor. The zip of my fly parting and long, nimble fingers gripping my cock. The heat of his palm as it pulls and squeezes. The scruff of his beard against my chest. All of it is more than I can comprehend. The battle for dominance that happens every time we’re together has me ripping his top off and his pants down. On my way back to his mouth, I take a detour to devour his beautiful cock.
His hands grip my hair and his hips pump and gyrate, his dick so far down my throat I almost gag. But I want him, all of him. I squeeze his muscular ass and hold him to me. He pulls and tugs on my hair, fighting, even as his pumps into my mouth are slow and sensual, like he’s savoring the sensation.
“I’m not coming down your throat tonight, Ash.” He pants. “You need to feel me. Feel how much I want you. How much I need you. You need to know. I need you to know. Need you not to forget.”
I loosen my grip at the pleading of his last words, and it’s enough for him to pull out of my mouth with a pop, draw me up and spin me. My hands hit the mattress.
“Don’t move.” His heat is gone, and he smacks my ass as he moves to where the condoms and lube are stashed in the nightstand. “I love your ass. I swear to God, it takes all of my self-control not to bite it.” When his finger enters, I moan. His words, his touch, everything leaves the tip of my cock dripping with pre-cum.
When I fist it, another smack on my ass. This time leaving more sting that feels oh-so-good.
“Keep your hands on the bed, Asher. I’m going to take care of you.” He places a hot kiss between my shoulder blades, his tongue tracing the outline of my tattoo, and tugs on my dick while fingering my asshole.
There’s something about being told Isaiah’s going to take care of me that’s more of a turn-on than everything we’ve done, combined. It’s been a long time since I’ve been taken care of. After Serena died, I took care of Sophie, took care of the house, took care of getting myself to practices, all in an effort to take care of my grieving parents. Being team captain, I was always taking care of the guys, making sure we were functioning as a unit, a team. At the restaurant, I take care of my staff and customers. I want everyone to
feel they can come to me, that I’ll help ease whatever burden they have.
But not until Isaiah’s words do I realize that I’ve missed being taken care of.
“You gonna let me take care of you, Ash?” The whisper of his question is hot on my skin, causing goosebumps to prickle.
I nod because the intimacy of his question has scrambled my brain.
Another swat on the ass, which is now empty. “I need to hear it.”
“Yes.” My answer is gritty with need.
The big beautiful cock that has been sliding back and forth along my ass—teasing—finally, finally plunges deep inside. Our moans come in sync with each other, the most beautiful of harmonies. With every one of Isaiah’s plunges forward, I push back, causing a friction and fullness that has me seeing stars. He grips my hips, then his hands move frantically over my legs, my torso, my ass like he can’t decide where he wants to touch me. The goosebumps are a contrast to the sizzle of my skin. His powerful legs are jutting, and if I were smaller, I would have been propelled across the bed, my head banging against the headboard.
“I love your strength,” he grunts as he plows in.
I nod, because, again, there are no words. I can only feel.
His hand grips my cock, his hard nipples caressing my back with every move, and if I died right this instant, I’d be the luckiest bastard in the world. “You close?”
Nod.
“Think we can come together?” The heat of his question burns the lobe of my ear.
Nod.
“I love when we come together.”
Nod.
“Fuck.” He pumps my dick as he pumps into my ass.
The base of my spine is on fire. The pit of my stomach quivering and quaking, my cock ready to spurt all over his fingers, but I hold back. I want to do this with him. For him.
“Now, Ash. Now,” he grits out before his movements turn jerky.
At his words, I’m unleashed. My dick lets loose, and I cry out his name as he growls, “I fucking love you, Asher.”