“Hey, who you calling little?”
Brand shook his head as the guys continued to ride each other with increasingly obscene gestures and suggestions as they geared up for warm-ups before the game.
But he couldn’t hide his smile.
For the past two seasons, this locker room in the bowels of the Reading arena had been home. Unlike a lot of the younger guys who moved up and down from this league to the American Hockey League and, if they were really good, to the NHL, Brand had become a fixture here with the Railers.
But not for much longer.
Pulling his practice jersey over his head, he shoved away the depression that wanted to pick and poke at his brain. He couldn’t allow it to fuck with him, not before a game.
At thirty-five, this was his last stop as a player. He’d been playing professional hockey since he was eighteen years old. He’d played for the ECHL, the AHL and, for one season, the NHL, first for the Washington Capitals then the Toronto Maple Leafs.
He’d had a good run, but he was getting too old to play. He didn’t recover from injuries as fast as he had. Some mornings, his entire body ached for no reason.
All good things must end.
But what the hell would he do?
No wife, no kids. No skills beyond the ice, except those behind a bar. He could go home to Maine, take over the family business from his parents but…
Hell, you’ve never even met the woman.
Didn’t mean he hadn’t been fantasizing about her for months.
From the first moment he’d seen her in her seat at the arena, he’d wanted her. And not just for some wimpy date, where they had dinner and drinks and he kissed her good night before going home to jack off.
No, he was talking down-and-dirty, do-me-in-the-backseat, up-against-a-wall, inferno-hot sex. She looked like she could handle it. She wasn’t some twenty-year-old puck bunny who hung out at the bars after the game, hoping to snag a player for the night.
No, she looked to be thirty-something, at least. A real woman with a decent career, if her clothes and her bearing were any indication.
She wore jeans, sleek and sexy and perfectly fitted to her gorgeous, female curves. The woman had a rack to die for and an ass he wanted to get his hands on, preferably while she was naked.
She always wore sweaters that were feminine and pretty, not bulky and concealing. Or slutty. She never slouched and her attention was always focused on the game.
The only part of her that hinted at a wild side was her midnight black hair that waved over her shoulders and down her back like a rough ocean. She never had it pulled back in a tail. He wanted to sink his hands into it, drape it over his naked body and feel it caress his thighs as she—
He shook his head, trying to dislodge the image of her going down on him that he now had stuck in his head.
Her name was Lucy Aster. He’d asked the ticket guys who she was and, after they’d busted his chops for at least five minutes, they’d come up with a name.
And an address that had turned out to be bogus. Which had intrigued the hell out of him. Why—
“Hey, Stevenson, let’s go.”
With a start, he realized the guys were heading out for warm ups.
Shit, he needed to focus. Or he’d find himself checked headfirst into the boards tonight.
A few more hits like the one he’d taken the day before and he could kiss his career good-bye. For good.
What a Goddess Wants Page 27