Wicked Games (Denver Rebels)

by Maureen Smith

  She jabbed a finger at his face. “I’m not going to the game, so find someone else to be your puck bunny.”

  Nelson laughed. “Puck bunny?”

  “Isn’t that what they call hockey groupies?”

  “Yeah. I’m just surprised you knew the term.” Nelson gave her an amused sidelong glance. “Trust me, no one would ever mistake you for a puck bunny. Not dressed like that anyway.”

  “Good,” Nadia retorted, mutinously folding her arms across her chest and slouching in her seat. “I’m still not going to the game.”

  Her brother groaned. “Aw, c’mon, Nadia. Don’t be like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Look, aren’t you the one who told me to get a quote from Reid?” Nelson challenged.

  “Not by using me as bait,” she shot back.

  “Hey, it’s not my fault the guy took one look at you and fell into insta-love.”

  Nadia snorted, ignoring the way her stomach fluttered at Nelson’s words. “He doesn’t even know me.”

  “Doesn’t matter. He liked what he saw enough to want—hell, demand—an introduction.” Nelson flashed her a lopsided grin. “Aren’t you flattered to know that a famous hockey player has the hots for you?”

  “No.” Okay, that wasn’t entirely true. She was always flattered to receive attention from a hot guy. When said guy was Reid Holden, flattered didn’t begin to describe how she felt. Reid could have any woman he wanted. The fact that he seemed to want her was a serious mind fuck.

  It wasn’t that she thought she was ugly or anything. She knew she was attractive, even pretty. She had good skin, big brown eyes and full lips that she considered her best feature. She was average height, not too short or too tall. While she’d been blessed with a nice round ass, her small boobs could barely fill a teacup. When it came to her looks, she had no illusions about what she was working with. She knew she would always be the girl-next-door type, never to be mistaken for a runway model or a busty bombshell—aka, the types Reid went for.

  Slowing to a red light, Nelson drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, then heaved a deep breath. “Look, Nadia, I know how you feel about jocks, and I know you don’t give a shit about hockey. But this is really important to me. Scoring an interview with Reid Holden could really take my career to the next level. I could get a job at the Post or somewhere even better. You know it’s always been a dream of mine to work for Sports Illustrated or ESPN.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Nadia muttered. It was all he ever talked about.

  “I wouldn’t ask you to come to the game if there wasn’t so much at stake.”

  She sighed. “I know.”

  Nelson smiled as if he sensed her caving. “If I got a better paying job, I’d be willing to go sixty-forty on our rent.”

  Nadia snorted, giving him the side-eye. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Land the interview first.”

  He laughed. “That’s what I’m trying to do. But I need your help.” He steered through the green light. “So what do you say? Will you come to the game on Thursday?”

  Nadia frowned, gnawing her bottom lip. “I don’t know.”

  “C’mon, Nadi. Do this for me.” He paused. “I’d do it for you.”

  She scowled. “Dammit, Nelson. You fight dirty.”

  He laughed. “By any means necessary.”

  Nadia shook her head in exasperation. “Let’s say I agree to attend the game. Then what?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, what happens after the game? What if…well, what if Reid expects more?”

  Nelson looked at her. Before he could respond, his phone went off. He plucked the device from the cup holder and checked the display screen.

  “It’s Corrigan,” he said. “Hold that thought.”

  Nadia waved a dismissive hand.

  As Nelson answered his phone, she turned to stare out the window at the glittering lights of downtown Denver. Corporate logos glowed from the tops of modern skyscrapers. Beyond the tall buildings, the sprawling shoulders of the Rocky Mountains stretched across the landscape.

  Nadia and Nelson had been born and raised in Denver. They left home for the first time to attend college in the Midwest. Although they’d enjoyed getting out from under their parents’ thumb, neither of them expected to feel so homesick. They’d missed Colorado’s perennial sunshine, the mountains, skiing, the Broncos, kickass Mexican food—the whole enchilada. So after graduation they’d hightailed it back home. Fortunately, they were lucky enough to land jobs in their chosen professions.

  As Nadia gazed out the window, her mind drifted back to the encounter with Reid. She could still feel the strength of his hand wrapped around hers, feel the roughness of the calluses on his palm. She found herself wondering how his hands would feel against her sensitive skin, sliding up the inside of her thighs as he slowly parted them and—

  “Sorry about that.”

  Jolted out of her thoughts, Nadia gave a guilty start and turned from the window to stare at Nelson, who’d just gotten off the phone with his editor. “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah. He just had a few questions about an article I turned in yesterday.”

  Nadia nodded. Because she hadn’t heard a word of his conversation, she asked, “Did you tell him that you got a quote from Reid Holden?”

  “Not yet.” Nelson grinned. “I want him to be shocked shitless when he reads my column. Speaking of which, I need to get home and work on it so I can turn it in by midnight.” He threw Nadia an apologetic glance. “Mind if we just pick up a pizza on the way home?”

  She sighed. The night was officially a bust.

  “Sure. Why not?”

  Nadia and her brother lived in a 1920s brick building in lower downtown, also known as LoDo. As Denver’s hip epicenter, LoDo was filled with trendy restaurants, bars, brewpubs and high-rises housed in historic renovated buildings. On most nights and weekends, the neighborhood was hopping as crowds flocked to the area in search of booze, good food and exciting nightlife. Between the drunk frat boys and the rowdy baseball fans streaming out of Coors Field, LoDo could get pretty noisy and hectic. But that was part of its appeal. After being raised in suburbia, Nadia and Nelson welcomed the frenetic energy of city life.

  Carrying a large pizza box from Two-Fisted Mario’s, Nelson got off the elevator on the third floor and followed Nadia down the hallway to their loft. She unlocked the front door, stepped inside and flipped on the foyer light, then held the door open for her brother. As he moved past her, the fragrant aroma of hot pepperoni and cheese wafted up her nose and made her stomach growl.

  Nelson laughed. “I heard that.”

  “Shut up.” Grinning, Nadia closed the door behind him and turned the dead bolt.

  Dropping her purse on the sideboard table by the door, she headed into the living room to switch on the floor lamp. It didn’t take many steps to reach it since the loft was so small, barely eight hundred square feet. But what it lacked in size it made up for in character with exposed-pipe ceilings, tall windows, exposed-brick walls and hardwood floors.

  The living room was modestly furnished with a glass coffee table and a chocolate leather sofa and loveseat—hand-me-downs scavenged from their parents’ basement. With the money they saved on buying furniture, they’d splurged on a large flatscreen television, which was mounted on the brick wall above the fireplace. The loft also had a galley kitchen, two bedrooms and one bathroom.

  “Beer or wine?”

  Nadia followed the sound of Nelson’s voice to the kitchen. “Beer’s good,” she answered, crossing to the counter where he’d put two slices of pizza on two paper plates.

  He grabbed a couple of cold beers from the fridge, twisted the caps off and handed her a bottle.

  “Thanks.” She took a long sip of beer, then picked up a slice of pizza and bit into it, savoring the gooey cheese, spicy pepperoni and garlic-flavored tomato sauce. “Mmm. That’ll work,” she mumbled around a mouthful.

  Nelson gave h
er a sheepish look. “Sorry about tonight. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

  “Damn right you will,” she grumbled, taking another swig of beer.

  Nelson folded a slice of pizza and lifted it to his mouth. “Maybe after the game on Thursday…”

  Nadia narrowed her eyes at him. “Don’t push your luck.”

  “C’mon, Nadia,” he cajoled. “Just come to the game.”

  “Why? So you can dangle me in front of Reid like a piece of raw meat? Do you really think that’s the only way to get an interview with him?”

  Nelson looked bemused. “Well…yeah.”

  Nadia made a sound of disgust and shook her head. “Unbelievable.”

  “What? I’m just saying—”

  “Clock’s ticking. You’d better get to work.” She picked up her plate and left the kitchen before Nelson could harass her some more.

  When she reached her bedroom, she shut the door behind her and crossed to the nightstand to set down her plate and beer. Grabbing the remote, she turned on the small plasma television she’d had since college. It was Tuesday, so none of her favorite shows were on tonight. Not that she was in the mood to watch anything. She just needed noise, something to distract her from thoughts of sexy hockey players with strong hands and panty-wetting smiles.

  After channel surfing for a few minutes, she settled on an old black-and-white movie on TCM. It was His Girl Friday starring Cary Grant and Rosalind Russell.

  Nadia kicked off her pumps and shimmied out of her slacks, then crawled into bed and grabbed her plate of food. She scarfed down her pizza while watching Cary and Rosalind trade clever quips and zingers. The screwball comedy was one of her favorites and always made her laugh. But tonight, for the first time, the snappy repartee between the charismatic actors couldn’t hold her attention as her thoughts returned to Reid.

  She still couldn’t believe he’d insisted on meeting her. She’d thought it was a fluke when they made eye contact during practice. She’d told herself that she’d only imagined the pull between them. But she was wrong.

  Because he’d felt it too.

  The thought made her shiver as heat pooled between her legs.

  Frowning, she gave herself a hard mental shake.

  It didn’t matter that she and Reid were attracted to each other. It didn’t matter how unbelievably hot he was, or how guilty she’d feel for not helping Nelson advance his career.

  The only thing that mattered was her need for self-preservation. She had no desire to get hurt by another jock.

  Been there, done that, burned the damn T-shirt.

  3

  “So what’s the story with the reporter?”

  Reid glanced up from his beer to find his teammate and best friend, Viggo Sandström, eyeing him curiously.

  After practice, they’d hit their favorite sports bar and grill with several other Rebels players. After inhaling platters of barbecue ribs and burgers, the others had wandered off to play pool while Reid and Viggo chilled at the table, nursing their beers and shooting the breeze.

  The two men had been friends since getting drafted by the Rebels six years ago. During their rookie season, they were assigned as roommates for the team’s first road trip. Although Viggo spoke very little English, they’d hit it off right away, falling into an easy camaraderie that defied any language barrier. Over the next several months, they’d survived rookie hazing together and pushed each other to work hard and kick ass every time they stepped onto the ice. While Viggo’s private tutor taught him English, Reid supplemented the lessons by teaching him American slang and how to swear like a trucker. And when the Swede was feeling homesick, Reid took him to strip clubs to watch hot blond exotic dancers that reminded him of his countrywomen.

  Six years later, Viggo spoke perfect English and was one of the Rebels’ top scorers. Nicknamed “The Sandstorm” for the way he obliterated defenders on the ice, he was hands down the best center Reid had ever played alongside.

  He was also persistent as hell. Like a dog with a bone, he just couldn’t let shit go.

  “Well?” he prompted when Reid took too long answering his question.

  “Well what?”

  “What’s up with the reporter?”

  Reid played dumb. “What reporter?”

  “The one you were talking to after practice.” Viggo raised one blond eyebrow. “Since when do you give interviews to journos?”

  “It wasn’t an interview,” Reid countered. “I just answered a couple questions.”

  “Something you haven’t done in over three years,” Viggo pointed out.

  Reid shrugged a shoulder. “I was feeling charitable.”

  Viggo snorted. “Bullshit.”

  Reid grinned and took a swig of his beer. Viggo was right, of course. There’d been nothing altruistic about his motives for talking to the Dispatch reporter. He’d done it for purely selfish reasons—to meet Nadia Warner.

  The moment he laid eyes on her, he’d wanted her. She was beautiful, a fallen angel with silky brown skin, luscious bee-stung lips and big dark doe eyes a man could drown in. When their gazes locked, he’d felt a sharp jolt of electricity that nearly knocked him off his skates. For the rest of practice, he’d found himself distracted by her presence. He couldn’t help watching her in the stands, willing her to look his way again.

  Leaving that arena without meeting her hadn’t been an option.

  All the way over to the bar, his thoughts had been consumed with her. He wondered where she lived, where she worked, where she played. He wondered if she had a man, a lover who warmed her bed every night.

  Frowning at the thought, he drank more beer while letting his gaze roam around the bar. Even on a Tuesday night, the place was packed. Located in the heart of LoDo, Sullivan’s was a popular spot for sports fans to watch games, shoot pool and rub shoulders with the professional athletes that hung out there. Flirty waitresses in tight jeans bustled between tables shuttling drinks and serving food. Several flatscreen televisions were mounted in the corners and above the long bar, where Rebels captain Hunter “HD” Duchene sat swigging a beer while debating politics with the bartender.

  On the ice, the Canadian left winger was all business, leading power plays, scoring clutch goals and keeping defensemen on their heels. Off the ice, he could often be found reading weighty tomes by the likes of Sun Tzu and Noam Chomsky. He was known to enjoy a good vodka martini at black-tie functions, where he engaged in spirited intellectual conversations, debunking the stereotype that all hockey players were meatheads.

  “So again I ask, bro. What’s the story with the reporter?”

  Reid shifted his attention back to Viggo. “Jesus. You really don’t give up, do you?”

  Viggo chuckled. “C’mon, man. You despise reporters. For the past three years, you’ve all but told them to fuck off every time they even glanced your way. You’ve turned down every single one of their interview requests. And now all of a sudden, you’re chatting it up with some reporter from the Denver Dispatch, of all papers. Can you blame me for being curious?”

  “Guess not.” Reid chuckled, leaning back in his chair and stretching out his long legs under the table. “The reporter was there with a woman I wanted to meet.”

  “Ahh.” Viggo nodded wisely and grinned. “I should have known there was a chick involved.”

  Reid saw no point in trying to deny or defend his womanizing tendencies. His reputation preceded him.

  Viggo gave him an amused look. “So did you meet her?”

  Reid grinned. “I did.”

  “And?”

  “I told her brother to bring her to the game on Thursday.”

  “Wait a minute.” Viggo stared at him. “The woman you met was the reporter’s sister?”

  “Yup.”

  Viggo leaned forward. “So she’s…”

  “Black?” Reid nodded, smiling. “She is.”

  A slow grin curved Viggo’s mouth. “I think I saw her. She had her hair in a ponytail, right? And t
he way she was dressed…she had that whole sexy librarian vibe, minus the glasses.”

  Reid chuckled. “Yeah. That was her.”

  Viggo’s grin widened to show off straight white teeth. “I can definitely see why you’re interested.”

  Reid’s smile faded as he narrowed his eyes. “Don’t get any crazy ideas. I saw her first.”

  Viggo laughed. With his dark blond hair, vivid gray eyes and chiseled features, he lived up to the stereotype of good-looking Swedes. Not only was he a dominant scorer on the ice, he was also considered one of the NHL’s best dressed players. He had endorsement deals with several corporations, including nearly every major Swedish company. He frequently appeared in magazine spreads wearing custom-fitted suits and his trademark rakish grin. Women went crazy over him, screaming his name during games and practically chasing him down when they spotted him out in public. He took all the attention in stride—smiling, flirting and charming them with his accent, which he’d learned to turn on and off at will.

  Like Reid, he was intensely focused on hockey and winning the Stanley Cup. Where the two friends differed was that Viggo wasn’t allergic to commitment. Although he enjoyed his share of one-night stands, he’d also had a few long-term relationships over the years. Unlike Reid, he could actually see himself settling down and starting a family someday. He just hadn’t met the right woman yet.

  Lifting his beer to his mouth, he eyed Reid over the rim of the glass. “So what’s the librarian’s name? And is she single?”

  Reid scowled. “None of your damn business.”

  Viggo burst out laughing.

  Shaking his head, Reid downed the rest of his beer and glanced across the room. The rest of their teammates stood around the pool table laughing raucously and talking trash to one another. A group of puck bunnies hovered nearby, giggling flirtatiously and running their fingers through their hair to get the fellas’ attention.

  Reid watched in amusement as Logan “Bruiser” Brassard, who played right wing, leaned over the table to take his shot. He was tall and muscular with buzz-cut black hair, deep brown eyes and a square jaw darkened with stubble.