The Heart (Ice Dragons Hockey Book 2)

by RJ Scott

Just one kiss. That would help him feel better today. Just a little kiss, sweet, chaste, and they could maybe get a drink. He swallowed. She was so beautiful. Even wide-eyed with apprehension, he wanted to kiss her. Girls generally wanted to kiss him, and he was a good kisser, or at least that was what some of them had said. At least if he got a kiss, it would take the edge off the frustration of not being on the ice. And she’d get to kiss an honest to goodness NHL captain, worth millions, whom other girls wanted.

  If I repeat that shit long enough I might even believe I’m worth kissing.

  The compulsion to touch her wouldn’t leave him; he could imagine sliding his hands around her waist, moving them down to cup her ass and lift her, slot between her legs. He could easily hold her, even as tall as she was. He was strong, and he could hold her, and she could wrap her legs around his waist, and then he could press his cock right up against her and swallow her moans in heated kisses.

  Oh shit, that fantasy was way too real.

  He extended his hand to touch her, to reassure her, maybe even cradle her face; chicks loved that.

  She moved back, her ass hitting the counter, but she didn’t slip to the side, just stood there staring at him.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, and cast a look behind her to where Kat had vanished.

  “What does it look like?” he replied, keeping his tone light, teasing. He moved even closer, right into her space, bracketing her with his hands on the counter. “Can I kiss you?”

  Her eyes widened. “You can’t ask random strangers to kiss you.”

  “But you’re not a stranger,” he said. “You’re friends with Ryan’s fiancée. So now that’s sorted, can I kiss you?”

  She didn’t say no, her tongue darting out to her lips again, and he was lost. He dipped his head, and he didn’t know if she moved toward him, but the kiss was a gentle press of lips and it was so fucking sweet. He inhaled the scent of her—soap, shampoo—and wanted to deepen the kiss, and when he lifted a hand to cradle her face, she made a low whimper that sent iron to his cock. In a smooth movement, he lifted her onto the counter, and that was when it all went horribly wrong.

  What happened next could at best be described as a comedy of errors, and at worst as a fucking mess. Maybe he’d moved too fast, but she wrenched free and slid off the counter, and as he moved forward, she twisted and, through no fault of anyone’s, her knee made contact with his balls.

  He looked at her, right at her, straight into her wide, dark eyes, saw her hand over her mouth, and as he bent at the waist, his eyes watering, his breath stolen, he saw her feet move and could do nothing about her leaving.

  The pain. The door slamming.

  “Jesus, Alex, what happened? Do I need to call 9-1-1?”

  Kat was there, seeing him bent over, clutching his balls, and thank god Kat hadn’t just witnessed what he’d done. He held out a hand and wheezed, “I’m fine.” He managed to get to the sofa and tried not to be sick.

  He’d fucked up, he’d explain in a minute, when the pain went, and when he wasn’t worried he’d never father any kids. He’d deserved what had just happened; he’d been clumsy and stupid and misread everything. Kat patted his arm, but that wouldn’t last long when he explained. She’d laugh at him, and then she’d tell Ryan, and the whole team, and that would lead to Loki creating some kind of knee-to-the-balls practical joke.

  Only, when he did explain, Kat’s expression went from worried to pissed, and when she punched him in the chest, he only had one thought.

  What the hell was wrong with him that people kept wanting to hit him?

  “She’s not some puck bunny you can fuck around with!” Kat was near shouting. “She’s a good girl, not a one-night fuck. What is it with you idiots and girls?”

  He hadn’t heard that much cursing from Kat since whenever, and when the pain subsided, he found her in the kitchen, irritably washing potatoes, as much as you could wash vegetables angrily.

  “I’m not an idiot,” he started.

  Kat quelled him with a pointed glare.

  “Not normally,” he amended.

  Kat’s opinion meant something to him. She was Loki’s sister and Ryan’s fiancé; his two best friends. She was going to be part of his life forever, she’d opened her home to him, and he’d somehow given her the wrong impression of him. He was angry-Alex, miserable-Alex, and now he was puck-bunny-using, stupid-and-thoughtless-Alex.

  “You’re an idiot,” she repeated.

  “I don’t do that kind of thing,” he began, but she didn’t let him finish.

  “What? Scare my friends?”

  “We kissed. I was teasing her—”

  “You think that’s sexy?”

  “I thought so.”

  “Men,” she snapped, and made to leave the kitchen.

  He stopped her with a touch to her arm. “Wait, I don’t want you thinking I’m the bad guy here. I’m one of the nice ones; you know that, right?”

  She stared at him and raised an eyebrow in comment.

  What? She didn’t believe him?

  “You know me. Jeez… Hell, you can ask Ryan,” he added lamely.

  What was he doing? Trying to explain his ethics, his morals, to Kat in an attempt to get back in her good books?

  I’m losing it.

  She deflated immediately. “I don’t think you’re a bad guy,” she admitted. “Just Jo is…Jo. She’s not had an easy year.”

  That seemed to be all Alex was getting from the conversation when Ryan came in through the door, bringing the snow and cold and muttering curses at the fact that his face was frozen. He swept Kat up in his arms in a tight hug, and she laughed and wrapped her hands around his neck. The kiss wasn’t X-rated, but the fact that Ryan lifted her and carried her up the stairs with nothing more than a wink at Alex and a “bye” had Alex pulling on the biggest, thickest coat he could find and lacing his boots, taking himself out for a walk around the neighborhood.

  He wasn’t going to cramp Ryan’s style or make them feel uncomfortable. He wasn’t that kind of guy.

  He wasn’t a bad person. He didn’t scare women. He didn’t use them. Well, not anymore, anyway. He couldn’t be blamed for his excesses after he’d received his first NHL contract; he’d been nineteen and horny.

  So he walked the streets, moody and feeling guilt and lust and generally being pissed off at everything. The pain, the media, the accident. He kicked at snow, ignored the cold like every self-respecting Canadian could. The snow they had here was nothing compared to a west-Canadian winter, and the iciness in his lungs was just what he needed to find his center. Guilt subsided, being pissed off vanished, and he was just left with a heavy feeling in his heart.

  He wished he’d come home from a good practice and been swept up in kissing a woman he loved.

  Hell, at the moment he’d just take the good practice.

  His walk took him close to his own place, a large fenced property that backed onto the same lake as Ryan’s did. He’d bought it the first year of his contract with the Dragons. He’d had a shiny new four-year contract paying out five point two million a year, and he’d been sick of apartment living. He’d bought the place with an eye to the future, a solid investment and a place for a wife and kids and a dog or two. But for any of that he’d need to actually date; put his romantic life in front of his work life.

  After the Stanley Cup. After he proved that a new team could get that far.

  I’m only twenty-nine—plenty of time for forever.

  The place he had here, six bedrooms, two kitchens, the second for what purpose he wasn’t sure, five bathrooms, a game room, a pool to one side, a den, a media room, another two rooms that stood empty at the moment, was his home.

  He couldn’t go home, and it was a fucking ass of a thing.

  Cautiously, he checked to see if any of the press was still there, but it was blessedly free of anyone with cameras and microphones. Maybe there was other news now; some Kardashian debacle that had taken their attention away from h
im. Or maybe the press releases about him recuperating back home near his parents in Whistler were actually working.

  He punched in the code and let himself in through the side gate, through the back door past the pool house, into his kitchen, locking the door behind him.

  Some of his clothes were at Ryan’s place, mostly team jerseys and sweats, as well as his iPhone charger. But he had his wallet, his keys, and he was home, and there had to be another charger in his place. Either that or he could call in an order and have one delivered.

  Then people would know you were here.

  He fired off a quick text to Ryan, saying that his place was media free and he was moving home. The battery level showed eighty-nine percent. He’d just eke it out if he couldn’t find another charger. There was no immediate answer, but he wasn’t expecting one. His friend was likely busy.

  Again, the envy hit, and he stared glumly over the lake to the mountains beyond.

  Then he realized that somehow, in the last few days, he had regressed to being a moody teenager, and abruptly he was sick of feeling sorry for himself. He stripped as he walked, a trail of cold weather gear on the floor, and when he was down to jersey shorts and a T-shirt, he pushed open the door to the custom-built gym that was the first thing he’d converted in the house.

  Time to exercise away the gut-burning need that tracked him everywhere.

  He played game film, picking the Canucks again, and set a steady walk on the running machine. Only when he was at a solid running speed did he finally feel the stress leave him.

  He was right to think that hard work solved every problem. He just had to work hard on getting better, getting back on the ice, and then tracking down Jo and apologizing to her.

  He should get her number, but that would lead to a generic I’m sorry text. That wasn’t right. Flowers, or maybe she wasn’t the flowers type. Something to do with her exams, maybe? A notebook, a good one, leather, with a pen—a Mont Blanc? Was that a good pen? He’d heard of them; they were expensive, right? Girls liked expensive things. She wouldn’t be offended by that, right? That was kind of thoughtful of him, he decided, like he’d really considered her feelings and done something nice that was also expensive.

  Satisfied that he could make it right, his mind went to dark brown eyes, and the sweep of nearly black hair, and the generous curves of the woman who had taken him down with a knee to the balls. He recalled the interest in her eyes, then the confusion, and remembered the way she’d worried at her lower lip with her teeth. She was pretty, strikingly so, and there was absolute strength alongside vulnerability. He even felt the stirrings of need at the memory, an urge to kiss her, but his equipment failed to rise to the occasion.

  “Sorry, boys,” he apologized, then realized he was talking to his junk. Next thing he’d be doing was giving his cock a name. “Sorry, little Simba,” he said, and snorted a laugh to the empty room.

  Then he laughed some more, because, fuck, his head really was screwed.

  Chapter 4

  The only good thing about being called to a domestic fire was that Jo could stop thinking about what had happened with Alex. Not only had she whimpered pathetically when he kissed her, but she’d kneed him in the balls. Accidentally, but still, she’d left him hunched over and run.

  The very last thing she needed in her life at the moment was the complication of sex, even once-in-a-kitchen sex with a man like Alex who ticked every one of her boxes.

  He’d lifted her, actually picked her up off the ground, and placed her on the counter.

  That was hot; panty-melting hot. Like so hot that she’d forgiven him for manhandling her. For a while, at least, until her common sense had kicked in. Men didn’t pick her up. She didn’t need to be picked up. She was her own woman and filled with purpose.

  Yes, he might have been able to pick her up, but she wasn’t the skinny model type with big tits that she imagined he was normally with, and she doubted he’d actually meant to kiss her. He’d been bored and pissed and stuck indoors, and that kiss had been nothing more than what he would have pulled on one of those puck bunnies, or whatever they were called. The ones who wanted a hockey player to fuck them for nothing more than a way to spend the night. He’d clearly overlooked the extra pounds of muscle she carried, and the fact that she was only a few inches shorter than him.

  Hell, he must have been desperate.

  She had counseling, she had exams, she had work. She certainly did not need hot sex in her friend’s kitchen, with her friend upstairs.

  It was just a kiss.

  But even though she told herself that over and over, it hadn’t been just a kiss, had it? Alex was a celebrity, a man used to women, to one-night stands and to easy sex. That kiss could well have been a precursor.

  Still, the fire was a distraction she welcomed, nothing more than a garden shed, no people involved and no danger to much other than a rusting lawnmower and some garden tools. The family was grateful, and as the probie on scene, she used the visit to work on her explanation of what to have and not to have in a garden shed. She explained to the shell-shocked parents that tarps, gas, matches, and a bored teenage son were a recipe for disaster. Dennison stood just behind her, a supportive presence, and praised her afterward. All in all, the call was not only a distraction but an excuse to hone her client-facing health and safety skills.

  Back at the firehouse, there was a note on the bulletin board for her to see the captain, and she made her way there as soon as she could.

  Jo knocked and entered Captain Askett’s office. The call to a brief meeting with Askett had been passed across by his assistant Rene, and the officious woman scared the life out of Jo. No doubt it was flashbacks to way too many meetings in the principal’s office at school. Of course, then it had been for a lot of other things, like missing homework; now it was for some work-related thing that was way more important.

  She was good at her job; had every confidence that she would pass her final exams and her assessments.

  Still, one message saying the captain wanted to see her, and she was nervous. Dennison had high-fived her on her way past, with an added, “Keep smiling, probie,” whatever that meant.

  “You wanted to see me, sir?” She stood to attention, back straight.

  “Yes,” Askett said, and waved at the spare seat. The room was full of memories, of medals, and photos, and folders with guidelines about the business of their busy station. Askett ran his firehouse with a combination of grit and compassion and always said he would never send his men into a place that he wouldn’t go. Everyone loved him, and even though he was close to retiring, no one wanted him to leave. “Come in, sit down,” he added. “How are you doing, Glievens?”

  Jo sat as instructed and considered the question. Should she say she was doing well? Would that be pushy from a female firefighter in a world of men? Would she come off as confrontational? Should she just keep it to a “Fine, sir,” with an added thank you? Or should she take this chance to highlight her successes? Why the hell was she even worrying? In this room, in this firehouse, she was a firefighter, not a woman.

  In the end, instinct won. She’d worked way too hard to begin second-guessing her role there.

  “Very good, sir,” she began.

  “Your exams are in the new year, your assessments are clean…I’m impressed.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  He glanced down at the notes on his desk, “Your times on the set pieces come in under the expected limit, and Lieutenant Dennison has reported he’s pleased with your progress. He and I spoke briefly at the end of last week, talked about your future at this firehouse.”

  Hope bloomed inside her. That sounded promising.

  He picked up a card from the desk and peered at it. “There’s another reason I called you in, and this is something I hope to nip in the bud right here and now. In respect to the Ennerdon warehouse fire of November twenty-seventh, there’s been a concern raised. Not a complaint, I need to emphasize that, but a worry about a c
ertain action you took at that fire.”

  “Sir?”

  He cleared his throat and shuffled some papers. “As I recall, Lieutenant Dennison called for a team to vent the roof, and the report says you suggested that you wanted to be part of that team.”

  Suggested? Why had Askett emphasized the word suggested?

  Jo thought back to the chaos of that day; a fully invested three-alarm fire, a roof that she knew from experience would be thin and fragile, and at five-ten, weighing one-sixty, strong and sturdy, she was still the smallest of the entire team of firefighters out of her firehouse. She’d thought on her feet. There were four engines there from two different firehouses, but no one else was her height or weight, she knew. With Mitch’s support, she could get right into the middle of the roof and vent at the best place. Their team was the back-up she needed, and she’d suggested what she’d thought was right. Dennison hadn’t balked; had looked right at her, called Mitch and Alfie, another firefighter, to back her up, and they’d gone.

  With seconds to spare, they’d vented the roof and were down quickly and efficiently. She couldn’t recall there being an issue, but the captain wouldn’t have called her in unless something had gone seriously wrong.

  “Was there an issue, sir?”

  “My counterpart at firehouse fifteen, Bill Swanson, he proposed that as a probie it isn’t your place to question, only to follow orders and learn, and that you were bordering on disrespectful.”

  “Sir—”

  “You realize this is something I need to take seriously.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And I need to inform you that I am taking it seriously.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And in taking it seriously, I need to have conducted a full debrief with the lead on site, and your colleagues.”

  “I understand sir.”

  “And in this case, I find the accusation unfounded, malicious, and I am placing it appropriately in your file.”

  She said nothing. The relief that swelled inside pushed aside the beginnings of self-doubt.

  “Thank you, sir.”