by June Winters
“Hey, who are you texting?” I flirted, wrapping my arm around his burgeoning tummy. With all the time spent in the office and eating fast-food, he was nurturing a cute little potbelly.
“Oh, uh, just some work e-mails.” Matthew hurriedly shut his screen off so I wouldn't see it.
… Hm. Something about that maneuver I didn't like.
“Must be some awfully sensitive work e-mails,” I teased.
“Well yeah, attorney-client privilege is pretty important—”
I wedged my fingers into his armpits and dug, giving him a good tickle. “You're not screwing around on me now, are you, Matthew?”
He fought me off and swore under his breath. “Fuck, Ella! How many times do I have to tell you? I'm super ticklish and I hate it when you do that.”
I backed off. “Sorry, dude. We just haven't talked at all since you showed up. You've been on that thing all night.”
He laid his phone at his side. “Well. Here I am. So, what do you wanna talk about.”
“Hmm. You could ask me how my day at work went.”
He took a deep breath. I could tell he was still annoyed about the tickling.
“So, Ella, how was your day at work?” he asked, slightly strained.
Happily, I began to tell him about the latest kitchen remodeling project I'd just finished in an apartment in Cobble Hill. It was an apartment that had languished in the décor of the boring, blasé 90's. Appliances that had once tried to look futuristic, now looked plain dated. The orange wood cabinetry and matching island hadn't aged so gracefully, either. The laminate counter-tops looked unacceptably cheap, and the white tile floor looked uninspired.
But as of today, I was happy to report that the project was finished. New cabinets, a new island, new appliances and lighting and a beautiful tile backsplash and hardwood floor and farmhouse sink, to just name a few of the upgrades, and the client had absolutely loved it all, and …
Matthew nodded while I told him all this, injecting perfectly placed uh huh's or right's whenever necessary. But the whole time, his phone, lying on the mattress between us, buzzed incessantly. One bzzt after another bzzt, and I could see it in his eyes, he wasn't listening to me; his mind was on those text messages.
“Someone sure enjoys their attorney-client privilege,” I said. “Who's texting you, anyway?”
He patted me on the head, as I were a well-behaved puppy. “Oh, I don't know, probably one of my partners at the office.”
“Don't lie to me, Matthew …” I said lowly. “You know lying is a deal-breaker to me.”
“Yeah yeah, of course.” But he was quick to change the subject. “Well hey, I'm glad to hear your little work thing turned out.”
Little work thing?
“So, how's Lance doing?” he asked. “Spoken to him lately?”
Really? He's asking about my brother again?
“I dunno, why?”
“He's on a goal-scoring tear lately. Lance and his winger, Ryan Ryder, have some serious chemistry together. Ryder is like a wrecking ball out on the ice, crushing guys left and right and clearing space for your brother. It lets Lance focus on scoring goals, while Ryder does all the dirty work. They've got a good thing going. It's a really exciting brand of hockey they're playing right now, honestly. Everyone's talking about them.”
“Oh.” I gave a small shrug of my shoulder. “I wouldn't know. I don't really watch his games all that closely. Or at all.”
“Yeah. I know. You're crazy.” Matthew chuckled. “If I had a brother in the NHL, I wouldn't miss a single game.”
“So you've said,” I said with a sigh.
“Ella,” Matthew said, sounding suddenly serious. He took my hand in his and gently squeezed. “Can I ask you something?”
“Um, sure.”
His eyes probed deeply into mine.
“When do you think I'll get to meet Lance?” he asked at last.
Why did I feel like Matthew would be happier taking my brother to Key West …?
“I don't introduce my family to guys unless we're serious,” I answered at last. “It's bad form.”
Hint, hint.
“This again?” Matthew smiled, but it wasn't a happy one, and he let go of my hand. “Holy shit, Ella. That's a hell of a thing to say to a guy who's taking you to Key West in three weeks. How paranoid are you? How many times do I have tell you that I'm not dating anybody else? I mean, seriously, what more do you want from me?”
My eyes searched skyward for guidance. On one hand, I hated to make demands. On the other hand, he was asking, wasn't he?
“You could make our relationship Facebook official, for one.”
“Facebook official,” he scoffed. “I don't subscribe to all that social media bullshit, okay. If you wanna obsess over it, that's your problem, not mine.”
Says the guy constantly on his phone.
I shrugged. “Alright. Sorry.”
He blew out a heavy exhale and pulled me closer to his body. “Ella. I'm sorry too. I just get so anxious before a vacation, you know? But don't worry, I'll be able to relax once we're on the beach … just you and me … some drinks … you know?”
“Yeah. I'm excited,” I said.
“Me too.”
He smiled at me, stroked my face, and moved in for a kiss. I kissed him back, even if I didn't really want to. But then Matthew cupped my breast, and his hand began the quick descent down my side, over my hips and between my thighs …
“Matthew,” I said, and I pushed his hand away as gently as I could. “Not now …”
He threw his arms at his side, into the mattress, with a thud.
“Alright—alright. Nope. Can't do this.”
I sat up. “What?”
“I thought I could, but I can't.”
“Can't do what?”
“I'm not going to Key West with a girl that refuses to put out.”
“Excuse me?” I panted.
“You're just so much to deal with, Ella. You're so demanding and overbearing and ugh. It's a lot of shit to put up with, all for a girl that doesn't even wanna fuck.”
My stomach twisted into sickening knots. I could not believe this was truly happening. “Are you for real right now?”
“I'm dead-ass, babe. You wanna know the truth? You wanna know the whole truth, like you're always asking?”
He snatched up his cell phone and showed me what his 'business e-mails' really were: girls that he was busily messaging on Tinder.
“These aren't work e-mails. These are sluts that I was arranging to meet as soon as I left your place tonight.”
My jaw dropped.
“Surprised? You shouldn't be. I'm a lawyer, Ella. I'm single, I'm young, and I live in a fantastic apartment in Park Slope. I don't have to wait for pussy. Pussy comes to me. Pussy is dying to fuck me.”
I made a face like the stench coming off him was unbearable.
“Wow. So this is the real you, huh? You are literally repulsive. Those girls can have you, for all I care. You might be a lawyer, but you look and dress like a middle-school boy—and you talk about sex like one, too. It's time to grow up, Matthew, you're not getting any younger.”
“And what about you?” he taunted.
“What about me?”
“You're a seven at best, and that's if I'm feeling charitable. Did you really believe that I was going to wait around for you?”
Blood boiled in my veins, and my fists clenched automatically. My infamous temper began to rise and it took all the restraint I had left not to hit this idiot square on the nose …
“Then why the hell would you waste my time? Why even offer to take me to Key West, if that's how you feel about me?”
“Because.” He gave an arrogant chuckle. “I told all the boys on my beer league team that I'm banging Lance Couture's little sister.” He punctuated the barb with a grotesque sneer. “Figured I should probably hit it at least once to cosmically justify all my bragging, or something—but fuck it. I'm cutting bait. Right now.”
He stood up and put his shoes on.
“Wow, you're an asshole,” I snarled. “For your information, I was actually planning on making the colossal mistake of fucking you in Key West. Thanks you for shooting yourself in the foot, moron.”
“Oh, I'm sure you were, Ella. Just like I was going to drop to one knee, pull out a ring, and pop the question on the beach.” He rolled his eyes.
“Whatever. Get out of my apartment already, you heartless douche-bag.”
He headed for the door, but stopped to get one last word in. “You know. You were right about one thing. Damn, it feels good to tell the truth.”
With that, he left.
I kicked my suitcase off the bed, crawled under the sheets, curled into a ball and told myself I wouldn't cry.
So much for Key West. Guess I'll just spend the week working like usual …
Chapter 2
The Code
Ryan 'Radar' Ryder
At thirty-four thousand feet in the air, the Boston Brawlers had left Denver and were finally heading home.
The four of us sat in the team plane's lounge, crammed into the restaurant-style booth.
On my left was Lance Couture. At 24 years old, Lance is our all-star. He's all speed, flash and skill, and supreme confidence in his talent. He's also my best bud and roommate. At the start of this season, we moved into a sweet condo together downtown.
Across the table, captain Shea Ellis. At 37, Shea is still the Brawlers' undisputed #1 defenseman. He's not the fastest d-man anymore—but there's no substitute for the years of experience that the crafty vet has accumulated over his career.
To Shea's side sat goalie Ilya Zarkov. A fierce competitor who didn't speak a word of English when he arrived in the States to play hockey at age 20. Ilya still speaks with a thick (and sometimes hilarious) Russian accent—but his English had really improved from when he first joined the league. The guys love 'em, even if we all think he's completely nuts.
Anytime we flew home after a road trip, the four of us had a tradition of getting together for a cut-throat game of poker. And we were feeling the heat: our suit jackets had come off, our neck-ties loosened, and our shirt sleeves rolled up.
I laid my cards on the table with a sigh. “I'm out. I got fuckin' nothing.”
“Same,” Ilya muttered.
Now the hand was between Shea and Lance.
“Long road trip, eh boys?” Shea said as he pushed a small stack of $500 chips into the pile with a clattering clink and raised the pot. He lifted a salt-and-pepper eyebrow and cast a suspicious glance at Lance.
Lance clutched a bag of ice to his swollen and purple eye thanks to a punch he'd taken in the game. “It was only a week on the road. You feeling it in your bones, old man?” he teased.
Shea didn't react. “Waiting on you, young-blood.”
Lance finally pushed a stack of chips into the pile. “I've played enough poker with you to know that you love small talk when you're bluffing.”
Suddenly looking ten years younger, Shea revealed his cards.
“Aw, fuck!” Lance swore while Shea lunged forward and greedily scooped up the entire pot with a snicker.
“You've got a lot to learn, kid. You don't realize I'm setting traps for you every time we play.”
“Oh, that was a trap, was it? Yeah, right, you gambled and you got lucky.”
Ilya, always amused and always laughing, chuckled heartily. “That, that was not luck. You walked right into that, Lance. Everyone could see that coming!”
“Just like everyone knew Hunter Rockwell was going top cheddar on you tonight, right Ilya?” Lance shot back.
Someone in the row ahead of us overheard the insult and gasped, “Damn!”
Rockwell had scored the only goal of the game for Colorado with a laser of a wrist-shot that he fired over Ilya's shoulder and into the roof of the net—AKA, top cheddar.
Ilya grinned. “Yes. Same way you saw Beau Bradford's right hook coming right for your eye.”
The boys in the row ahead of us went “ooooh!”
“Can't stand that Bradford prick,” Lance said as he repositioned his ice bag. “Can you fuckin' believe he sucker-punched me?”
I chuckled. “What did you expect? You were cracking jokes about sleeping with his wife. You gotta expect a response like that from a guy like him. You joke about a guy's family, the code says he has a right to lash out.”
Lance patted my shoulder. “Well, thanks for standing up for me anyway, Radar. I can always count on you.”
After Bradford sucker punched Lance, I rushed in and grabbed a hold of him. The two of us squared off and threw bombs at each other. Beau's a big kid and a tough customer, but I'm no pushover, either. We fought to a draw until the refs broke the fight up.
That's my role out on the ice—police the code of the game. When things get too heated on the ice, I step in to calm the tensions—and sometimes, I have to let my fists do the talking. But most importantly, I have to make sure that no one takes any liberties on Lance. Because you have to protect your star if you want to go far in this league.
“Just doing my job, bud,” I replied.
Shea made small talk while he dealt another hand. “So, after that road trip, it'll be good to be back home, eh? Anyone got plans?”
He was met by a few grunts and grumbles.
“Nobody?” Shea asked with a shrug. The cards kept coming. “Hey Radar, Lance, how's that new condo of yours?”
“It's nice,” I said. “We're in Charlestown, right downtown, close to all the bars.”
“So when are you two gonna have the team over to your condo for a little house-warming?”
I shot Lance a look. “Actually, we should have the boys over soon. But the place is still so empty. We need to hire someone to furnish it or something.”
“Yeah,” Lance agreed with a frown. But then something dawned on him. “Wait a minute. My little sister! Ella. She's an interior decorator and she loves fashion and design and furniture and all that bullshit. I'll ask her right now.” He whipped out his phone and started tapping away. “And hey, I put her through college, so I figure she owes me one.”
“As long as you gents are getting along at home,” Shea said as an aside. “That's all I care about. Because the last thing this team needs is to be torn apart by some dissues.”
“Dissues?” Ilya asked. “What is this word?”
“It's slang. It means 'dish issues,'” Shea told the Russian. “Like when someone doesn't clean up after themselves in the sink.” He lowered his voice. “And I'm betting that Lance is the slob.”
Lance rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I'm a slob, so what? Radar wakes me up in the middle of the night, so it all evens out in the end.”
Ilya joked, with his infamous shit-eating grin, “I hate it when you wake up freezing, because your lover stole the bed sheets from you.”
He earned a few snickers from around the plane.
“Now don't go bringing your sick wank fantasies into this, Ilya,” Lance countered. “Anyway, no, Radar didn't steal the comforter from me … but maybe that's what his lady friends are always screaming about!”
Towards the front of the plane, my teammates' heads suddenly popped into the aisle, and every last set of eyeballs was focused right on me.
Oh, for God's sake. Ever since Lance and I moved in, he's been spoiling these guys with the details of my love life. I felt an embarrassed heat rising in my cheeks.
“Another notch in the belt, eh Radar?” someone called from the front of the plane.
“Notch in the belt? Don't you mean, pair of panties for the panty-box?” someone else replied.
And then everyone exploded into laughter with that last one.
“Shutup,” I roared back at them. And then I mumbled quietly to the poker table, “I never should've told them about that.”
“You didn't tell them about your panty collection,” Lance said with a glint in his eye. “I did.”
“Right. Thanks for remindin
g me, dickhead. I'm trying to forget for your sake …”
Lance knew he had the attention of everyone on the plane. He spoke loudly, addressing the team.
“So, it was the night before we left Boston for this road trip. At three in the morning, I wake up to this guys' headboard crashing against the wall, bang bang bang! And a girl starts screaming, 'No! No … don't … no—nooo! Ohhh, yesssss!' I swear, it went on for hours! So if you're wondering why I played like shit that first game, now you know why.”
More hysterical laughter over Lance's orgasmic dramatization.
I gave Lance a shove. “At least I'm getting laid. When are you gonna figure out that your lovely Instagram butt model just wants to see how severe a case of blue-balls she can give a pro athlete?”
Lance smirked. “Thanks, but I'll pass on the dating advice from the guy with the panty collection.”
Josh Stone, a rookie sitting across the aisle, leaned over. “Wait, I'm confused. You said Radar's girl was screaming no?”
“I don't get it either,” Lance said. “In Radar's defense, she sounded like she was having a good time. She came a lot more than once. Trust me. It was super hot.”
Ilya's body shook with a silent laugh. “Sounds like you enjoyed listening.”
“Honestly? Yeah, I got hard.” Lance gave a shrug. “Hey, why's everyone laughing? At least I'm man enough to admit it. And yeah, I'll admit it, I rubbed out a quick one, too.”
“Ugh,” everyone groaned. Lance had taken it too far, as he always does, and now all the heads disappeared from the aisle, ear-buds were stuffed back into ear canals, and everyone went back to minding their own business.
The look of amused horror on Ilya's face said it all. “And only a minute ago, you said I had weird wank fantasies.”
I threw down a chip. “That really is fuckin' sick, Lance. I never want to think of you, one door down the hall, jerking it to the soundtrack of my sex life.”
“Then next time you're nailing some dumb broad, keep it down! And I won't have to!”
“Fine.”
Long-in-the-tooth Shea wore a rare and wily smile. The old man was loving this whole exchange. “So what were her panties like, Radar?”