Power Play (A Blades Hockey Novella Book 1)

by Maria Luis

  “How do you know about that?” His voice is as chilly as Boston on a frigid, February morning.

  It’s called being a Class-A Stalker when I want to be. That’s not what I say, though, because I have no intention of being labeled as a creeper. Every source I’ve used has been completely legal, I promise.

  Duke’s feet carry him forward, until with his body he’s cornering me against the window. With a little jump of surprise, my back hits the glass. It’s cold against my exposed shoulders and arms. Cold enough to make the girls—I’m talking about my nipples—stand to attention.

  Something Duke notices, if the way his hot blue gaze dips down to my chest is any indication. He gives a little shake of his head, dropping his hands to either side of my head on the window behind me.

  Boxing me in.

  Tempting me to thrust my hips forward and cradle his hard length.

  “Charlie,” he warns in a deceptively soft voice, “how do you know about the retirement?”

  I close my eyes and take a moment to appreciate the way his body is inadvertently pressing against mine.

  “Charlie.”

  All right, fine. “I spoke with The Boston Globe editor last week, before I’d decided to create my own website.”

  “Sean.”

  I nod. “You’ve approached him in the past about spreading the news. I may have promised him a date with Gwen if he talked, although she apparently has a boyfriend now.”

  Almost incredulously, Duke’s eyes narrow. “He gave in that easily?”

  “You fail to realize how many people want Gwen. Women, men, random strangers; everyone wants a piece.”

  And here we are, full circle.

  “I’m no longer interested in a piece of her,” he murmurs, drawing my attention to his masculine lips. I recall it pressed against mine, drawing moans from my soul and orgasms from other, more scandalous parts of my body. “I’m interested in—”

  He cuts off, and I glance up at his face. He looks, dare I say it, a little bit nervous.

  I can’t restrain myself anymore.

  “I want to see where this goes,” I tell him fervently. “I want to see what your naked skin looks like with your tattoo, outside of the darkness of your bedroom. I want to know what your voice sounds like mid-morning, after we’ve already had sex and ate brunch in bed.”

  He laughs and the sound is music to my ears. “You’re such a writer,” he says, his fingers slowly planting themselves in my chaotic hair. “Are you sure you don’t plan on switching from journalism to writing romance novels?”

  “I never say never.” My hands take a leap of faith and land on his flat stomach. “Maybe you feel differently, but I’ve never been so interested in a guy before.” Time to rush through this, and hope to God I’m still left standing with my dignity at the end. My mind’s eye reads over the last few lines of my pre-rehearsed speech.

  “My mom left when I was a kid. My dad, as you know, died when I was seventeen. For most of my life, I’ve been alone and I like it that way. It’s safer.” Drawing in a deep breath for fortitude, I continue, somewhat mollified to see that the glimmer of anger etching his features has receded. “But then you walked into my life, Duke, and it wasn’t meant to be anything. We met at a bachelorette party, and I wasn’t even a bridesmaid. You had what I wanted, yes, but you pushed me. You made me interested, and that’s . . . never happened before.”

  His eyes crinkle at the corners, and I feel his hands fall to my waist. “Are you saying that you’re in love with me, Charlie Denton?”

  Maybe. I don’t know. It’s way too soon to admit anything like that, though, so I try and play it cool. “I like you, Mr. Harrison. And I’m hoping, despite my mess-ups, that you might like me back. Even if just a little.”

  “I don’t mix pleasure with business,” Duke startles me by saying. When I try to yank out of his grasp, embarrassment lining my every move, he holds me still. “I’m not finished yet, honey.”

  The word “honey” stops me dead in my tracks.

  I glance up at his face.

  “I don’t mix pleasure with business,” he reiterates. “I learned that the hard way, when I landed on every major Internet site, naked as the day I was born, for months. For years I’ve been going through the motions, hesitant to trust someone to get too close to my heart. You’re right—I’ve been ready to quit hockey for years now.”

  “Then why haven’t you?” I ask.

  “I don’t know, and that’s the honest to God truth. I don’t have an answer for you. Maybe it’s just a habit I don’t know how to break. Get up, head to practice, work out. Rinse and repeat. For over ten years, the life of a hockey player has been my normal. But it became a routine that no longer challenged me, or pushed me to be something greater. And then I met you.”

  My heart starts to thump erratically. I’m trying to squash my hope—I really, really am—but I’m having a dreadfully hard time doing so. Since I lack patience of any kind, I whisper, “And?”

  Duke laughs, pulling on a strand of my kinky hair with one finger. “And, crazy as this sounds, I met you and I felt like I had finally come alive. When you messaged me on Twitter, I stared at my phone for hours waiting for your response. You were ballsy, and your confident, take-no-prisoners attitude had me hooked from the start. I wanted to play your games. I wanted to do anything that would put you in my direct line of path.”

  Screw patience. Seriously, I’m done with it.

  I throw my arms around his neck, almost going so far as to link my leg around his leg. Duke doesn’t seem perturbed. He lifts me off the ground, his big hands hoisting me up into his arms, and then plops me onto the conference table without prelude.

  “I haven’t forgotten our rooftop sexcapade,” he tells me, his calloused fingers thumbing the line of my silk shirt. “Have you?”

  I smile. “No way. It was the best sex I’ve ever had.”

  “Me too,” he murmurs. “I forgive you for the article. On one condition.”

  “Anything.”

  Duke leans down, pressing his weight into my body, so that my hands land on the desk to keep me steady. “Tell me, are you wearing any underwear today?”

  Laughing, I playfully slap him on the chest. “You’re a dirty man.”

  “I’ve got to be, if I plan on keeping up with your dirty moves.” Then, he drops forward and kisses me. It’s a different kiss than the others. This one speaks to the future and to commitment . . . and to love, I hope.

  As he hikes up the hem of my skirt, his fingers flirting with the sensitive skin of my inner thighs, I say, “The answer to your question is no. I’m not wearing any panties.”

  With a groan, he plants another kiss on my mouth. “Charlie Denton, you’re a keeper.”

  And, as it turns out, I am.

  Epilogue

  Duke.

  A year and a half later.

  “Duke! Mr. Harrison! Can you tell us how it feels to win the Stanley Cup for a third time?”

  It feels like the best sex I’ve ever had. I don’t say that to the reporters who are thrusting their voice recorders into my face. At thirty-six, I’m not interested in giving them shit to talk about on their blogs or whatever they hell they publish on nowadays.

  The days where most of the reporters belong to print newspapers are long gone. Hell, the only dude I’ll ever answer to has his own vlog on YouTube. Once a week he talks about hockey, and the two other days he’s doing makeup videos or something.

  Nice guy, though. Avid hockey fan.

  I like him.

  It’s to him that I turn to when the crowd seizes up and hollers at me. “Stuart,” I say, pointing at him so everyone else knows to shut up, “What’s your question for me?”

  “The first time you won the Stanley Cup, you got wasted and ended up with photos of your noodle being shared all over the Internet”—Stuart ignores my hard glare—“the second time, you stayed home and probably bathed in it.”

  “Is that right?” another repor
ter calls out from the other side of the conference room. “Did you bathe in the Cup, Mr. Harrison?”

  No one cares about my nude photos anymore. It’s probably because I’m old. Or maybe it’s just because, while that time of my life affected me for years, it’s old dirt for everyone else.

  “No,” I tell the woman who asked me a question, “I actually ordered pizza and watched Bravo TV.”

  The room erupts into laughter.

  Stuart doesn’t. He jostles another journalist-turned-vlogger out of the way, and goes on. “This is the third time you’re taking the Cup home, Mr. Harrison. What’re your plans for the evening?”

  My gaze seeks out the one woman who never fails to capture my attention, who, after a year and a half, has my heart more now than the day we exchanged wedding vows. She’s standing with a Boston Globe press badge clipped to her chest, and a notebook clasped in one hand. Her blonde hair is a crazy mess about her head, just the way I like it, and the smile that pulls at her lips is the best thing I’ve seen all day.

  I turn to Stuart, though my gaze never leaves Charlie’s gorgeous face.

  “I plan to take my wife home, lay her out before the Cup, and make love with her until the sun rises tomorrow morning.”

  The crowd gasps with delight.

  I don’t bother to wait any longer. I hop off the stage, favoring my right knee that’s been hurting all season, and head straight for the woman who woke me up and set me free.

  “You can’t do that.”

  I don’t tell Charlie that I can do whatever I want. I show her with my hands and my mouth, pushing her full figure against the bed covers and settling between her legs. My hand lands on her belly, which grows larger by the day with our child.

  Two years ago, I’d never thought that this would be my life.

  My fingers trickle down to the hot place at the apex of her thighs. “I can do whatever I want,” I say, enjoying the way her back arches under my touch when I thumb her clit. “You told me so on our wedding night.”

  Her laughter catches on a moan. “I’m pretty sure that I didn’t,” she says, thrusting her hips up against my hand. “I’m pretty sure that was Caleb.”

  Probably so. Her friends have become our friends, and Caleb was actually my best man at our wedding. But since I like the way I can make her laugh, even in bed, I continue our game. My thumb circles faster, eliciting pants from her lips, lips that I can’t wait to feel wrapped around my cock later tonight.

  “Want to make me happy, honey?”

  “Right now?” Her blue eyes peer up at me, frustrated.

  “Right now.” I kiss her forehead. “I want to make love to you in front of the Cup.”

  Her legs hike up on the bed, knees bending sharply when I slide a finger into her. “I thought you were kidding?”

  Her words leave on a gasp, and I grin.

  “Definitely not kidding.”

  “Right now?”

  “I’ve been waiting for this moment for a year, ever since you told me about this fantasy of yours.”

  “But it was my fantasy—it can wait. Oh, my God, yes, right there.”

  I fucking love the way she responds so quickly to my touch. I love the way she calls out my name in bed, and out of it. I love her openness, especially when she shares her dirty thoughts with me. “It’s my fantasy now, too,” I tell her.

  “You can’t be stealing fantasies.” Her leg hooks around my back to ensure I don’t leave. “That’s a cheap move.”

  “I learned from the best.”

  “Who’s that?” she whispers, throwing her hands up to my shoulders and latching on. Charlie has been that way since the first time we had sex up on the Omni Park House’s rooftop—she wraps herself around me like a monkey until I’ve satiated her completely.

  I kiss her mouth, worshipping her with everything that I have.

  Screw it, I can’t wait any longer.

  She’s won, like always. It’s a win I’ll gladly concede because it means more pleasure. I shuck my sweatpants, inch my wife further up the bed so that she’s comfortable against the decorative pillows she loves so much, and enter her in one, hard stroke.

  We moan at the same time.

  I’ll never get over this.

  I’ll never get over her.

  Charlie Denton Harrison came into my life during a time when everything was black and white. There was no reason I should have given her the time of day, considering that I’d made a point to evade reporters and the media after the nude picture showdown.

  But then she called me overrated.

  Told her friends that I probably had no real teeth of my own.

  Maybe I’m a fucked up in the head, but in the span of sixty seconds, she had me, hook, line, and sinker. I wanted her, both in my bed and in my life. That scared me shitless.

  The thought that I could see myself falling for her scared me even more.

  They say that love sometimes feels like you’re being hit by a bag of bricks.

  No. Love feels like you’ve been struck with multiple pucks flying at the five-hole, and you’ve got no gear on to protect yourself.

  I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

  Charlie lets out a keening moan below me. She’s close. So close I can feel her body milking me for everything that I’m worth. Eager to push her over the edge, my finger finds her clit. My thrusts pick up speed, turning erratic when my own orgasm sweeps over me, starting in my balls and fanning out from there.

  Like in some cheesy romance novel, her orgasm kicks off my own. I never close my eyes during my release, preferring to watch Charlie come.

  She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. The fact that she’s carrying our child slows me down, reminding me to take care, to watch my pace, but then I’m gone. Flying over the ledge, calling out my wife’s name.

  I feel her hand dip down my back, skimming the ridges of my spine. “I love you,” she whispers, pressing a kiss to my head.

  I return the action, kissing her forehead, the way I’ve done every time after we’ve had sex since that very first time on the rooftop of the Omni Parker House Hotel. “I love you too, honey.”

  Her fingers thread through my hair. “I’m so proud of you, you know.”

  “Yeah?” I prop my chin on her shoulder and meet her gaze. I know she isn’t talking about the sex, as great as it was.

  “To come back after last year’s loss in the playoffs . . . They’re going to be talking about this season for years to come. Might find yourself with another wax figure at The Box.”

  I laugh, because it’s slightly embarrassing to have a wax figure at all, no matter where it’s located. “You only get one.”

  “You’ll be the exception,” she tells me with infinite confidence. “I just know it.”

  “Maybe they’ll add one for journalists who kick butt.”

  Her nose crinkles. “Doubtful.”

  “You never know.”

  I brush back her hair and press a kiss to her the soft skin of her neck. “I’ve got some information for you, by the way.” Another kiss, this one on her cheek. “Top secret clearance type stuff.” This time, I ply her lips open with mine, claiming them in the same way I plan to do for the rest of my life. “Want to know what it is?”

  Her blue eyes flare with interest, and I know I’ve caught her. My wife has no skills in hiding her inquisitive nature. “You’re going to let me print this?”

  I nod. “I wanted you to be the first to know. I’ve already come up with a headline.”

  “Tell me,” she urges, her heels slipping up my calves. I’m still firmly planted inside her, and the motion jerks my hips and we both lose concentration for a moment.

  But I won’t be distracted, not for this.

  “NHL Goalie Duke Harrison Steps Down from Professional Hockey After Last Stanley Cup Win. He Plans To Spend His Life With the Woman of His Dreams and His Little Girl, Who Has Not Been Born Yet.”

  Tears seep out of Charlie’s eyes. Laughter, I think.
Her chest bounces up and down like she’s trying to contain her mirth. “Son,” she corrects me. “We’re having a son, I just know it.”

  “Really, woman?” I snake my hands around her wrists and hike her arms up above her head. “That’s all you have to say?”

  “No,” she murmurs, lifting her hips up to meet mine. I grow hard inside her immediately, proving that age really has nothing to do with anything when you’ve got the woman of your dreams by your side. “I guess if this is your last season, we’re definitely going to have to fulfill that fantasy by fucking next to the Cup.”

  I stare down at her face, absorbing every detail that I know as well as my own. “No fucking—making love. Nothing less for Mrs. Harrison.”

  The sound of her married name tilts her lips into a sexy grin. “Okay, then, Mr. Harrison. I expect to be fully ravished.”

  I answer her grin with one of my own. “One ravishing on the way.”

  And then I pick up my wife and place her beside the Cup, and proceed to ravish her the way only a husband can.

  Thoroughly.

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  Dear Fabulous Reader

  Hello there!

  I hope that you enjoyed your time with Duke, Charlie, and the rest of the gang. I’ll be honest, when I first started crafting this book, Power Play was a different beast. Charlie existed. Duke wasn’t a hockey player (the travesty!!). There were still sexy times, because, hello, obviously Charlie and her beau had crazy insta-attraction.