Mister Hockey

by Lia Riley

  Some being code for every single woman in her bloodline.

  He digested the information. “And you?” He asked the question casually, but it had a loaded feeling.

  She shrugged, feigning nonchalance to hide her agitation. Outright lying was always a bad idea, but this didn’t seem the time to mention she had a cardboard cutout of his likeness in her closet.

  Was there ever really a good time to share such information?

  “I . . . you know . . .” She cleared her throat. “Hockey is a good game. Exciting, I guess. If you’re into that sort of thing.” Uh, which she was. In fact, she had a family rep for hurling handfuls of cheese and caramel popcorn at the screen during bad calls.

  “But you’re not a fan?” Obvious relief lit his eyes. “That’s good. Real good.”

  “It is?” She wanted to press him, ask follow-up questions, namely “why?” but the only part of her cognitive functioning that seemed operational was the area that controlled basic vital functions. And from the freaked-out way her breath hitched and her heart pounded, even that was pushing her physiological luck.

  “Breezy? Honey? Join us a moment?” Her mother’s voice rang out from the living room. It had a stilting, formal, polite quality. As if they were strangers. “In your room if you please.”

  She needed a fire engine hose to put out the burn in her cheeks. “Crap, my room, moving the bed . . . you saw. . . .” She couldn’t even say the words.

  Sex. Toys.

  My sex toys.

  Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.

  Now it was his turn to blush and the unexpected sight nearly catapulted her heart from her chest. “I moved your, uh, special things into the laundry basket.”

  “Special things?” Her voice squeaked. “That’s one way of putting it.” Jed West had touched her vibrators. It could almost be sexy if it wasn’t absolutely horrifying.

  A box of red wine perched on the third shelf in her pantry. She could barricade herself inside and position her mouth directly under the spigot. While it might not be possible to drink the shame away, she was willing to give it her best shot.

  “Your grandma burst in and I had to think fast. Didn’t want to give her a stroke. Haven’t taken a CPR class in a while.” That smile might be “boy next door” but those eyes were straight-up bad boy. Right now, he didn’t resemble the most respected and beloved hockey player in the state. Just a good-looking guy with dirty thoughts on the brain. “Quite the collection you have.”

  And in this weird alternate universe of her kitchen, she wasn’t a dumpy librarian who couldn’t keep even a subpar man, but the object of desire.

  “Seemed more fun than stamps or spoons.” She subtly pinched the soft flesh of her inner elbow. Hard. Trying to find her center again. “Anyway. Looks like you . . . uh . . . you . . . rescued me again.” And while saving her from sex toy shaming wasn’t exactly a moment to be memorialized in the next Disney movie, no white knight could have done better.

  His wicked smile heated her to the tips of her toes. She’d seen his grin a thousand times on television, and on occasion had even wondered what it would feel like to be on the receiving end of such perfection. Turned out that the answer was so good that her mind had never had a chance in trying to comprehend.

  “Breezy!” This time there was a definite squawk to Mom’s voice.

  Ah, memories. That was the same tone Mom had used when Breezy klutzed through yet another one of her figure skating classes. Never a good look when the coach’s daughter was unable to make it through a session without turning her butt black and blue.

  This afternoon might have been an opportunity to slip into a wonderful alternate universe, but everyday reality was right there, down the hall.

  “Hold that thought,” she burst out.

  “How do you know what I’m thinking?” His eyes were something else, bits of green and gold, with a smoldering expression that threatened to leave her panties in cinders.

  She blinked, fighting for equilibrium. “I am sure it’s all sugar and spice. After all, you were an altar boy for how long again?”

  “Eight years.” His smile wilted. “How do you know that?”

  She slammed her lips shut, teetering on the edge of the conversational cliff. What was going to be next? I happen to know pretty much everything about you, Westy. Thanks to my mindless midnight stalking sessions on the internet, I’ve built up quite the dossier. Birthdate: April 29th. Sign: Taurus. Hometown: Sausalito, California. Sibling: One, brother. Father: Living. Retired transplant surgeon from UCSF. Mother: Living. Homemaker. Favorite food: Burgers. Wife: None.

  How about hell and no.

  Jed couldn’t know that. He’d think she was crazy pants.

  “Breezy Jane Angel!” Using the middle name. Mom was dragging out the big guns.

  “Here’s the deal.” Breezy took a deep breath. Better to avoid a bald-faced lie in favor of a delicate dance of omission. “My mom and grandma are yuuuge hockey fans. My big sister is a sports journalist. I catch lots of random gossip on players.” All true. In the way that she could also say “last night I ate chicken for dinner” . . . double cheese chicken BBQ pizza. A whole medium. Alone. In underwear while watching Girls on HBO.

  Details, shmeee-tails.

  She ducked out of the kitchen before he could respond. All her fun fangirling felt a whole lot less creepier before meeting him, before seeing him as an actual person and not a scruffy masculine jaw and chiseled six-pack.

  “Look at my arms?” Her mother hiked up her sleeves as she slipped into her room. “I’ve got chills.”

  “Not me. I’m hot, hot, hot.” Granny Dee did a hip shimmy that was so wrong that it made the full three-sixty turn back to right.

  “Shoo! Go home, you two!” Breezy waved toward the front door. “And call Neve. She’ll explain how this all came to pass. I’ll fill in the rest. Later.”

  Mom took a few halting steps in the direction of the front door, but Granny Dee hurtled the coffee table and tore off for the kitchen. Guess those fish oil tablets she swallowed with her morning orange juice paid off. While her fitness was impressive, it would be nice if it wasn’t used to do gossipy reconnaissance.

  By the time Breezy caught up, Granny had a ballpoint pen out and was rummaging through her purple leather handbag. “All I have in here is my dang checkbook,” she muttered. “It’ll have to do. I’m not leaving until I get an autograph. The ladies in my water aerobics class are going to pee the pool when I tell them how I met Jed West.”

  “Sorry,” Breezy mouthed over the top of her head.

  Jed signed a stub and passed it over. “You’re my number one fan?” he teased.

  “I like you fine, boy, but Patchy has my heart.” Granny had a thing for Patrick “Patch” Donnelly, the ginger-bearded goalie, probably because he was a former seminarian, a good Catholic boy. “Anyway your number one fan is—”

  “I think this has been enough excitement for one afternoon.” Breezy grabbed her grandmother by the elbow and steered her out the kitchen, propelling them toward the front door. “I’ll see you both at the picnic.” The Angel Fourth of July party was in three days and a firm family tradition. “Now get home safe before the streets flood. And before you ask, Mom, no I haven’t bought the flag cake ingredients, but never fear, I’ll bring it.” Her specialty, she made the dessert for the party every year.

  Granny Dee’s look indicated she wasn’t fooled, not even a little. Still, she allowed herself to be ushered out onto the covered porch. “You bringing a date to the picnic? Seeing as you are a single and all.” She spoke the second sentence loudly from out of the corner of her twisted mouth.

  Breezy cringed. This was a habit among the women in her family. They said anything they pleased under the mistaken belief that if it happened to be uttered from the corner of their mouth, no one would ever be the wiser.

  The problem was . . . everyone with functional eardrums heard too, even road construction crews jackhammering out on I-70.

&nb
sp; “Why not invite Jed?” Granny stage-whispered. “See if he can bring a friend.” She waggled her thin drawn-in brows. “Maybe the Hellion defensive line.”

  “No way.” Breezy shook her head. “Why would he ever want to come to that?”

  Mom appeared to think it over. “Mention Neve will attend if she doesn’t have to do the work trip.”

  Resentment sluiced through Breezy’s stomach, a familiar gnawing envy that burned her insides. “What’s that mean?”

  “Look how he came to your library at your sister’s request. I bet he likes her.” She glanced at Granny with visions of rink side season passes dancing before her eyes. “Imagine that. Jed and Neve.”

  Jed and Neve?

  Jed and Neve!

  Over Breezy’s dead body.

  She swallowed back the “What am I? Chopped liver?” retort.

  No point.

  In Mom’s eyes, Neve had always come first. Not only by birthright but also affection. It wasn’t that Mom didn’t love her. Breezy didn’t have a sad childhood locked under the stairs playing second fiddle Harry Potter to Neve’s Dudley. It was that Mom always seemed to see something in Neve . . . some invisible potential that appeared lacking in Breezy.

  Extraordinary Neve had enjoyed skating and done well, then worked hard in journalism school in Boulder and made it through the ranks in a tough, demanding profession covering the competitive sports beat.

  Breezy worked hard too, but face it, she was a librarian who could barely chew gum and walk in a straight line.

  Safe.

  Simple.

  Uncomplicated.

  Ordinary.

  Neve and Breezy never discussed their mom’s favoritism. What was there to say? Mom had coached group and private kid lessons at a family ice arena in the suburbs for years. Neve had found modest success with the sport while Breezy gave up in favor of reading romance novels in the rink bleachers. Her mother refused to read anything longer than a Martha Stewart Living magazine.

  They were polar opposites and mostly the knowledge that Mom preferred Neve rolled off Breezy’s back. But today it froze like a film of ice.

  Because the truth was that Jed West was in her house. Helping patch her leaky roof. Giving her those curious lingering gazes.

  Doubt chilled the blood pounding through her heart.

  Because it could be that he was just nearsighted. Or she reminded him of someone he couldn’t place. Or he thought she was funny-looking.

  She tried breathing in, but no dice, her chest was tight with tension. Goddamn it! Her mom was getting in her head, infecting her with a bad case of not-good-enough-itis.

  Why couldn’t Jed West have been looking at her because he saw . . . something, a something that didn’t suck. A something that made him stick around for the whole afternoon.

  Why couldn’t she be good enough to warrant attention from a guy like that?

  The anger from when Rory dumped her and her mom didn’t look one smidge surprised bubbled up her throat in a molten gurgle. The hurt she swallowed every time Mom read one of her sister’s articles—heck, emailed them around to the entire family—but had never visited any of her library events, tightened her throat.

  “Mother, you need to leave.” The clipped sentence was off her tongue before she could stuff it back inside. Maybe there was no room left.

  “Breezy.” Mom’s fingers literally clutched her twenty-four carat ice skate necklace.

  “I’ll see you at the picnic.” An invisible good day, sir exclamation hung in an invisible word bubble over her head.

  Mom’s brows squashed. “Don’t start—”

  “My vision isn’t what it used to be, but I think we’re looking at a grown woman,” Granny Dee said sagely. “One in her own home who is calling her own shots. I suggest we respect that.”

  The stunned silence that followed had its own roar.

  Mom straightened her posture and stalked out the door, for once surprised enough not to insist on the last word.

  When the door slammed shut, Breezy turned and drew a deep, shuddering breath. The frame on the top of the closest bookshelf read Mirror, Mirror on the Wall, I am Sexy, Screw You All. She glanced down at her leggings.

  They were so pants.

  The floorboard creaked and she swiveled her head.

  Jed West stood in the doorway.

  Her world still existed, as ordinary as ever. And yet somehow everything had changed.

  Chapter Six

  Jed rocked on his heels. It wasn’t entirely clear what went down between Breezy and her family, and in the grand scheme, it shouldn’t matter. At least not to him. He’d meant to come in, rattle off a quick excuse and get the hell out of Dodge. That, of course, was the most intelligent course of action. This afternoon had been a distraction. That’s all that was going on here. A fun little break from stressing about whatever was wrong with his fucking head. He had drama enough in his own world. No need to forage for more.

  He ran a hand up the rough side of his beard before smoothing it back down. Anyway, he couldn’t seriously be considering asking out a librarian, could he? What the hell would they even have in common? If her stacked bookshelves were any indication, she was as avid a reader as her profession suggested. In a good year he made it through a couple of audiobooks.

  She walked into the kitchen. “Hey.”

  But the second his gaze locked back on hers, the attraction simmering in his gut rose into a roiling boil. The rules were changing and he didn’t know this new game.

  Triumphant color blazed across her cheeks and he recognized a moment of victory when he saw one.

  Jesus. She was stunning.

  “Sorry to make you get up close and personal with my kitchen,” she said, waving a hand at her cluttered counter.

  “I was going to compliment you on your stand mixer,” he replied. Stand mixer? What the actual fuck was coming out of his mouth? Worse still, he kept right on going. “I have the same model back at my place, but in silver.”

  “A Kitchen Companion?” A puzzled furrow appeared between her brows. “You like to cook?”

  He leaned against the doorway, crossing his legs with a casualness he didn’t feel. “It relaxes me. Plus food on the road sucks most of the time.”

  She laughed. “That mixer is one of my prized possessions. I own most of the attachments.”

  “Me too.”

  She arched a brow. “The ravioli maker?”

  He folded his arms. “Used it last Sunday afternoon making kick-ass rosemary sweet potato ravioli.”

  They stared at each other for a drawn-out moment. He should be leaving, not swapping recipes like Julia Child, and definitely not guesstimating how the weight of her breasts would feel in his upturned palms.

  This situation was turning into a gong show, but his feet refused to budge.

  “I ordered the ice cream maker this week, should be here any day,” she continued.

  “It’s worth it. I whip up these old-fashioned ice cream sandwiches so good that it would make you think you’ve died and tasted heaven.”

  Her lips parted and he could swear her shoulders quaked. “I believe you.”

  A flash of her naked, spread on his sheets, biting into one popped into his mind. A dribble of vanilla ice cream sliding over the sweet curve of her breast. Licking her to a clean polish.

  “I make a batch once a week when I’m home.” He cleared his throat. “Do the vanilla bean ice cream on the slowest setting. Then slap it between two fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies.”

  “Jed West the baker.” She appeared to have lost the ability to blink. “Got to say, I’d never have taken you for that.”

  “What did you take me for?” He’d hate for her to think of him as a high-paid meathead.

  Instead of answering, her gaze dropped to the car key clutched in his hand. “Oh.” She made a small face, ducking her chin. “Look at me, jabbering away when you must have a lot to do. And, yeah, so, okay then. Thank you for everything.” She stepp
ed forward, extending her hand. “It was nice to meet you. Unexpected, but good. Really good.”

  Instead of giving her a simple handshake, he laced his fingers with hers. Her skin was soft and smooth against his rough calluses. “My pleasure.” And that’s when the truth hit him with the force of a cartoon anvil.

  This afternoon had been nothing but pleasure. Even patching her leaky roof. Meeting her strange relatives. Talking about appliances.

  For these past few hours he hadn’t been famous, or stuck on a pedestal, which was good because being alienated got old. So did getting treated differently just because he happened to do a job he loved.

  Nor did he have that low-grade stress that had been dogging him since his head injury. His fears about karma.

  None of it. Instead, he felt . . . normal.

  For so long he’d fought tooth and nail to be extraordinary. The best of the best. A champion. But an ordinary heart beat in his chest, one that yearned for simple things. A home, not a high-rise condo with a fridge empty except for beer and protein shakes.

  The air vibrated as if someone had struck a tuning fork. She let him go first, releasing him in slow inches before wrapping her hands over her chest, hugging herself. “Guess I’ll be seeing you around.”

  He cocked his head, peered harder. Screw the double vision, this was like trying to read invisible words between the lines. “You will?”

  “Um. Yeah.” She mashed her lips, trying and failing to stamp out a flicker of amusement. “Not sure if you’ve noticed but your face happens to be on about a jillion billboards, plus that new commercial.”

  “Ah. That cereal one.” He glanced to the door. He knew what would happen if he walked out. He’d head to the gym. He’d take out this mounting sexual frustration on free weights. Do a few seven-minute miles. Sweat the poisons out.

  “Sorry. Let me get that.” She jumped to the door, mistaking his confusion for a sign to leave.

  Shit. He didn’t want to go, but he didn’t know how to be a fucking normal guy. He gave her a curt nod and slung on his jacket. “Goodbye, Breezy Angel.” He stepped over the threshold.