All the Way

by Ryan, Kendall

  Shoving the phone into my pocket, I can’t help but remember the first time I met Becca four years ago . . .

  She was standing next to a broken-down silver Honda with a smudge of grease on her cheek, and I’d never seen someone make a pair of khaki pants and a white button-up look so sexy. The girl was hotter than sin with a trim waist and round, curvy ass, but she and Elise had become fast friends and it was constantly Becca this, Becca that. And since Elise didn’t make female friends easily, I knew immediately that no matter how gorgeous Becca was, she and I would never be anything more than friends.

  My sister had called me midday to ask for a favor. Becca’s car had broken down at the accountant’s office where she worked. Elise wanted to help but couldn’t exactly leave her preschool class unattended while she did. Begrudgingly, I’d agreed to go over there to rescue some chick I didn’t even know.

  When I arrived, Becca was madder than a hornet, and it was oddly adorable. She was cursing but using words like fudge and banana in place of where you or I would have dropped an F-bomb, and she was kicking the tires to that old beat-up car. Even when I introduced myself, she wanted no part of my help and didn’t care who I was.

  Ignoring her tantrum, I simply popped the hood and got to work—well, I got to work in the way most guys do when they don’t have a fucking clue about what’s wrong with a car. I poked around at a few things and surveyed the engine.

  A few minutes later, her boss came out in a huff and ripped into her for being late coming back from lunch yet again. Apparently, this kind of thing happened a lot with her car. I tried to keep my gaze down and ignore the tongue-lashing he was giving her.

  I didn’t know this girl, and clearly she could fight her own battles. At least, I could tell she wanted to believe she could.

  “I’ll get my car fixed on payday, and this won’t happen again,” she promised.

  “I’m sorry, Becca. Your work is good when you’re here, but since it’s just you and me in the office, I need someone more reliable.”

  Once the pudgy, middle-aged accountant was back inside the building, I lowered the hood and secured the latch, turning toward Becca. “Let’s get out of here. I’ll call a tow truck.”

  She released a slow exhale and met my eyes. “Yeah, and go where? I just got fired, in case you didn’t notice.”

  “I might have picked up on that.” I smirked at her, trying to offer sympathy, but her tough-girl act was making that tricky. “I thought you might be up for a beer.”

  She chewed on her lower lip and gazed down at her phone. “It’s only one in the afternoon.”

  I shrugged. “It’s five o’clock somewhere.”

  It was the first time I ever saw her smile, and I still remember it like it was yesterday. The way her blue eyes lit up and her full lips parted.

  “What the hell.” She shrugged, following me to my SUV. “But you’re buying.”

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  “What the hell are you smiling at?” Teddy asks, pulling my attention back to the present.

  I shake my head, still smiling. “Nothing.” And then I get to work on the beer in front of me.

  “You guys want to get out of here, or what?” Justin asks, adjusting his ball cap.

  “I wouldn’t mind a little company tonight,” Teddy says, eyeing a group of girls at the bar who have been giving us the eye since the moment we walked in. “You ever sleep with an older woman before?” he asks, making me realize I must have missed a lot more of their conversation than I realized.

  I shake my head. “No, and don’t be crass.”

  “What? They’re kind, considerate women. It’s amazing.” He grins at me, watching for my reaction.

  Usually, I’m the one telling stupid jokes and making my friends roll their eyes at my dirty humor, but right now, I just want to be alone with my thoughts.

  “All right, you two idiots get out of here,” Justin says to Teddy and Asher. “I’ve got your tabs.”

  Smiling, Teddy rises, and Asher gives Justin’s back a thump. “Thanks, dude. See you in the morning.”

  “Bus leaves at eight for the airport,” Justin reminds them.

  Once they’re gone, rather than enjoy the comfortable silence between us, Justin turns toward me. “Care to tell me what’s on your mind?”

  I consider dodging his question, telling him I’m still amped up from the game—which wouldn’t exactly be a lie. I’ve had three beers, and so far I haven’t even caught a buzz because of all the excess adrenaline still coursing through my system. But this is Justin, J-Dog, my best friend for the better part of my life. I can’t lie to the dude.

  “So, Becca and I . . .”

  “Ah, fuck.” He removes his hat and scrubs his hands through his hair. “Tell me you didn’t sleep with her. Fuck, your sister will kill you.” His eyes are almost pained as he looks at me.

  I chuckle and lick my lips. “Calm the fuck down, asswipe. I haven’t slept with her.”

  “Okay?” he says slowly, more than a little suspicious, and tugs his hat back on. “So, what the fuck are you talking about?”

  “I haven’t slept with her, but she wants me to.”

  Justin weighs my words, watching me with a guarded expression. He knows her history, all of our friends do. She never hid the awful truth of what happened to her, and while she doesn’t exactly broadcast it for the world to know, she was brave enough to open up a bit to those closest to her, which includes our ragged crew.

  “You’re not going to, though, right?” he asks.

  I take a long sip of my beer.

  “Right?” he says, his tone growing stern.

  “I don’t know,” I admit. “I can’t say I haven’t thought about it, though.”

  “You can fuck anyone you want. Don’t do this. Not with her. She’s a good girl. She needs someone kind and considerate.”

  I give him a pointed stare. “Gee, thanks for your vote of confidence.” Fucking asshole.

  He shrugs. “You know what I mean. She’s looking for someone to fall in love with, someone who can offer her more than just one night of fun.”

  I’m not going to lie and say it doesn’t sting a little to know that’s how he sees me—as nothing more than one night of fun.

  The waitress swings by and collects the empty glasses Teddy and Asher left behind, and we hit the pause button on our conversation until she’s out of earshot once again.

  “I’ve read that when someone falls in love, their brain floods with dopamine.”

  “Okay . . .” Justin flashes me a perplexed look, obviously wondering where the hell I’m going with this.

  “The only other thing that does that? Narcotics.”

  His expression stays blank.

  I throw my hands up in exasperation. “That’s some crazy shit, man. You’ve got to admit that. I’m not about to start smoking meth, and I’m sure as hell not looking to fall in love.”

  He flashes me a smirk and then shakes his head. “Whatever you have to tell yourself to sleep at night,” he murmurs darkly.

  The dude is in love with my sister. It’s not something I really want to think about—the fact that my sister has this poor fool pussy-whipped, so instead I continue.

  “All I’m saying is that if I could help Becca overcome this hurdle, it’d be a good thing, right?”

  Justin’s nostrils flare as he gazes out across the bar. “I sure as hell hope you know what you’re doing.”

  “So do I, man. So do I.”

  I had hoped for some more reassurance from my best friend that I was doing the right thing here, but it doesn’t look like I’m going to get that from Justin. I guess I can’t blame him, given my track record with women, but believe me when I say I have no plans to screw over Becca.

  • • •

  Friday night, I’m back in Seattle for the Cancer Society benefit the entire team is expected to attend. I’m not thrilled with the prospect of having to wear a tux and shake hands with donors all night,
but the one bright spot? Becca will be there.

  I haven’t seen her since I’ve been back in town, though we’ve chatted via text message for the past several days. Becca’s been playing it cautious when it comes to replying to my messages, and that’s fine. She’s asked me to be the one to show her the ropes, and I fully intend to. Because my flirting game? Yeah, it gets an A-plus. And tonight I’ll be pulling out all the stops.

  The limo rolls to a stop, and I look over at Justin and my sister, Elise. They’re holding hands and grinning at each other like lovesick fools.

  The team owner, Bryce O’Malley, sent limousines to transport all the players tonight. One, because we’ll be drinking, and he doesn’t want a repeat of the night last year when Asher got a DUI and it was splashed all over the news media. And two, because they’re doing some cheesy red-carpet thing tonight where we’re supposed to shake hands and kiss babies and that sort of thing.

  Elise gets out first, and I exit right behind Justin. Flashbulbs go off amongst a small group of sports reporters who are here to chronicle the event.

  I hang back, giving the happy couple some room, and Justin offers his arm to Elise as the pair stroll down the cherry-red carpet toward the front entrance of the museum where tonight’s event is being held. I feel a little sheepish that I’ve lived in this city for several years now, but never ventured into the science museum before now.

  Maybe I should correct that sometime. I could take Becca on a proper date, and . . .

  Whoa. Slow down, dude. I can’t forget my purpose in this arrangement. Becca isn’t looking for someone to date. And if she is, the guy is certainly not going to be me. She’s looking for a little confidence in the bedroom, and that’s all I’m here to provide.

  Plastering on a pleasant smile, I take a few steps forward, and flickering lights illuminate my path up the red carpet.

  “Parrish! I love you!” a female voice calls from the small crowd that’s gathered.

  “Owen! Take me home!”

  I sign a couple of autographs for a group of kids hanging out beside the door. They have their jerseys ready, and I tucked a Sharpie into my jacket pocket tonight for this exact reason.

  Once inside the venue, my eyes make a sweep of the place. Becca and I are meeting here, she had to arrive early to coordinate some of the last-minute details with the catering staff.

  Since it’s been a few days, and because memories of that kiss we shared still linger, I’m eager to see her. It’s almost like I need to see if the chemistry we shared the other night was all in my head, or if it’s as explosive as my body likes to remind me.

  Ignoring the waiter with his tray of chilled champagne, I head straight for the bar. Not because I want a drink, but because it’s been set up strategically in the center of the large room and will give me the best vantage point for locating Becca.

  I reach the bar and stop beside it, placing one hand on the polished oak surface, disappointed that she’s not here, at least not where I can see her. I could text her, but she’s not likely to see the message. Becca’s not obsessed with her phone like a lot of the other women I’ve hung out with. She’s never requested a selfie with me, and she couldn’t give two craps about checking her social media feed. It’s kind of refreshing.

  And then, sweet baby Jesus, I see her across the room—five feet, four inches of curves draped in black silk. Dear God . . . Dark waves tumble over her creamy shoulders, and her lips are painted a bold berry color. I want to kiss that lipstick right off her lush mouth.

  Her chin lifts, and her gaze locks with mine. And then before I know what’s happening, my feet are moving, carrying me across the polished floor toward her.

  “There you are.” She smiles when she sees me, lifting up on her toes to press a friendly kiss to my stubble-covered cheek.

  Carefully, I bring my hand to her spine and gaze down at her.

  The chemistry I was stressing over? Yeah, let’s just say I had nothing to worry about.

  The twitch behind my zipper and my hammering heart are both due to this gorgeous woman standing beside me. She’s a smoke show and she doesn’t even know it, which somehow makes her even more attractive. She’s not here as my date, but you better believe I’m going to use tonight as an excuse to get close to her.

  “You look beautiful,” I murmur, my eyes taking in every inch of her again.

  Becca makes a low sound of disapproval but does a little spin, showing off her dress. “I’m tired of being objectified, Owen,” she says in a bored yet amused tone.

  I grin at her and see the hint of a smile on her lips. “I’m tired of not being objectified.”

  Becca laughs, so I continue.

  “I mean, when I spend forty minutes manscaping, I want a girl to fucking notice. Is that too much to ask?”

  She meets my eyes, hers bright with mischief. “I should think not.”

  We grin at each other for half a second longer, and man, she’s gorgeous. I can’t take my eyes off of her.

  Still fighting off a smile, Becca asks, “Do you want to get a drink, or . . .”

  Remembering that she’s been abstaining from alcohol, I shake my head. “I’m good. Do you want something?”

  “I just had a Shirley Temple. I’d better not have another or I’ll be up all night from the sugar.”

  Usually, I’d take that kind of opening to suggest a way to burn off the sugar, but I decide against it. Becca’s not a random hookup I’m trying to get into bed, and I don’t want my remarks to come across as insensitive or make her feel uncomfortable.

  “Shall we make the rounds?” I offer her my arm, and Becca accepts.

  “Let’s do it.”

  With Becca on my arm, we spend the next hour mingling and working our way through the crowd. I make sure to greet the team owner and his wife, and talk to some of the league’s biggest donors and all the people Coach Dodd has asked that we say hello to.

  Becca is as gracious and lovely as ever. I’ve never thought about it before, but it’s pretty cool that she knows the team almost as well as I do. If it were anyone else on my arm, her eyes would be glazed over in boredom by now.

  Instead, Becca’s standing across the room, laughing at something O’Malley’s wife has said, and I have no doubt she can hold her own in this crowd. There’s something undeniably appealing about that. I’ve brought dates to these types of events before. They hang on my arm like they’re afraid of being lost at sea, and then beg me to leave long before I really should.

  I finish up a conversation with the team captain, Grant, and then head over toward Becca.

  She looks up, smiling when she sees me. Mrs. O’Malley says something to Becca and excuses herself.

  “Are you having fun?” I ask in a low voice once it’s just her and me.

  She smiles, wide. “I am. How about you?”

  I nod. “Yeah. But I wouldn’t mind taking off either. I wanted to see what you—”

  “Let’s go,” she says, taking my hand in her much smaller, softer one, and my heart gives a kick.

  Fuck yeah.

  8

  * * *

  What Owen Wants

  Becca

  “Ready?” Owen offers me his arm again, a warm smile twitching on his lips.

  Charisma and charm roll off him in lazy waves, and he’s never had to worry about how or where he fit in. He’s social, but not needy. He attracts friends wherever he goes, and he’s never met a stranger.

  Me? I’m more of a lifelong loner who was somehow lucky enough to be befriended by Elise and subsequently adopted by their whole crew—the musclebound hockey studs included. But none of this comes naturally to me, which is why I’m extremely thankful for Owen right now. For all those little reassuring smiles he kept directing my way all night, and the soft looks he gave me from across the room. It felt so good being near him, being treated like an equal. Someone smart who he respected. Someone to laugh with. Somehow two hours slipped by and I forgot to be tense.

  “Let’s
do it,” I say, taking his arm.

  I may have survived our evening out together, but something tells me everything is about to get a hell of a lot more complicated.

  Together, we make our way down the wide steps of the museum. With all the photographers and journalists gone, it’s quiet enough to hear my high heels tapping against the stone, and the sound of our soft breaths.

  There’s a limo waiting for us outside.

  A freaking limo. For us.

  When Owen asked me if I wanted to ditch the gala a bit early, I was expecting to leave the same way I got here—in the back seat of an Uber. Instead, I’m being helped into the back of a limousine by my best friend, who happens to look like a damn male model in that tux.

  Talk about an upgrade.

  The second he closes the door, Owen gives the driver my address, then rolls up the partition to give us some privacy. I’m not sure if it’s because he wants privacy, or because we can’t trust the limo driver not to report to the tabloids about the Hawks goalie getting cozy with the team owner’s assistant. Such is life when you run with a crowd of professional athletes. I try not to overthink it.

  And in the darkened, luxurious interior, it’s easy not to—overthink, that is—because I’m surrounded by Owen’s masculine scent and his bulky presence. Nervousness washes over me, mainly because I have no idea what’s going to happen next.

  “How was New York?” I ask, doing my best not to look at his lips.

  The entire time he was out of town, I wasn’t able to stop thinking about kissing him, about the way his warm breath ghosted over my lips and made my toes curl. I haven’t been kissed like that in approximately an eternity. I guess his mouth is good at something other than talking shit on the rink.

  And admittedly, I’ve been wondering what other skills that mouth might have. It’s definitely a new development for me, and I’m still trying to adjust.

  “New York was solid,” he says, stretching his legs across the limo until they’re resting by the seat next to me. “That win felt damn good. I’m going to be riding the high of that block against Christoff for a long time.”