by S. R. Grey
She rolls her eyes. “Are you kidding? I slept all damn day.”
“True.”
“Hey!”
I evade a smack, as well as the plate that almost tips into my lap. Catching it and slipping the tray off her, I say, “Okay, I’ll stay. But let me move this thing before we both end up covered in tomato sauce.”
“Good call.”
After placing the tray back on the dresser, I return to the edge of her bed. Aubrey wiggles back against the pillows, getting comfortable. “So… What should we talk about now?” she asks.
Waggling my brows, I propose, “More masturbation stories?”
She hits me with a pillow. “No way. Any more talk of itch weed and I’m going to break out in a rash.”
“Well, we can’t have that.”
Sighing, she says, “Why don’t you tell me about your family, Brent.”
That sounds good to me, but I insist she’ll have to share with me, as well.
We proceed to talk about everything. Not just families, but her days at college, and my time in juniors. She tells me about the townhouse she bought in Chicago, but explains that it’s only been her home for a short while. She was born and raised in western Pennsylvania. We talk about my life growing up in Minnesota, and I share with her some of my fondest memories, like the hours I used to spend skating out on the pond at the back of our house.
“Wait. Didn’t you say before that you guys had an indoor rink?”
“Yeah, we did. But I liked skating outdoors way better.”
Pretending to shiver, she says, “Ugh, but winters are so brutal up there.”
“They’re no worse than the ones in Pennsylvania.”
When she gives me a yeah right look, I concede, “Okay, yeah, ours are probably worse.”
She tells me about her sister, Lainey, and when I hear how fun-loving and carefree she is, I say, “We should set her up with Benny. He’s a let-the-good-times-roll kind of guy. They’d probably be perfect together.”
“Who’s Benny?” she asks.
“Benjamin Perry. He’s one of my teammates.”
“Oh, wait.” She holds up her hand. “I read about him in the file they gave me. He’s on your line. Plays left wing, right?”
“Left wing, eh?” I laugh. “Sounds like someone’s been brushing up on their hockey terminology. And yes, that would be the same Benny.”
We talk about hockey for a while. Hell, I could talk about hockey all night. But eventually our conversation turns to my father. I feel so comfortable with her that I end up sharing how all I’ve ever wanted to do in this life is make my dad proud of me.
“I’m sure he’s plenty proud already,” she says with a smile that tells me she thinks I’m a big deal. That makes me feel amazing.
“I’m sure he is,” I reply. “But I don’t think he’ll ever truly be happy till I win a Cup.”
“A Stanley Cup, right?”
She is too adorable.
“That would be the one.”
“Wow. That’s a lot of pressure, Brent,” she says as her brows crease with concern.
It’s sweet she’s worried, but I assure her, “I’m used to pressure. I’m the captain of the team, remember?”
“I know. I meant family pressure.”
I shrug. “Eh, it’s always been that way. I don’t have any brothers or sisters, so my parents’ expectations have always fallen on me.”
She eyes me warily.
“Uh-oh, what’s that look for?”
“I was just thinking,” she says. “Do you think maybe that’s part of the reason why you sabotage yourself sometimes?”
Whoa now, hold the bus.
Bristling, I snap, “Are you life-coaching me right now?”
She shakes her head. “No, not intentionally. But it is a legitimate question. I’m asking it tonight, though, simply as your friend.”
I cock my head. “Is that what we are now?”
“You tell me.”
She is becoming my friend, it’s true. Despite all our run-ins, or maybe because of them, we’re growing closer and closer. Though, if I’m to be honest with myself, I kind of want more. Oh hell, there’s no “kind-of” about it when it comes to any of my feelings for Aubrey.
But the friend zone is safe—and allowed—so I say, “Yes, we’re friends.”
She smiles. “I think so too.” Pinning me down with serious turquoise eyes, she resumes her earlier line of questioning. “So back to the point, friend. Do you think all that pressure has made you rebel and act out?”
“Act out? You make me sound like a three-year-old.”
“Some of your behavior would rival that of a three-year-old.”
I let out a snort. “You are life-coaching me now, Miss Shelburne. Don’t try to deny it.”
“Maybe just a little,” she admits. “But I’d really like to hear your answer, as your friend and as your life coach.”
“Wow, okay.” I run my hands through my hair. “You know, I’ve never thought about it like that. But it does make sense. There is an element of rebellion in most of the things I do.”
Softly, and after a long pause, she says, “Maybe that’s because a person has to want for themselves all the things other people are pushing them to do. You can’t live your life for someone else, Brent.”
“I don’t.” I shake my head. On this, I’m sure. “I really want those things too.”
“So what’s the problem?”
I hate that she makes me analyze myself like this. But I know it’s for my own benefit.
Why do I sabotage things? I want success; I definitely want to win championships. But—and this is why her being here has been so helpful—I don’t want those things all alone. Sure, there’s an entire team striving for the same thing as me, but it’s different. I want to share my success with someone who really cares about me, but also someone who can call me out on my bullshit.
Like Aubrey.
Hell, no. She’s my life coach and my friend, nothing more.
Liar.
Getting involved with her is strictly forbidden, remember?
We could always say ‘fuck it.’
Shit, this is too confusing, so I just answer her question. “To be honest…and this is hard to admit…”
“Go on.”
“I think I’m the kind of guy who needs someone to share things with.”
“You have your parents—”
“Not like that.” I make a face. “I mean something different.”
“Oh? Ohhh…” It finally dawns on her. “You mean you want to share all the good things in your life with a girlfriend, or even a wife.”
I pin her with a withering look. “Let’s not get crazy here. I’m not ready for marriage.”
“Okay. Well, a girlfriend, then.”
“Maybe someone like that,” I say, hedging.
Shit, I don’t want to sound like a total pussy here.
“Hey,” I say in a rush, “can we talk about something else? I think my dick is turning in on itself and becoming a vagina.”
She rolls her eyes at my colorful imagery. “Sure, Brent,” she dryly replies. “Pick a new topic.”
“How about something simple, like what’s your favorite color?”
“It depends on the day,” she replies.
It’s my turn to roll my eyes. “Aubrey.” I sigh. “And you say I’m difficult. Okay, what about food? Have any favorite dishes?”
On that, she has an immediate response. “I love anything with tomato sauce.”
“Hmm, interesting. Guess I chose wisely when I was trying to decide what to cook for you tonight.”
“You did. The pasta was delicious.”
“My mother would kill me, though,” I admit. “If she knew I used jarred sauce she’d kick my ass.”
“Why’s that?”
“Half Italian,”—I point to myself—“right here. My mom’s 100 percent Sicilian. Someday you’ll have to come to Minnesota and try her homemade sauce. She let
s it simmer for hours. It’s to die for, I swear.”
Wait. Did I just invite her to my parents’ house for dinner?
Looking down to where she’s folding the edge of the comforter over and over on itself, she murmurs, “I bet her sauce is really good.”
“Yep,” I quietly reply, looking away.
There’s this long, awkward moment of silence, until Aubrey clears her throat and says, “Okay, your turn. What’s your favorite food?”
I blow out a relieved breath. “That’s an easy one. I love steak.”
“What about color? Have a fave?”
I grin as I throw her words back at her. “It depends on the day.”
“Ass.” She pushes my shoulder, but it’s like she’s trying to topple a stone statue. “God, you’re like a damn boulder, Brent,” she remarks.
I laugh. “I have to be. Otherwise, I’d get knocked off my skates every play.”
Frowning, she says, “There sure is a lot of hitting in hockey. I guess it’s good you’re so…hard.”
“Guess so,” I agree.
Our eyes meet, and I suddenly blurt out, “Turquoise. You know, like sea-green.”
“What the hell are you going on about?” she asks, clearly confused.
“My favorite color.” I hold her gaze. “You asked what it is, right? Well, today it’s turquoise.”
“Brent…” She rips her gaze from mine when she realizes the color of her eyes is what I’m referring to. “We should probably wrap it up here.”
“I don’t want to go,” I whisper.
“I don’t want you to, either. But that’s exactly why you should go.”
Blowing out a breath, I give up…for now. “Okay, Aubrey. I’ll go.”
I leave her room, but all is not lost. Despite how things wrapped up—too abruptly if you ask me—I feel like the time we spent together was a win. We were real with each other, all pretenses were dropped. And because of that we now know each other a little better.
Though the more I think about it, the more I realize that getting to know each other better is a double-edged sword. ’Cause now not only does my body crave Aubrey like crazy, but my heart’s starting to want her too.
Nolan Throws a Wrench in the Works
I wish I could call my sister and tell her everything. I texted her when I first arrived in Las Vegas like she asked me to, and we’ve traded a couple of long voicemail updates back and forth since then, but she’d die if I called her now and told her the supposed baseball player who hosted that party in Minneapolis is really a hockey player who’s on his way to capturing my heart.
Oh, boy!
Talking with Lainey, though, even if I were permitted to tell her everything, would so not be a good idea. It would only make things worse. My sister is a sucker for a forbidden love story. And let’s face it—falling for Brent Oliver is strictly forbidden. As in, it can never happen. I’d be terminated for sure if my boss ever found out. And then I might never work again. ’Cause, really, talk about unprofessional!
Besides, I’ve truly been helping Brent, as demonstrated by his exemplary behavior of late. There’s been no drinking, no partying, and no women in his life. He’s also skating every day and working out rigorously. All of which is good since training camp starts up this week.
A creep of dread works its way up my spine, and I have to address the glaring observation that Brent staying on-course is due, in part, to his not associating with his rowdy teammates.
That’s all about to change though, and real fast. The team e-mailed me something this morning—almost like a warning and a heads-up rolled into one long memo—informing me that Brent’s linemates, Nolan Solvenson and Benjamin Perry, who also have the distinction of having been his summer party pals, are back in town. Nolan apparently lives in the same gated community Brent’s house is in, so I suspect he’ll be stopping by soon enough.
Let’s hope it’s not to recruit my protégé for a night of partying and puck bunnies.
Benjamin, I’m less worried about. Though the e-mail indicated he was quite the party animal this summer, he made it through rehab with flying colors. I can’t imagine he’ll be any trouble, except in one area—women. He could very well try to talk Brent into partaking in a hockey whore orgy or something just as sleazy.
I shudder at the images that flash through my head like a bad porn movie. With these horndog hockey players anything’s possible. I have to be prepared, and so should Brent.
As I venture around the house, searching for him so we can discuss new parameters for dealing with his potentially bad influence friends, the doorbell chimes.
And chimes…
And chimes…
I’m apparently the only one around—where the heck is Brent?—so I have no choice but to go see who it is.
When I open the door, I come face-to-face with a handsome, dark-haired man, one who oozes coolness and sophistication. He also happens to be built like a world-class athlete, much like Brent, so I suspect right away he’s a teammate.
“Hello,” he says, all James Bond-like. He lowers his dark sunglasses and gives me the ‘ole once-over.
“Hi,” I reply, rolling my eyes at his flirtatious demeanor.
He chuckles, unaffected by my blasé attitude toward him.
Dismissing me just as summarily as I did him, he takes off his glasses and cranes his neck to peer past me. “Is Brent home?” he asks, distractedly, like I’m the help or something.
Well, I kind of am, but he doesn’t know that.
“Who wants to know?” I ask as I cross my arms and try to block his view.
God, you’re acting like your Brent’s mother.
“I’m Nolan,” he states dryly. “I play with Brent.”
I’d kind of like to play with Brent too. Yikes, now I sound like I’m his girlfriend.
“No!” I exclaim, as I perish the thought.
“No, he’s not home?” Nolan asks, the first crack in his cool demeanor revealing itself when he looks a tad confused.
“Uh, actually, I’m not sure,” I admit.
“And who are you, exactly?” he asks, back to sounding suave and collected.
I hold out my hand. May as well make nice with the guy, right?
“I’m Aubrey, Brent’s life coach.”
“Ahh, yes.” He shakes my hand firmly. “I heard about you.”
Before I can stop myself, I blurt out, “You have? From who? Brent?”
I try like hell to tamp down the inner total-girl part of me that’s secretly jumping up and down at the idea Brent may have mentioned me to this obvious friend. If he did, then that must mean something, right? Like maybe he’s really into me.
Those burgeoning hopes are crushed to smithereens when Nolan responds, “No, nothing from Brent. I just heard about you through the team grapevine.”
“Oh, okay.”
So there’s a team grapevine? Probably the same grapevine that passes around info on which puck bunny is the best lay. Or maybe who gives the best blow jobs. I hope it’s not a grapevine I have to worry about with Brent. Though I suspect I probably do.
Just then the man I’m thinking of appears, saving me from any further embarrassment with Nolan.
I move out of the way quickly. That way there’s no physical contact when Brent wedges his hard-bodied self in the doorway.
“Hey, man,” he says to Nolan. The two linemates then do some kind of bro-hug, fist-bump ritual. “When’d you get in?”
“Last night,” Nolan replies.
“Cool. Come on in.”
Brent steps back to make way for Nolan.
Feeling suddenly left out, I swish my hand through the air and announce, “Well, I guess I’ll get out of your hair. I have a few company reports to work on. I’m just going to head on upstairs to my lonely little room.”
I point in the direction of the stairs, but I make no move to go. I’m secretly hoping Brent will stop me. I’d like an invitation to wherever they’re going for two reasons. 1) I kind of
want to hang out more with Brent, and 2) I can keep an eye on him if I’m with him.
But no such luck. He nods distractedly and says, “Okay, yeah, work reports. Great. Have fun.”
“Nice meeting you, Aubrey,” Nolan adds, effectively sending me on my way.
“Yeah, you too,” I mutter as I turn away.
So much for discussing parameters for dealing with friends. So much for invitations. Looks like Brent’s on his own till I can get him alone.
Oh well. I actually do have reports to work on and turn in, both for my firm and for the team.
I work on those assignments until evening, and when I venture back downstairs I’m surprised to discover Nolan is still at the house. He and Brent are out back by the pool, grilling hamburgers, laughing, talking, and—wait, what?—drinking beer.
I’m out the sliding glass doors leading to the backyard in less than a minute. Picking up one of at least a dozen bottles snuggled down in a tub of ice on the red sandstone patio, I point the thing at Brent and say, “I hate to ruin your little get-together out here, but you absolutely should not be drinking.”
“Uh-oh,” trouble-maker Nolan chimes in, chuckling. “Looks like your life coach”—he shoots me a challenging ice-blue glare—“is on the warpath.”
Brent laughs right along with him. What? “You’re not kidding, man.”
What happened to my star client? And I don’t mean as in superstar, which he clearly has down pat as indicated by this out-of-the-blue display of attitude. What I want to know is where’s the sweet guy who made me dinner? The great guy who talked with me late into the night? You know, the guy I’m freaking falling for.
I scowl at both men, shooting Brent an especially disappointed look. He, at least, has the decency to turn away.
Amazed by how quickly things can change, I ask, “Where did this beer come from, anyway? I thought I dumped anything even remotely resembling alcohol down the drain?”
“You did,” Brent mutters.
Nolan, still looking smug, says, “Wow. That was harsh. Good thing I thought to throw a case into a cooler and toss it in the back of my SUV.”
“How very thoughtful of you,” I snap, my tone dripping with sarcasm.
Nolan narrows his eyes at me and then, turning to Brent, says, “Maybe we should move this over to my house. There are no life coaches over there.”