Birthday Girl: A contemporary sports romantic comedy (Minnesota Ice Book 3)

by Lily Kate

  “I guess this is it?” Leigh whispers, straining on tiptoes to see over the crowd. “The moment we’ve all been waiting for. You’re taller than me. Can you see anything?”

  “No, nothing...”

  Nothing except for a sea of fake chests that’d been blown up by talented plastic surgeons, and multiple sets of lips that’d seen the same fate. There’s even a man who’s shiny all over, as if he’s waxed and bathed in oil, wearing nothing but a Speedo.

  “I mean, there’s lots of skin to see,” I clarify. “But nothing else.”

  Leigh snickers next to me. “I have to confess, I almost tried to pay off the swimming teacher for a certificate that said I passed. But I figure my kid would smell a lie.”

  “Me too! Except, minus the kid and add my mother,” I say, and we bond with another smile. “She’s actually upstairs with my Gran right now. They have a—”

  Leigh taps my arm. “Look! There. Can you see anything?”

  I stop mid-sentence and raise onto my toes. I’m about to tell Leigh that the only thing I’ve spotted is a bad bikini wax on the woman to the left when my eyes lock on the target of everyone else’s attention.

  It’s not a thing, so much as it’s a him. But him isn’t a term that does the man walking toward us justice. He’s an impressive specimen, sculpted like an athlete. From what I can see of his body, it’s gorgeous, more deity-like than man—although, when he turns his face upward, it’s not beautiful in the traditional sense.

  He’s rugged, almost dangerous with a scar that cuts across his eyebrow and a mess of black hair combed back from his face. One strand has broken loose and hangs a little low over his eyebrow, and it’s just enough to give him a burst of humanity that has my stomach twisting in knots.

  His eyes rake over the crowd, and if I’m not mistaken, he looks pissed. He stands still, tall, which causes his torso to show off the lean muscle he’s sculpted from years of... something. I’m not sure if the man works out or if he was gifted that body from God, but something is working. There are lines that I never knew existed across his abs.

  Then, there are his arms. One arm is a complete sleeve of tattoos—shoulder to wrist. I’ve never been a tattoo sort of girl. I’m pretty vanilla when it comes to guys, if I’m honest. Maybe because those are the only ones I seem to attract. I can count the number of boyfriends I’ve had on one finger—my middle one—and he definitely didn’t look like the guy before us.

  “I’m guessing by the stars in your eyes that you’re single?” Leigh’s grinning at me as I glance her way. “That’s the look of insta-lust.”

  I realize my mouth is slightly open. “No, of course not. He’s not my type.”

  “I figured. He’s their type.” Leigh nods toward the group before us. “I can see that hiring Cohen on to be the swim lesson instructor brought in serious cash for the Y. Not a bad idea for a fundraiser.”

  “You know him?”

  She gives me a dumbfounded stare. “Of course. They gave us a slip of paper about it when we signed up for the class.”

  I close my eyes and massage my forehead with a hand. “Of course they did.”

  “Your mom didn’t tell you?”

  “Not a word.”

  “Cohen James plays for the Minnesota Stars. The only reason I know this is because my son asked me to get his autograph.”

  “Stars... that’s hockey?”

  “So they say. I was never a sports girl until I had kids, and now it’s all I hear about. My son says he can’t read a book, but he has no trouble reading and pronouncing the name on every sports card he can find. I’m telling you—too smart.”

  “So what’s the deal with this class? Shouldn’t he be... I don’t know, skating around or whatever?”

  Leigh smirks. “He should be. But according to the papers, our buddy Cohen doesn’t often do what he should be doing.”

  “Troublemaker?”

  “To put it lightly. That’s what landed him here. At least, that’s what the rumors say. Of course, the papers are saying that he’s doing it as a charity event to help the YMCA out, but... I can’t believe that’s true.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m betting his agent told him to clean up his act, otherwise he’s not going to be lacing up his skates next season,” Leigh says, her voice a whisper now. “He’s been in trouble on more than one occasion this season alone. His last team traded him—the LA Lightening—because of behavior issues. I think.”

  “Yikes.”

  “Yep. And I’m betting his coach—or someone—told him to give up the late nights, the parties, the excess, and do something wholesome or he’s off the team.”

  “So he picked swimming lessons?”

  “It may not have been his pick. Good press opportunity, though. Who knows. If we ever get started with this class, maybe we can ask.”

  Mr. James quiets the room by raising a hand. My eyes lock on his tattoos, follow the marks up past his sculpted shoulder to a face that’s darkened with a wry smile, to eyes that are fixed... Oh, no. Please, no.

  His eyes are fixed on me, and it’s not hard to guess why. My swimming suit is blinding in all of its lime-green glory.

  “Annie Plymouth?” he calls in a gravelly, world-worn sort of voice. From the slight lilt, I’m guessing it’s not the first time he’s said my name, and he’s scanning the crowd for a sign of recognition. “Is there an Annie here?”

  Unfortunately, I can’t seem to find my voice. It appears to have gone missing the second Cohen said my name. Thankfully, Leigh puts the pieces together and clasps her thin hand around my wrist, raising it high.

  “Here!” she squeaks for me.

  I nod vigorously, ignoring the stares from the rest of the women. They’ve got this sort of oddly-fascinated look on their faces as they watch me, scan my suit, and shake their heads. It’s an expression of pity, as if I’m so out of their league that I’m not even considered competition.

  Which is true, I guess. I’m not competing for anything.

  One of the women murmurs to her friend while staring in my direction, and I can make out something about my suit. Specifically, words that sound like toxic waste.

  My face blooms a bright red, and I lower my hand, stepping behind a taller woman who is more than happy to block my face. It doesn’t, however, block the sound of Cohen’s voice booming through the pool room.

  “Love the attire, Annie. It suits you.”

  I look at him, a blank expression on my face. “Suits me?”

  He grins, and it’s a sexy, lopsided smile that boils my insides. “I like it. Now, is there a Leigh here?”

  As my newfound friend raises her hand, I’m left to ponder what the hell Cohen meant when he said my attire suits me. I mean, toxic waste and alien vomit are the two things this suit brings to mind, and neither are great comparisons.

  I’m still debating whether or not I should be offended when I catch a glimpse of the woman who’d been bad-mouthing my ruffles. She’s glaring at me now, and it gives me an odd sense of satisfaction.

  The lady’s suit is black and boring, like really thick floss tied together across her chest. I smile back blandly, forgiving my mother somewhat for the horrid color of this thing.

  My smile disappears the next second, however, when Cohen James calls for everyone to get into the water.

  All thoughts of sexy men, tattoos, and surgically enhanced body parts leave my mind. I’m frozen stiff, and I can’t bring myself to take one more step into the pool area.

  The rest of the group seems more than happy to take flying leaps off the edge of the wall. There are women swan-diving and cannon-balling and dipping one dainty toe into the water all seductive and smooth. Meanwhile, I’m stuck like a snowman on the ledge, trying not to melt into a puddle.

  “Annie, is it?” The instructor’s soft voice breaks through my fog of uncertainty. “I’m Cohen. Nice to meet you.”

  I nod at him. Completely mute.

  “It’s okay,” he says, h
is voice like a rocky beach—rough at times, but also smooth, cool and steady. “If you’re not ready to get in, that’s okay. I need help with the first exercise, anyway. Can you come over here with me?”

  I follow him like a robot, slipping a little on the wet deck. He holds out a hand and links his arm around mine. As we stroll, I catch a glimpse of the same woman who’d been talking smack about my suit. If she looked annoyed before, she’s murderous now. I’m too terrified of slipping into the pool to find any satisfaction in it at all.

  My breath comes in short spurts while my heart is speeding a million miles an hour. It’s all I can do to make it to the side of the pool as Cohen calls out for the group to give him their best five-hundred-yard swim—in any style the group prefers. He’ll select the winners for a prize after.

  “What’s the prize?” I ask, when he turns to me. “Also, I think I’m in the wrong place. I thought this was for newbies. Adults who don’t know how to swim.”

  We turn together and watch rows of swimmers flying up and down the lanes. Only one or two of them look like they’re struggling at all. One of them is Leigh, and I give her an encouraging thumbs up.

  “Just you wait, sweetheart.”

  We both freeze as he uses the nickname. Me, because it’s the last thing I expect to hear from him.

  “Shit. I should be more professional.” He runs a hand through his hair, looking frustrated. “Any chance we can forget I called you sweetheart?”

  “Sure thing, baby,” I say. Then I clap a hand over my mouth. I have no idea where that came from. It was filled with sarcasm, but I’m not that girl—I’m not the girl who flirts with her gorgeous instructor. I’m the girl who’s drowning and blinking water out of her eyes. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to say that.”

  He’s smiling when I brave a glance at him. It’s a quirky smile. His nose is a little too big, and there’s a small bump there, as if he’d been clocked hard with a hockey puck. But his features come together in a way that makes me stare longer, falling a little deeper into those glittering pools of green.

  “I knew I liked you the second you walked in, sweetheart,” he says. “Now, let’s get to the fun stuff.”

  Chapter 3

  COHEN

  I run my eyes over the crowd of ladies and, yes, even a gent, who showed up for beginners swim lessons, and do my best not to roll my eyes.

  I might have made plenty of idiotic choices in my life, but I’m not a moron. These people can swim. With the exception of about four adults here, everyone is fully capable of holding their head above water.

  Taking special attention to look at my watch, I time the group as they complete their five-hundred-yard swim. It’s a pretty big request for a class of beginners—like asking an infant to read me a bedtime story. It’s just not realistic.

  A few of the faster ladies finish quickly, panting, looking up at me with an expression that, had I seen it in a bar, would’ve been quite welcome. I’m not opposed to older women, so long as they’re unattached.

  But this is one of the only times and places where I’m not allowed to look at a woman’s ass, let alone take her to bed, and it’s driving me nuts. I’m required to be professional.

  It’s not the cougars who showed up to my class that have me on edge, though. It’s the frigging adorable girl standing too close to me on the pool deck—so close I can smell her perfume—that’s got my blood pumping.

  She’s sweet and sugary, her scented perfume bright—just like her eyes. Then, there’s the suit. I have my theories on why she’s wearing a ruffle machine, but I’ll have to hold my tongue. I already slipped and called her sweetheart, and I can’t screw this up.

  Thankfully, she seems to brush it off. She also doesn’t seem the least bit interested in giving me the once over that I’d been seeing from the rest of the women here. I have to admit, a part of me is annoyed. Did she not know what she’d signed up for? She couldn’t really be here to learn how to swim, could she?

  “What am I supposed to be watching for?” she asks, turning those big, hazel eyes on me, an innocent question reflected there. “You told me to pay attention, but... I don’t know what I’m looking at.”

  “Forget it,” I growl.

  I can’t even remember what I was talking about when I told her to watch the group for me. She’d been looking up, eyes full of fear as she slipped on the deck, and it was all I could do not to tuck her under my arm, pull her against me, and taste those full lips.

  She’s a complete stranger. I shouldn’t care if she can swim like a freaking fish, or if she’s petrified of the water; it’s inconsequential to me. I’m here for one reason, and one reason only: Public Relations. A fundraiser, some photo opportunities—that’s it.

  My coach stuck some overachieving young PR lady on me after my latest screw up which, if I was being honest, wasn’t entirely my fault. Sure, I’d been caught outside Ryan Pierce’s window, drunk and serenading him next-to-naked, but I’d done it for a good cause.

  Team spirit. Otherwise known as hazing for the new guy.

  Okay, maybe it was my fault that I’d ended up here, in a swimsuit, on a freezing Saturday morning. I’d made a few stupid choices that led to a certain amount of messes for my new team, the Minnesota Stars. One of my problems was picking an argument with the captain of the squad, a Ryan Pierce, and ending up on his shit list.

  Up until today, the idea of teaching a group of adults to swim was less appealing than poison, but seeing as the only thing in this world I’ve ever loved—and will ever love—is hockey, I’m sucking up the punishment and teaching this damn class.

  The twist? The appearance of one ugly-ass bathing suit and the hottie inside of it. My mind has been changed. A little. Ten weeks of this crap and maybe my coach won’t want to put my balls through the blender. Unlikely, but worth a shot.

  “I think they’re done.”

  I startle as Annie whispers. She’s leaning so close her words leap off my shoulder, and I jump back as if she’s breathing fire. “I can see that, thanks.”

  “Sorry.”

  Now I feel like dirt. It’s not her fault she’s got me on edge—it’s her body. Despite her choice in clothing, it’s impossible to miss the curvy figure underneath the swimsuit.

  The thin straps sit over pale white skin, teasing anyone who has an ounce of testosterone in their blood. The fabric cinches tight against her hips and rides just a little too high on her ass. Yes, I checked. Sue me, I’m a man.

  “You ready for this?” I mutter as I walk by her, tapping my clipboard and pretending to be important. I haven’t even tried to put faces with the names on here—most of them will be scratched off in the next thirty seconds. “Nice job, everyone. So, if you’ve finished your five hundred, I’m going to need you to come into this lane. You’re getting an upgrade.”

  As predicted, ninety-nine percent of the class shifts one lane over. The only people left are Annie, Leigh, and an older gentleman wearing a shitty excuse for a Speedo. I’ll have to talk to him about covering his genitalia if he wants to stay in my class.

  “Great,” I say, once I’ve marked down everyone who’s shifted over. “You all are excellent swimmers.”

  Several of the women preen under the compliment, and the younger man in the group gives me a look that is probably meant to be seductive, if I were into that sort of thing. Which I am definitely not, no offense. If I had to pick a “thing” to be into, it would look suspiciously like Annie friggin’ Plymouth.

  “Upgrade?” one of the woman asks. “Like personal, one-on-one lessons?”

  When I find her name on the sheet, it’s Lydia. She’s the one who made fun of Annie’s outfit. I take extra pride in giving her my most genuine smile.

  “Even better,” I tell her. I scan the rest of the pool area which, for a YMCA, is quite large. I spot a man nearing his nineties in a saggy bathing suit. He’s got goggles on his head the size of a scuba mask. “You all get to spend some time with my friend, Duke.”

  Duk
e doesn’t look up—probably because that’s not his name. I’ve never met the guy. However, I suspect most of the group only showed up to get my attention. The problem is that I’m not here to sign autographs; I’m here to teach a stupid lesson. I’m a slacker by nature, and I’m not teaching forty ladies to backstroke if I can teach three. Especially if one of those three is Annie.

  “What?” Lydia asks. “You can’t be serious.”

  “Of course I am.” My smile widens at the sight of Annie, who’s hiding a laugh behind her hand. I can tell she knows I’m making this stuff up as I go. “Duke charges a lot more than I do for his lessons, so you’re really getting a deal. Free upgrade—no extra cost to you. If you’ll just wait here, I’ll go get your new instructor...”

  There’s a mass exodus from the pool. I’m hearing every excuse from blisters to the stomach flu to deadly cramps. The room is silent and evacuated within twenty seconds.

  “So...” I walk back to the remaining three folks. “Leigh, Annie, and Jason. Welcome to the class.”

  Chapter 4

  ANNIE

  The lesson passes quickly. Far too quickly for my taste.

  It’s only a forty-five minute class, but the first forty minutes fly by like lightning. For being a little bit of a cocky hockey star, Cohen is surprisingly attentive when it comes to lessons.

  To Leigh, at least, and Jason. He mostly ignores me, but that’s okay because I don’t want much to do with him, either. It takes enough concentration for me to kick my legs and swing my arms and generally keep myself from drowning, so I worry that if he paid me any attention at all, I’d probably die a watery death from distraction.

  When the five-minute countdown hits, trouble comes with it.

  “Let’s head to the deep end,” Cohen says. He’s standing on the edge of the pool, giving us a spectacular view of his abs. “Best to face our fears right away. Come on, it’ll only take a second.”

  “Nah,” I say, waving a hand, attempting nonchalance. “I think I’ll sit this one out.”