Hot on Ice: A Hockey Romance Anthology

by Avery Flynn

  He could spend hours taking her body to different sensual levels. And that was exactly what he intended to do. He was ready to kiss more than just her luscious lips.

  Her hands roamed his body. He let his hands roam, too, lightly tracing the pulse leaping in her throat.

  Before he got crazy with Brooke again, he needed the condom. He no longer trusted himself. Brooke surprised him, slipping it from its wrapper and using long, gliding strokes as she rolled it on.

  The tension and heat rose within him and her, if her breath was any indication. He rose, trying to slow down, taking in her tanned body against the white sheets.

  Ready, waiting.

  As bold and comfortable as he became with Brooke, she became with him. She matched him touch for touch, stroke for stroke, kiss for kiss. Her body’s need was matching his, too. No question about it as she reached for him, drawing him to her.

  No more waiting.

  He braced himself with one locked arm and slid the other to the small of her back and lifted her, sliding home. Her eyes closed and her mouth opened on a long sigh as she surrounded every inch of him.

  Exploring her body had been sustaining, but it didn’t compare to surrounding himself with her. With slow, even strokes, he loved her. Satisfied her.

  Her hands gripped his shoulders and her body met his, thrust for thrust. Before he could think again, her body tightened and she cried out. He caught her hands in his and kept on going, pushing them farther.

  Pushing until both their goals had been scored. Tied game.

  He looked forward to overtime.

  13

  Brooke stepped from the shower, hair dripping down her back. She wrapped a towel for modesty, ready to crawl back into bed for another round. When Tripp drifted to sleep, she’d gotten up to leave, but he woke convincing her to stay. Let him rest for a few, then come back to bed.

  Well, she’d accepted his suggestion and now he wasn’t in the room. He’d promised not to go out in search of food until she’d cleaned up. He said he would join her in the shower. Or nap. She’d assumed he was getting some rest.

  Oh, God.

  Since she’d been in the room, there were no guards watching this floor of the hotel. They wouldn’t know if he was gone. If someone followed him. Or if someone had attacked him around the corner.

  “Dammit, Tripp.” She thought for sure she shouted, but it came out as a whisper. A scared whisper.

  She needed to get back to her car at the club. Everything she needed…in the trunk. She picked up her watch glancing at the time as she put it on. Three-forty in the morning. Bars would be closed. Restaurants would be, too.

  Where would he go?

  Tripp had been starving. He mentioned that more than once. No room service. Each time she’d come up with an excuse not to leave the room. But hunger can make a person break promises.

  She dressed and pulled the strappy, high-heels around her ankles. She’d been stupid. Careless. Irresponsible. How many more words could describe her? If Tripp was injured…it was her fault.

  Period. Last word.

  So what are you going to do to prevent that?

  She stuck her purse under her arm, wishing she’d driven. No recriminations. Not now. Think.

  She didn’t even have his phone number. If she called Hallie to get it… Yeah, hell would definitely break lose. It might even be a safer place to hide from Gage.

  She left the room, letting the door slam with a loud finality. She didn’t have a key to get back in. Rapidly pushing the down button, she clicked off the steps necessary to find him. Check with the desk clerk and anyone else who might have been in the lobby for the past half hour.

  The doors opened after the longest ten-floor ride of her life. She began running across the lobby tile. With the second slip almost sending her plopping to the floor, she slowed, wanting the heels off her feet. Slowing let her look around.

  No one in the lobby.

  No one behind the front desk. She hurried, scooting her feet on the glassy floor. “Hello?” She slapped her hand against the counter. “Hello? Anybody back there?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Can I help?” a young woman in uniform asked.

  “Did you see Tripp Sanders leave the hotel? Did he ask for directions or anything?” At the young woman’s blank stare she added, “He’s the hockey player. You know, there’s a lot of people from the Cajun Rage staying here.”

  She shook her head.

  “So you haven’t seen anyone come or go?”

  “Not really.”

  She brought her wet hair forward, realizing that she’d never dried it and the entire back of her dress was wet. She squeezed some of the water gathering on the ends, letting it pool on the granite counter.

  “Where’s the nearest store?”

  “I don’t live around here. Let me ask John.” She returned through the door she’d come from.

  Instead of the young woman, a man she assumed was John joined her. “If you’re looking for Mr. Sanders, I’m pretty sure he went to the all-night gas station and convenience store on Harry Hines. I told him that was the closest place open. You know the one over by the hospitals?”

  “Did he take a cab?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I called one for him and then for his friend.”

  “Friend?”

  “Yes. The blond woman waiting in the restaurant booth.”

  “Call your co-worker back up here, will ya?” He did. The shoes would be too small, but her feet could just hurt. She had to be able to run, to move. “I’ll give you a hundred dollars for your tennis shoes.”

  “What? Why?” she asked.

  “This is a matter of life and death. I’ve got to get to that store. Do you have a car?” she asked John.

  “Sure, but I’m not going to give it to you.”

  “Of course not. I don’t know where I’m going. I need you to drive me to the store. Now!”

  “You can’t leave,” the girl insisted.

  “Sure you can, John. You know that man is Tripp Sanders. He’s got a stalker and you just sent her to him. You don’t want to be responsible for him being shot…or worse.” She’d beg or threaten if she had to. But she could tell he was already coming around. She pointed to the young clerk. “Your shoes. I need your shoes.”

  “Oh my God.”

  The young desk clerk was shocked, but she turned over the shoes.

  “You can keep these for collateral until I come back with the money. They’re worth twice as much as I’m paying you.” She put her heels on the counter, then pointed to John. “Let’s go. Please, John. His life is in your hands.”

  “Okay, but I’m going to need–”

  “Anything.” She turned back to the young woman. “You should call 911 and tell them there’s a woman with a gun making threats at…where did you say you sent them?”

  “I heard.”

  She pulled the shoes onto her feet, loosening the laces, scrunching her toes together so they’d tie. “Let’s go.”

  She could live with her toes hurting as long as she saved her Rajun Cajun.

  It was time. Dialing as she ran, Hallie picked up.

  “The blonde, in the restroom, she’s the one. I’m meeting the cops at where I think he’s going. No time to explain. He left without an escort. I’ll text you the address.”

  14

  Standard convenience store. Beer, wine, hot wings under one heat lamp and wieners on one of those turning things. Just watching them spin round and round swimming in their grease was enough to give him heartburn.

  Starving still wasn’t enough to get him to try the hot dogs.

  “Hey, you got anything to microwave?” he asked the guy behind the counter.

  “We got the stuff in the coolers. That’s it.”

  “Your sign says you have fresh pizza.”

  “Not now. But you can order it. Naw, sorry. I think they stop delivery at two.”

  “Yeah, first thing I checked. Looks like a chicken salad sandwich then.” He gra
bbed two chicken, then a ham and cheese just in case Brooke didn’t like chicken salad.

  He grabbed some water, chips, a couple of fried pies and a coffee–not caring how long it had been brewing.

  “Will that be it?”

  “Gum. Wait. Do you have condoms?”

  “Sure thing, man. Middle aisle.”

  He zipped back, looking up and down the shelves until he spotted the boxes mid-row. The door pinged, alerting he cashier that someone had come in.

  “You need to leave,” a woman stated.

  The voice was sort of familiar. He’d heard it before. Who was she talking to? He kept looking through the boxes for something familiar, not really caring about the price or details.

  Something crashed to the floor. The door alert pinged again. Deacon looked up and couldn’t see the cashier.

  What the hell was going on? What would make someone run from a store? A man with a gun? Or maybe a woman?

  Steps clicked across the worn linoleum.

  He straightened, slowly raising his head above the top shelf. A woman, turned on his aisle and faced him. She looked nice, like she’d been dancing. Or like she’d been standing in line waiting for her picture with the Cup.

  Dammit, she was the woman at the front of the line when Lewandowski brought everything to a crashing halt. She’d been outside taking pictures after the lunch with the youth hockey team. And she’d been at the hospital, only she’d been dressed as a nurse.

  The letters, the threats to kill him…they were legit. He should have listened to Brooke and stayed in the hotel room.

  “So the high and mighty Deacon Sanders has to do his shopping at a convenience store. Go figure.”

  The crazy, glassed-over look in her eyes let him know quickly she was the real deal. Really bat-shit crazy and really going to pull the trigger.

  “Oh my, God. You’re out whoring while Darrin’s in jail? You really don’t deserve to live.”

  “I…um…I didn’t want that to happen.” He held the boxes of condoms up between him and the gun. Stupid. He dropped them. They wouldn’t stop a bullet. “I asked them to drop the whole thing. I’m not pressing charges.”

  “You’re not doing anything. You won’t ever do anything again!” she screamed.

  Totally focused on the finger placed on the trigger, he watched it bend. The barrel raised slightly.

  Hit the floor? Turn his back and run?

  Would she miss?

  He dropped. The shot rang out, leaving his ears ringing, glass breaking.

  He braced himself for the impact of a bullet, assuming the second one would find some part of his body.

  “Look at you, lying on a filthy floor along with filth protection. Are you proud of yourself number twenty-seven?”

  “Lady, I just like to play hockey. I don’t make decisions on who plays for what team. I just skate.” He raised his chin so he could watch her again.

  Gun shaking in her hand, she’d taken steps closer. One or two more and he could reach out and knock her feet from under her.

  “You’re a liar. Liar! I’ve been watching you.”

  The door alert went off. Hopefully it was the police and they’d be able to talk her down.

  “I saw you tonight. You took that jezebel back to your room. Look what you’re surrounded by!”

  “I’m not a jezebel. I am a fan, who works for Mr. Sanders’ father.”

  “Brooke? What are you– Get out of here.” Why would she put herself in danger for me? How had she found him?

  The woman had a shaky hold on reality and the gun wavering between them.

  “You are whatever I say you are.” The woman backed up to the end of the aisle. “Get over there with him.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that. You have it all wrong. I’m not sleeping with Mr. Sanders. I’m his bodyguard.”

  “Brooke, get out of here while you can.”

  “You were at the bar. I saw you dance with him. He took you to the hotel!”

  “That’s right. But when you wrote those letters, you frightened Deacon’s parents. They hired me to keep an eye on their son. You can understand that, right? Aren’t you scared for someone?”

  His parents hired Brooke? His mystery woman? A bodyguard? Dammit, Gage must have known. It was the reason he butted his nose into my business.

  “You work for Hallie?” Dammit!

  “I know that their son sent my Darrin to a place I can never see him. And I need to see him so get away before I shoot you. Get away!”

  Brooke shook her head. The woman pointed the gun toward her. Deacon slowly pushed his way to a crouch. Bodyguard or not, he wouldn’t let her take a bullet for him.

  Brooke was calm.

  The woman pointing a gun at her was not. Shaking hands, bobbing gun, she shifted her weight from foot to foot. The situation did not look good.

  “Don’t do it.” Brooke shook her head. She faced the gun, but her eyes met his making her message clear just before they darted back to the nut case.

  He ignored her silent and vocal message not to move. No way would he be shot surrounded by dirt and condoms flat on his belly, living up to his nickname. What kind of a way to go was that?

  “I understand why you’re upset. Darrin Lewandowski was a really good player. Trades happen. Neither of us have any control on who they keep on the team. Right?” Brooke moved a couple of steps toward the counter.

  In order for the woman to keep the gun pointed on her, she pretty much had her back toward him. In slow baby-step fashion, he duck-walked–backward–to the end of the row. He didn’t stop there. He got to his feet and slowly went two aisles over to the coolers. He would get this nutso fan from behind before she could hurt Brooke.

  “What did you do?” the woman screamed. “Where is he? Where did he go? Come out. I’ll shoot her. I swear I will.”

  He darted past all the beer and soda just in time to witness Brooke close her eyes and lift her chin.

  The woman raised the gun, fired, missed. Brooke moved fast–like a professional. She flew forward two steps and batted the hand holding the gun away. As the woman brought it back, Brooke grabbed the revolver, twisted it toward the back of the woman’s palm. The snapping of the woman’s index finger, trapped in the trigger guard, was audible. A sharp scream, and Brook had the silver gun. She popped it open and dumped the bullets on the floor, then tossed the weapon over the counter.

  Then the weirdest thing happened. Not two feet from the gun she’d tried to shoot them with, the woman sat and laughed. On the same filthy floor she’d been disgusted by, she laughed so hard she almost hyperventilated.

  The police arrived. Brooke waved them in.

  “I’m so sorry. Can you forgive me?” the woman begged.

  “You okay? Anybody hurt?” an officer asked.

  “You need to check her hand. I kicked it with everything I’ve got.”

  “Please forgive me. You have to forgive me.” The woman smiled and laughed some more.

  “She’s begging you to forgive her.” Deacon watched Brooke nod. “She’s not asking me, the guy she was trying to kill.” Brooke shook her head. “Any idea why?”

  Brooke arched her eyebrows and shrugged.

  The cops tried to stand the woman up. She crawled to Brooke and wrapped her arms around her leg. The harder the cops pulled to get her away, the stronger the woman’s will to stay put.

  “Let me try,” Brooke said.

  The cops took steps back and looked at her all goofy–as in love-sick goofy-eyed.

  “Can you tell me your name?”

  “Margaret. Can you ever forgive me, miss?”

  “Sure, Margaret. But right now I need you to go with these nice police officers. They’re going to take really good care of you.” She helped Margaret stand up and extend her wrists to be cuffed. “You’re going to be just fine. I promise.”

  “We’ve got her now, Miss. We’ll make sure everything’s safe and come back for you.”

  “We’ll wait here.”<
br />
  Everyone left. Not one cop asked him what happened. He wasn’t certain they’d even seen him.

  “What the hell was all that?” Yeah, he sounded angry. Hell, he was angry.

  “You’re yelling at me?” She looked surprised. Genuinely surprised.

  “Yeah for a couple of good reasons that I’ll think up after I tell you thanks for saving my life.”

  “Can you give me a minute. It might take five actually.” She went behind the counter and sat on a stool.

  Closing her eyes, she did a lot of deep breathing. A lot of breathing. Her fingers pointed around the room, she hummed. He had no idea what the tune or even if it was a song.

  He stood there, not knowing what else to do. Wait. If she could take five minutes, then he had five minutes to yell at his brother. He walked to the front of the store and dialed.

  Margaret was inside a police car. No longer laughing, it looked like she was screaming. She looked at him and began banging her head against the glass. The two cops who’d put her there scratched their heads and kept looking and pointing at Brooke.

  “Deacon? You okay?”

  “Yeah, crisis averted. Crazy stalker lady is going to jail so I guess Brooke’s finished working for the night.”

  “Our ETA is about five minutes.”

  “Then you’ll be here in time to take Brooke back to wherever she belongs. She does work for Hallie. Right?”

  “Look, Deacon. We tried to tell you–”

  “Don’t start, Gage. I’m done. Tell mom and dad I’m staying at the hotel and flying home in two days. And yes, you’re paying. I’ll send you my credit card bill.”

  He hung up.

  “I can explain, but I guess you don’t want to hear anything I have to say.”

  “About which part? You being hired to watch me? You kissing me to get my attention? Or the bit where you slept with me to keep me under control?”

  “I’ll wait outside.” She pointed to the door. “I’d really like to explain to you what happened. For what it’s worth, I had a great time tonight.”