Hot on Ice: A Hockey Romance Anthology

by Avery Flynn

  There was no doubt whose name she shouted when she came. Now that she knew it and what its owner was capable of, she suspected it would always be his name on her lips.

  She expected him to explode now that he’d taken care of her, but he seemed content to slow it down, almost as if he could relax now her pleasure was achieved.

  That selflessness only hiked her desire further.

  He rolled onto his back, pulling her with him, ensuring their bodies were still melded, and reached for her breasts with both hands. Hands big enough to cover her ample rack.

  Had she mentioned she liked a guy with big hands?

  This position was heaven, the penetration deeper, the view out of this world.

  “That’s it, Bright Eyes. Ride me to the end.”

  So she did, squeezing and slipping and sliding until she hit that pinnacle again, not knowing how, not caring why, and only then did he finally let go, emptying inside her, the force and heat palpable even with the condom.

  She collapsed over his chest, her breasts happily smushed, her ear at the base of his throat listening to the pulse kicking hard against her cheek. Moments of precious quiet passed, the only noise their thunderous hearts and a sense of wonder at what was happening here.

  Testing the waters, she shifted slightly, knowing she’d eventually have to unhinge from him. He held on tight.

  Test passed.

  “Stay. Just a little while longer,” he whispered.

  A plus, Callaghan.

  Buried in Addy.

  Ford wanted to write a sappy song with that title. He could think of no place he’d rather be, and after the night he’d had, this felt like a much-needed sanctuary. He didn’t want to think of his brother or the argument that brought him to Addy’s door. Maybe because he didn’t want to think he might have used her to shift that hurt from his heart to his dick.

  But the reality of this journey to the best orgasm of his life, not to mention sex on the floor in a house belonging to neither of them, intruded. He assumed there was no one else at home, a state of affairs that would likely not last.

  “Sweetheart, I should take care of business.”

  She lifted her head, honey-coppery strands curtaining her eyes. “You already did, Callaghan. Twice.”

  Hell, that made a man feel good.

  She sat up and eased off him while he held the condom in place. This was going to be tricky . . .

  Or not. She unrolled the rubber carefully and stood.

  “Back in a sec.”

  He watched/ogled while she walked to the first-floor bathroom—scene of the crime last night and hey, look at them making more criminally sexy memories—and went inside. All while gloriously naked.

  He liked that. The nakedness, natch, but the fact she took care of the rubber. Took care of him. It had been a while since someone had done that. Gave him hope that messy consequences were something she’d take in her stride.

  And they had some exceedingly messy consequences right here.

  She returned, grabbed the shirt he’d ripped from her body and held it up with a cute smirk of that just happened. She put it on backwards and it barely covered what he had just feasted on, then added the leggings. Standing, he pulled up the jeans he’d shoved to only mid-thigh because he wasn’t fuckin’ around.

  Wordlessly, she led him by the hand to a room just off the main hallway, a cozy living space he hadn’t seen on his party-crash last night. A laptop was open along with a bottle of wine, a glass of red half-gone.

  “Now, tell me about your day,” she said, gesturing at the sofa.

  He laughed at her no-nonsense take on it. “All that matters is how it ended.”

  She sat, curling her legs under her body, compassion shining off her. He wanted to lay his head on those gorgeous breasts and fall asleep.

  “Callaghan.”

  “You can call me Ford.”

  “Have a seat, Callaghan.”

  He did, though her reluctance to use his first name rankled. When his tongue had delved inside her body, she’d shouted it out. When she shuddered and shook around his cock, she’d screamed it loud. He’d get it again from her before the night was through.

  “Glass of wine?”

  “I don’t drink. I come from a long line of alcoholics so I prefer not to risk it.”

  She nodded. “Something upset you tonight.”

  “It’s nothin’. Just family stuff.”

  Those gorgeous eyes of hers carved right through him, so he looked away, not enjoying the scrutiny. It was one thing to be locked in those crosshairs while inside her, but outside of sex, the exposure was less of a comfort. His gaze fell on her open laptop and the big image of Ford Callaghan hugging . . . team owner Michael Babineaux.

  Babineaux wasn’t exactly a friend—their relationship was more complicated than that. While there was nothing in his contract that said he couldn’t screw the boss’s ex-wife, Ford knew that the legal niceties would not prevent Babineaux from making his life a living hell. Trading him would be an option but the boss wouldn’t go that easy on him. More likely, he would play out the rest of his two-year contract warming the pine.

  But only if he found out. Which he wouldn’t.

  “Catching up on your reading?”

  She flicked a glance to the laptop. “I haven’t been following hockey much in the last couple of years. Not since the divorce.”

  “And now you are.”

  Her look said it all. This is madness.

  “You think I shouldn’t have come.”

  She peeked up at him through long, golden-brown lashes. “No, you shouldn’t have. But you did and then you did. Come, that is. You needed to be here and now . . .” She placed a hand on his chest. “What happened before can’t unhappen, but neither can it happen again. What I can do is listen. Whatever’s got you all twisted up, I can hear you.”

  His heart rumbled like a jet engine in his chest, the effect of her touch, her nearness, both incitement and salve. Christ, he wanted to tell her everything.

  “Addy, I’m—”

  The sound of the door opening forced them apart. They both turned to the inevitable appearance of the lady of the house. There was no good way to explain why he was sitting in Harper Chase’s living room with a beautifully flushed Addison Williams, draped in a ripped-to-shreds tank.

  “Oh, hello, Ford,” Harper said over-brightly. “In the neighborhood, were you?”

  Addison pointed at Harper. “Can it, Chase. He’s leaving.” She took his hand and led him past Harper, who held his gaze with an arched raise of her eyebrow. He didn’t know her well, but he knew a smart-ass when he saw one.

  At the door, Addison stopped, still holding his hand. “I meant what I said.”

  “No more sex on hallway rugs.”

  “What?” An out-of-hearing-range Harper was apparently not the same as an out-of-sight Harper.

  “Have a drink, Harper,” Addison called out, cool as the other side of the pillow before turning back to Ford. “That, and I’m here if you need to talk.”

  He didn’t want to talk. He wanted her body lying next to him while he kissed every inch of it. He wanted to lose himself inside her until they both forgot who they were because if they could do that, all their problems would be solved. Maybe world hunger and peace in the Middle East while they were at it.

  She wanted to talk.

  Ladies and gentlemen: the difference between men and women in a nutshell.

  “Give me your number.” At her frown, he added, “The exchange of phone numbers is the best way to prevent further exchange of bodily fluids.”

  She laughed, and he loved that sound. Loved that he’d produced it.

  “I would think exchanging phone numbers would lead to the other type of exchange.”

  “Not the way we’ve been doing it. But then this isn’t exactly conventional.” He grinned, feeling strangely better that they were able to make jokes of it. Then it hit him.

  He wouldn’t be able to touch her
again.

  She had decided that the complication of her ex being his boss was a bridge too far. The potential of them—of Ford and Addy—was not enough to overcome that obstacle.

  It seemed to dawn on her at the same time, or at least, he chose to credit that wrinkle of her brow to the state of suckage they had both found themselves in.

  “Your number, Addy?” There was a little grit in his tone because hell and damn, he was not leaving without that number.

  She hesitated for a soul-numbing moment, but then rattled it off. He nodded, memorizing each digit, the way her mouth shaped it, and the sexy clamp of her lovely white teeth on her bottom lip when she was done.

  “Not going to put it in your phone?”

  “I won’t forget it.” And if he did—if he chose to—it would be because self-preservation beat his cock to the mat.

  Before his libido got the better of him again, he left without another word.

  Addison put on her game face and headed into the living room, where Harper was seated on the sofa with brows drawn and mouth pinched. She patted the seat cushion beside her.

  “Let’s chat, honey.”

  Blowing out a breath, Addison sat down beside her and launched into her defense. “You’re right, I have no idea what I’m doing here.”

  “He’s got it bad.”

  “He has?”

  Harper gestured at the open laptop, still showing that photo of Ford hugging her ex as they celebrated the Finals win.

  “This is his career and yet he’s willing to risk it for a fling. Unless, he wants . . .”

  “What?”

  Harper cocked her head. “More.”

  Time to shut that nonsense down. “He does not want more. Tonight, he was upset and there’s no risk of Michael finding out. It’s not as if we’ve been seen in public.” They wouldn’t be either.

  “You gave him your number.”

  There was that. “I think he needs someone to talk to.”

  Harper could make a career out of those eyebrow scoots.

  “He does. And it’s not as if Michael will check his players’ phones.” Hell. “Would he?”

  “I make my players take regular drug tests. Monitoring their phones isn’t such a stretch.” She grinned to let Addison know she was kidding. “Seriously, though. I’m thrilled you’re getting some long-needed action, Addy, but could you not have chosen someone less unsuitable?”

  “Well, if I’d known the first time . . .” Another eyebrow of judgment. Addison had filled Harper in on the down ‘n’ dirty details of her first meeting with Ford, and was now wishing she’d been a bit more circumspect. “It’s done. I won’t ever see him again. And now that I’ve gotten back on the horse—”

  “A well-hung horse.”

  “Stop. It. I’ll be able to jump right into dating once I’m settled in Chicago.” Dating someone suitable: older, more stable, and most definitely not an employee of her husband.

  A secretive smile lifted one corner of Harper’s mouth. “I’ll draw up a list immediately.”

  8

  Edwin “Don’t-call-me-Eddie” Motz whipped out the rag he carried everywhere and rubbed at some imaginary smudge on the Cup. Guy treated it like a mom cleaning off schmutz from her kid’s cheek, except whereas Ford’s mom would have used God’s natural cleaner—the old tissue-saliva combo—Edwin would never dream of sullying the Cup with his bodily fluids.

  He was about the only one who held it in such high regard.

  The stories Ford had heard curled his toes. People feeding their family, friends, and dogs right out of the Cup. Players baptizing their kids in it. Fuckwits taking a piss in it. It had been mistreated for years, yet like the class act it was, it came up shining new every year. And that was mostly down to the Keeper of the Cup, Edwin Motz.

  “Looks good, Edwin.”

  The guy peered at him through his oversized glasses. Ford felt certain that if Edwin had a choice on whether to push Ford or the Cup out of the way of a runaway truck, Ford’s funeral would get a semi-decent turnout.

  “She’s ready to be seen,” Edwin said with tremendous gravity.

  Waiting outside was a bevy of kids, parents, club staff, and media who had gathered at the Chicago Pirates rink, the Tier I junior hockey club where Ford had honed his blades before going to Vermont and playing NCAA. Most of the guys took the Cup back to where it all started for them and Ford was no exception. The Pirates club was where each of the Callaghans had become men.

  The door opened and Sean O’Hurley, his old coach, put his head around the door. “Got some visitors for ya, Fordie.” His name was barely out of Sean’s mouth, and his nephew Mikey bounded in, closely followed by Coby and Petie.

  The sight of the Cup rendered them speechless. As it should.

  “So that’s what it takes to shut them up,” Marcy said, walking in behind them with Jax.

  Ford spared a smile for Marcy and a nod for his brother. He’d left early this morning so they hadn’t talked since last night. Since before he’d gone to see Addy.

  What had he been thinking? Just attacking her like a lion taking down a gazelle the minute he crossed the threshold. And not just any threshold either. Harper Chase’s home. One word in one ear and Ford would be fucked, and not in a nice way.

  But he didn’t think Harper would do that. She was Addy’s friend, and she had never struck Ford as malicious.

  Perhaps he’d text Addy later, check in and make sure she wasn’t suffering from a severe case of rug burn on that gorgeous rear of hers. Christ, that ass was a work of art and hell if it didn’t fit his palms just right.

  He looked down, newly conscious that Mikey was speaking while Ford’s thoughts had shot over the plexi.

  “What’s that, kid?”

  “Can we touch it?”

  “You bet you can. Try lifting it if you want.”

  Edwin shot Ford a look, so he quickly put the Keeper at ease. “Just kidding, Eddie, they’d never—”

  Shit. Ford just about managed to get to the Cup before it toppled over and crushed one or more of his nephews.

  “Jesus,” Jax said, but there was humor in it. He grabbed Mikey by the collar. “That weighs as much as you. At least forty pounds.”

  “Thirty-four-point-five, to be exact,” Edwin cut in.

  Jax and Ford shared a moment. Ford knew Jax had that information down to the ounce. He was just being a smart-ass.

  “Where’s your name?” Petie asked, squinting at the miniscule engraving.

  Ford pointed to where his name had been etched along with the rest of the team and the coaches. He loved how the league handled it—not a replacement trophy each year for the winning team and not leaving it at just the team name. Everyone got a piece and it stayed that way until the band filled up. Sixty-five teams could fit on the Cup and the Rajuns’ band wouldn’t be removed until they’d run out of room. A lot of years left for his name to shine, and after that the strip would be placed in the Hockey Hall of Fame.

  Immortality.

  Ford slid a glance to his brother who was studying the engraving. Was he wishing that F was a J? Wishing F would eff himself? This had to be killing him.

  Jax finally looked up, his eyes soft before they flattened. “Thanks for doing this.”

  Ford heard an apology in there, and it was good enough. He didn’t want to spend his last couple days in Chicago fighting with his brother. Paulie wouldn’t have wanted it this way. They had to make peace, even if it was stilted.

  “Gotta have some perks, right?”

  Coach put his head around the door. “Not gonna be able to keep them out for much longer, Fordie.”

  Ford looked at Edwin. “You ready, chief?”

  Edwin waved in resignation. “So it begins.”

  Addison sank below the bubble-laden surface of the tub in Harper’s guest bathroom, relaxing for the first time that day. She’d been running around like a headless hen trying to get her ducks in a row for her move into her new loft apartment in the W
est Loop. This city was going to work for her. Big and bold and brash, just like Addison herself. Having a friend like Harper to smooth her entrance into the social circles would make all the difference.

  And then there was Harper as Miss Matchmaker.

  Addison chuckled to herself, thinking of that gleam in her friend’s eye when she proposed creating a list of eligible men. Suitable men.

  Men not like Ford Callaghan.

  Bye-bye, happy place.

  She shouldn’t have given him her number. Not because it was a terrible idea for them to be in contact—which it was—or because the sizzling chemistry between them could go nowhere—which it couldn’t—but because eighteen hours had passed and he hadn’t used it.

  The pain in his eyes when she opened the front door last night had cut her in half. And then the way he’d plowed into her body as if he wanted to split her in half had pretty much done her in. His mastery of her was a thing of beauty, but it was a beauty that could turn ugly very quickly. She thought she’d done the right thing—the mature thing—in offering to be his shoulder and even if he had to be all close-mouthed typical male about it, she’d hoped he would get in touch just to . . . get in touch.

  A night and day later, and nothing.

  Annoyed at her weakness and no longer able to enjoy this so-called relaxing bath, she pulled the plug, clambered out, and dried off. This was for the best. No good could come of it anyway. He was too young, too hot, too off limits.

  Out of my mind you go, Ford Callaghan. Gracias for all the orgasms.

  Her ears perked up like a lioness sensing danger on the savanna. What was that? Oh, hell. Exiting the bathroom, she almost broke her ankle sprinting to catch her ringing phone.

  Missed call. She didn’t recognize it and it could be anyone. She wouldn’t usually answer an unknown number, except it might be . . .

  It rang again.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey.”

  Thank God.

  That voice like dark, decadent chocolate seeped into her bones, warming her more than the steaming water she’d just left. She sank down onto the bed, pulling at her towel nervously.