Hot on Ice: A Hockey Romance Anthology

by Avery Flynn

  “Three French Hens, Mary Claire Speaking. How may I help you?”

  “Always so proper. Don’t you ever get tired of saying the same thing? Whatever happened to just saying hello?”

  “Do you answer the phone at Humpin’ Hannah’s with just a hello?”

  “No, sometimes I say, ‘Speak’.”

  “I should be shocked and appalled, but curiously, I’m not. So, why are you calling me while the interviews are going on. They are going on, aren’t they? Stryker didn’t head for the hills the moment he saw that he and Trish were trending on YouTube did he? Oh, poor Trish!”

  “No, he’s here. I can’t tell how it’s going though—too much glare on the Plexiglas. It’s a shame. On the positive side, so far no blood has been spilled, so I’m going to count that as a win.”

  “Karma!” Mary Claire scolded. “Don’t even go there.”

  Karma always thought that the Three French Hens (their old high school French teacher’s nickname for them) worked because the three of them were symbiotic. Mary Claire was kind, artistic, and a little flighty, but in a good way; Trish was ultra-grounded, smart when it came to anything having to do with school or business, and über-nice; and Karma was pretty much the opposite of both of them. She lived Catherine Aird’s quote, “If you can’t be a good example then you’ll have to be a horrible warning.” Yup, that was her in a nutshell. The Wicked Witch of the West was so misunderstood. Karma was fiercely protective, loyal, wild, and just a little bit evil. She liked to think she used her powers for good, but she supposed there were a few who would question that. She was never one to care too much about what others thought of her, but she did care about Mary Claire and Trish.

  “Claire, I just texted you a video I need you to watch.”

  “You didn’t have anything to do with that YouTube video, did you?”

  “God, what is it with people blaming me for everything? No, I didn’t. And I didn’t really have anything to do with this video either—but one of my friends sent it to me-“

  “You mean one of your well-paid spies?”

  More like one of her flying monkeys. “Fine, call it whatever you want, but watch it now. It’s important.” If she were going to succeed in getting Stryker and Trish together, for the first time, she felt as if it would be safer to have a partner in crime. And if the worst did happen and it all went to shit, she wouldn’t be standing in it alone. There was no way Trish would disown both of her best friends, so their relationship and their business would be safe. Problem solved. Now, to talk Mary Claire, the least manipulative person on the planet, into becoming part of her not-so-evil plan.

  Stryker had died and landed in the nine circles of hell. He’d spent all night in the second circle—lust. Talk about torture. Then he took a quick spin through the third circle at breakfast—gluttony. He rubbed his stomach which was knotted and threatening eruption. Now he was deeply entrenched in the ninth—treachery, he just wished he knew what he’d done to deserve it.

  The first interview was torture. He was a hockey player bringing The Cup to Boise, you’d think they’d want to talk hockey. No, instead of doing a Sports Talk segment he felt as if he’d stepped into a segment of Entertainment Tonight. The only questions the reporter had were about his and Trish’s newfound YouTube fame and their relationship. When he refused to answer them, stating only that they were friends who had known each other since grade school and gone through college together, he ended up fielding questions like “How does your position on the team as The Enforcer, a player known for manhandling players and fighting on the ice, impact your personal relationships?” Or his favorite, “Do you ever use the same moves you’ve used on the ice in the bedroom?” That’s when he told the dude the interview was over and excused himself before he did something that would land his ass in a jail cell, not Karma’s version of a penalty box. He pushed the swinging door open with such force he wondered if it whipped back and hit the asshole behind him. He didn’t really give a shit. What the hell had he gotten himself into?

  All he could think of was getting to Trish and he strode across the bar like a man on a mission, only to find her being chatted up by some smarmy guy with unnaturally white teeth who looked like a cover model for Schmucks-R-Us. The man stood too close to her—it wasn’t as if there weren’t twenty empty seats around the bar. He put one hand on her chair back and the other on the bar, caging her in and then stepped closer still. Trish sat as far back as she could manage while the guy’s eyes were glued to her breasts. She wore a fake, uncomfortable smile, and nodded at something the guy said.

  Stryker forced himself to release the fists his hands had balled themselves into the second he saw the dude lean into Trish, took a deep breath, and lowered his shoulders, which, he’d discovered, were somewhere in the vicinity of his ears. He wanted to pick the guy up and throw him through one of Karma’s plate glass windows, or at the very least, into the mirrored wall behind the bar. But he’d learned a long time ago how to control his temper.

  He had to live through one week of Karma’s treachery and his debt would be paid in full. Then he could go back to his life of peace and quiet. He could go back to avoiding the press and giving them canned answers they weren’t interested in hearing. He could go back to a life that wasn’t trending on YouTube. All good things. He could go back to a life without Trish. That last one, though, threw him for a loop.

  The thought of leaving her, of not being able to stand a little too close to Trish just to catch a hint of her scent, of not being able to kiss her until her eyes glazed over, or get turned on when she went all prim and proper princess on him just about gutted him. Damn, how in the hell had this happened?

  Trish’s eyes widened when she saw him stalking up to her. He thought he’d schooled his features, erasing the look that made fellow hockey players shake in their skates. “Trish, may I have a moment? Please?” He added the please as an afterthought.

  “Of course. Stryker Gyllenhaal, this is Chip Fontaine. Stryker, Chip’s your next interviewer.”

  Great. The slime ball put his hand out to shake Stryker’s, all the while keeping his eyes on Trish.

  Stryker gave him a shake and felt the bones in Chip’s hand grind together. Oops.

  Trish’s brows rose—the woman didn’t miss much, which was fine with him. She slid off the barstool, making sure not to touch good ole Chip. “Come on, we can use Karma’s office.” She turned to Chip and went into her all-business mode. “Why don’t you have your crew set up? We’ll be back in a few moments for the interview. If you need anything, or have any problems, just ask Karma and she’ll get you whatever you require.”

  Stryker wasn’t sure, but he’d swear he heard Chip the drip mumble, “I doubt it.”

  Stryker placed his hand on Trish’s lower back and headed toward Karma’s office. He was tempted to wrap his arm around her, but the last thing he needed was another YouTube fiasco. “I don’t like the way that guy was looking at you.” He didn’t wait for a reply before he said, “Karma, keys please?”

  Karma was on the phone, but pulled her keys off her belt and tossed them to him.

  He caught them without missing a beat. Once he got Trish into the office, the stress he’d been carrying seemed to disappear and was replaced by a need so strong, it would have shocked him if he hadn’t spent the last day ignoring it—or trying to at least.

  He spun Trish around, backed her against the door, and his mouth came down on hers without any of the usual niceties. The kiss was hard, demanding, and full of pent up anger, frustration, and need. He pressed her against the door, dragging her leg over his hip, his erection cradled between her thighs, his hand on her ass. He thought kissing her, being closer to her, feeling her against him would quench his thirst for her. Wrong again.

  Trish met his need with a ferocity of her own. He’d expected the pliant Trish he’d kissed before, not this wildcat whose aggression equaled his. Instead of satisfaction, all he felt was an urge so primal, it scared him. When she wra
pped her other leg around his waist, hooking her ankles behind him, grinding herself against him so perfectly, he almost came in his pants. She tested his control at levels he never knew existed—the way she clung to him as if her life depended on getting off, the X-rated soundtrack of sexy moans, and when she begged in that deep, throaty, raspy voice. Since he refused to have their first time up against the door of Karma’s office, and he had two reporters waiting to interview him—making it impossible to sneak out, he concluded that the next best thing would be watching Trish come apart in his arms.

  Stryker slipped his hand between their bodies and slid under the elastic of her panties to find her hot, wet, and tight as hell. He slipped a finger inside her, feeling her muscles clamp down and draw him in. He teased her first with one finger, and then two as she bucked against his hand. Her breath came in pants, her face flushed, and when her back arched, he found that soft spongy spot deep within her, curled his fingers, and stroked while flicking her clit with his thumb until she detonated in his arms.

  Watching Trish come was the singular most spectacular thing he’d ever seen off the ice. Seriously, he felt like he had in the 4th game of the series when he pulled off a Gordie Howe Hat trick, and he hadn’t even been inside her yet. He kept up the onslaught, drawing out her orgasm until she melted against him, her head buried in the crook of his neck, panting. His breathing wasn’t much better and he had a real problem in his pants. Damn him and his inability to think ahead. Starting something there had been a huge mistake. He wasn’t sure how long they stood there, letting their breath and heartbeats return to a more normal rhythm in the quiet office.

  “Stryker?” She whispered, breaking the silence.

  “Hmm?” When he raised his head to look at her, he saw embarrassment vying with satisfaction.

  She wouldn’t quite meet his eyes. “Do you want to um… put me down now?”

  “Putting you down is the last thing I want to do.”

  “Stryker, not to state the obvious, but you have two reporters outside waiting to interview you and your hand is still in my panties.”

  The way she said it so matter-of-factly, as if neither was a big deal, just something that needed to be dealt with in the same way they’d dealt with him having a test and a paper due on the same day. “I’m really tempted to toss you over my shoulder and head out the back door to the alley. Do you think Karma would catch us?”

  “She’s probably guarding it as we speak. She has a sick kind of sixth sense when it comes escape plans—believe me.”

  He wiggled his fingers before removing them from her panties, enjoying the shocked intake of breath and the shiver that went through her. He set her feet on the floor and made sure she could stand before letting her go and slipping his fingers into his mouth.

  Her eyes widened and she turned an even darker shade of pink.

  “You taste as good as you look, and I can’t wait to taste every inch of you just as soon as I finish Karma’s daily dose of torture.” He gave her a quick kiss, careful not to get himself any more riled up than he already was. “Think of this as an appetizer. I can’t wait for the main course.”

  8

  Trish ran right from Karma’s office to the restroom. She needed to get her head together, she needed to calm down, and she needed to clean up. She cringed, her panties were sticking to her and she might just die of embarrassment. She’d never, ever, ever acted so wantonly before, probably because she’d never gotten so hot and bothered before. What was it about Stryker that checked off every one of her boxes, and even a few she didn’t know she had?

  One second he’d been grumbling about that reporter and the next he’d backed her up against Karma’s office door. She’d read all of the sex scenes in the romances that Karma highlighted and bookmarked so courteously before passing around—against the wall, doors, floor to ceiling windows overlooking Manhattan, in the shower, and every other vertical position that could theoretically work, however improbable and fantastic, but she didn’t think people actually did that. Not in real life. She thought vertical sex, and the relative size of the heroes’ throbbing members, were the fictitious parts of romance fiction.

  Trish had slept with a total of three men, and not one of them would have been able to pick her up the way Stryker had and have their way with her—without getting a hernia or throwing their backs out. They would also never have heard the words, Oh My God, you’re so big, I can’t imagine how that will fit, uttered anywhere but in their dreams. If there were any truth to what they say about the size of a man’s hands corresponding to the size of his penis—God help her, she was in trouble.

  Trish took care of business the best she could considering she didn’t have a spare pair of panties hiding in her handbag. Another thing she never knew would someday be a necessity. She stepped out of the stall, washed her hands, splashed cold water on her flushed face, and was almost done drying it with a paper towel when the door to the restroom swung open revealing Karma. Just the person she didn’t want to talk to.

  “You’re needed outside.”

  Trish caught Karma’s eye in the mirror. “Why?”

  Karma rested her tush against the marble counter. “You know how unhappy Stryker looked while being interviewed by the first reporter?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, this one is way worse. I’m just waiting for the explosion. I thought your talk in the office would have calmed him down. He looks like he’s about to eviscerate the dude. Seriously, I put Kevin close by in case he needs to break up a fight.”

  “What?” Trish grabbed her purse and ran out without even taking the time to touch up her makeup.

  Karma followed her out right into the thick of things. God forbid she missed anything.

  Trish stopped right in front of the penalty box only to find Jessie in full view of the action, looking as if she were preparing to play referee. “What’s happening?”

  When Trish looked back to the interview, both men were staring at her.

  Jessie sat and motioned for her to take the chair beside her. “I think it’s the pheromones.”

  Trish sat, completely confused. “Excuse me?”

  Jessie looked around, probably to make sure they wouldn’t be overheard. “I studied this when I started writing romance,” she whispered. “Pheromones are chemical substances produced and released into the environment by insects or mammals that affect the behavior and physiology of others of their species. It’s what we think of as chemistry between the sexes. And those two—” she pointed at Stryker and Chip, the guy interviewing him, “are like two bulls who just caught the scent of a prize winning cow in heat. Just in case there’s any question in your mind: you’re the cow.”

  Trish felt as if she were being punked. She couldn’t be serious. “I’m the cow?”

  Karma nodded. “Definitely. I saw how that Chip guy watched you before he approached you at the bar earlier. The man got in your personal space. He was practically scenting you, leaning in and standing too close.”

  “We were just having a conversation about the interview. Someone told him I was Stryker’s handler. That’s all.”

  Karma actually laughed. “Yeah, that’s why Stryker hightailed it over to you looking like he was going to toss the guy through the window before he practically picked you up and dragged you into my office. Don’t forget, I have three brothers—all of whom can’t keep their hands off their wives. I’ve seen that look before—more times than I care to remember. Seriously, it’s like there’s Viagra in the water or something.” She sat and pushed her cowboy hat back while she waggled her eyebrows. “So, was it a good… talk and do I need to Windex the pleather couch?”

  Stryker was on camera being interviewed when Trish returned to the bar with Karma in tow and sat with that reporter friend of hers, Jessie James. Trish was still flushed, her lips swollen from his kisses, and she looked… shit, she looked hot as hell. Chip the fuckwad noticed it too. He may have been interviewing Stryker, but his eyes were on Trish.
>
  “So, what about you and the woman on the YouTube video, Trish Reynolds? Everyone is asking for the status of your… relationship. She’s quite the YouTube sensation, standing up to you like that during your fight.”

  “It wasn’t a fight, it was a disagreement—an old one.”

  “So your relationship is always that volatile?”

  There it was, the fuckin’ gotcha question. If he denied it, it would sound as if number one, there was a relationship, and secondly, that it was sometimes volatile. If he did that, the next thing he knew, the team management would have him seeing a shrink and attending anger management classes. Fuck. “Trish and I have been friends since grade school and all the way through college. We lost touch for a few years, and now she’s acting as my handler for the week I’m here in Boise with The Cup.”

  “Handler, ha! So that’s what you’re calling it, huh? So, what are you and your handler to each other?”

  The asshole stared at Trish and licked his freakin’ lips. He looked as if he wanted to eat her up and then go back for seconds.

  Stryker didn’t answer the question until the dude looked at him. He probably had fifty pounds and seven inches in height and reach on the asshole. Stryker wasn’t above using his size to his advantage. Once he had Chip’s full attention, he looked down at him, leaned in, and waited until fear was written all over good old Chip’s face. “We’re dating. Exclusively.”

  Chip slid back on the wooden bench and turned to the camera. “Well, you heard it here first, folks. Stryker Gyllenhaal, The Enforcer, is officially off the market.” He looked over at Trish one more time. “That’s a wrap.”

  Stryker pulled the mic off his shirt and handed it to the camera guy as he stepped out of the penalty box. It was a hell of a lot more fun spending time in the real thing, feeling the rush that came with the countdown until he could hit the ice again. It beat the hell out of being trapped by some dickhead who was more interested in talking smack than hockey. This sucked and it was only his first day of seven. God help him. He looked over and watched Jessie whisper something to Trish, who first turned pink and then pale. What the hell?