Hot on Ice: A Hockey Romance Anthology

by Avery Flynn

  Keeping himself propped up on his forearms so he didn't crush her, Flynn took in a deep breath, inhaling the scent of sex and Gillie and possibility. That last one was what made her so dangerous. Back in Dallas, that possibility tore part of his focus away from winning the Cup, blinded him to her lies, and had him considering outcomes involving a happily ever after that he knew damn well wasn't in the cards for him. He rolled to the side, pulling her with him, tucked her tight against his chest, and buried his nose in her ebony hair to take another deep whiff of what-could-be. Tomorrow he'd deal with the reality of what was. His eyelids dropped closed. Tonight, he'd pretend.

  4

  Flynn

  Tomorrow came like a fast break. Late morning sunshine poured into Flynn's bedroom windows before he was close to being ready for a new day. Not that it mattered. Gillie was gone.

  A bar of illumination glowed under the bathroom door. The sound of water bouncing off the shower walls filtered out. Well, not totally gone after all. Cursing the way his chest loosened and his cock hardened at the realization, he threw back the covers and dropped his feet to the plush carpet. Light on his feet, he crossed the room ready to surprise her in the shower for the next round. He had his hand on the knob when he heard her voice.

  "I don't need you micromanaging this job, Orlando."

  Flynn froze.

  "I have everything under control as you saw when you peeked through the window like a total perv last night."

  They'd had an audience? Something sour coated the back of his tongue. He'd dealt with paparazzi shit before. Some guys loved the limelight. He'd almost gotten charged for punching out a sleazeball photographer hiding in his hotel room closet—and he'd been totally clothed for that.

  "You want faster results? Then give me the information I need to really push Flynn's buttons and get him trusting me completely. I need to know who hired you."

  Trust.

  That little voice in the back of his head was singing out "I told you so" while doing the victory dance and shooting him the bird. Motherfucker.

  He knew and she still managed to grab him by the balls and yank the world from under his feet. Again.

  "I said yes so I could help you. I can at least delay the process," she'd said.

  More likely she had just been fucking with his head since the first time she'd opened her mouth. Fessing up to him about the job was just a way to get him to lower his guard. Otherwise why all the subterfuge now? If she didn't have anything to conceal why was she hiding in his bathroom pretending to take a shower?

  "I know the Cup is arriving tomorrow," she said, her voice low and harsh. "Kind of hard to forget that when you all but tattooed it on my ass, Orlando, but if you won't share the relevant facts then I can't guarantee results."

  Oh, Flynn could guarantee a result—just not the one Sparkles here was expecting.

  "How's that information relevant?" she asked, her voice tipping over into being just a little too loud for someone playing double agent. "Do you have to mind-fuck Flynn Kazakov for a share of hundred grand?" She paused. "No? Then stop asking questions and tell me what I want to know, Orlando."

  The fire started in the pit of his stomach. The same one that had fried his insides every time his dad had come to visit, photographers in tow to show off what a great fucking father he was to his boy only to disappear as soon as the cameras did. There were checks, skates, sticks, camp fees but no Kasper Kazakov unless there was a PR benefit for the old man. He'd used Flynn for his own benefit, just like Gillie had back in Fort Worth when she'd begged him to lie about her whereabouts to the cops and just like she was using him now—probably for a decent cut of the one hundred K payout.

  "Fine, don't tell me, but when this job goes south and you're trying to explain to the guy with the cash why that happened, you be sure to share how you fucked it all up. You better own it because I'm not going down for your clam."

  Everything inside him froze, too furious anymore to burn.

  A second of silence followed by a half swallowed curse. After a couple of beats the shower went off. Flynn had three seconds to set his defenses before the bathroom door swung open. Gillie took a single step out and stopped. Her dry hair was tied in a knot on top of her head and she was naked save for a fluffy white towel and the pink stain of anger coloring her cheeks.

  Her big hazel eyes widened in shock that showed off the glimmer of fear lurking in them to perfection. "Flynn," she gasped.

  He forced the tension out of his body and focused on Gillie as if she was a forward flying toward him with the puck without a defender in sight. Loose. Easy. Dead set on ruining whatever she had planned.

  "What the fuck is a clam," he asked, unable to completely block out the fury from his tone, "and who's Orlando?”

  Gillie

  Gillie's stomach dropped to the floor, bounced back up and then dropped again to land with a flattening thud. She was in trouble.

  Flynn stood in front of her—his thick cock stiff, his body a vision of fine cut muscle, and his face the ideal example of rough and ready hotness—so pissed off that even his bitable ass was tensed to hard perfection. The fact that she noticed all that even while her mind was spinning to come up with an answer told her just how far gone she was for this man. She had been since the first time she spotted him shooting back beers and talking shit with her brother Marko at a backyard barbecue in Fort Worth. It took a lot to stand out when all of Marko's B-Squad buddies were gathered in one space—the men were smokin' hot and the women incredible—but Flynn had. She'd worked her skills and caught his attention, after that it all snowballed into what was supposed to be good, old-fashioned secret fucking with her brother's best friend into something so much more. Then, she'd messed it all up. Just like now.

  "A clam is a mistake in jazz," she said in the careful tone reserved for growling dogs or sugared-up toddlers late for naptime. "Orlando is a part-time jazz musician and the guy who is my connection to the asshole framing you for stealing the Cup."

  He didn't believe her—or more correctly, he didn't trust her motives and mission. It was as obvious on his face as the scar on his cheekbone from taking a puck to the face in juniors. He'd told her the story years ago while they were naked, spent and still high off of each other.

  "Wow," he said, sarcasm thicker than cold maple syrup in his voice. "That almost sounded like the truth."

  She gritted her teeth. She didn't deserve his trust. She knew that, but it still grated. "It is."

  "And your goal of mind-fucking me to trust you?"

  Her lungs clenched. Great. Of course he heard all of the really shitty bits. "Just talk for Orlando so he'll give up the name."

  "Trust." He snorted. "You say it like anyone in their right mind would trust you."

  Frustration sparked and sizzled along her skin as her pulse ratcheted up and she grasped for the patience she needed because he wasn't one hundred percent wrong—he just wasn't one hundred percent right either. She'd been desperate when she'd reached out in Fort Worth. If it hadn't been for her connection to him, she never would have had access to the rich old lady with the jewels. If he hadn't vouched for her whereabouts to the cops, the circumstantial evidence leading them to her would have led to a search warrant. That would have resulted in detectives uncovering all sorts of things about how she'd managed to pay her own way through college after her music scholarship got yanked. The nodules guaranteed she couldn't sing and that meant no scholarship. No scholarship meant no college. No college meant a series of dead end jobs—just the kind her mom had worked to keep Gillie and Marko clothed and fed after their father went to jail. Her mom had worked her fingers to the bone to make sure Gillie had a better life, there was no way she could tell her or Gillie's overbearing brother that she'd failed them. That it wasn't her fault didn't matter, the result was the same. So she'd taken up Orlando on his offer for quick cash and that was that—right up until she fell in love with a hockey player who made her realize that she was risking more than jail t
ime, she was risking her life with him. And in the end, she'd paid the price—they both had. It was time for her to set that right.

  "Look, I didn't have to come here," she said, her body shaky from the trip down memory lane. "I didn't have to put my ass on the line for you, but I'm here."

  "Uh huh." He gave her a slow once over before reaching out and toying with the edge of the towel wrapped around her. "Should I get down on my knees to say thank you?"

  The fact that her body was instantly saying "oh yes" ticked her off almost as much as Flynn's stubborn refusal to see what was right in front of his eyes.

  She smacked his hand away. "How about you stop acting like a spoiled hockey god who has an emotional boo boo and daddy issues so you can use that quick mind I know you try to hide to realize I'm telling the truth."

  His look turned thunderous and the vein in his temple went into overdrive. "If I was really that smart I wouldn't have given you a false alibi when the cops came sniffing around."

  "You probably shouldn't have, but you did and I owe you." She jabbed a finger into his unyielding chest, too pissed off to remember that one, she was here to help and two, poking a bear wasn't the smartest move. "Otherwise I wouldn't be here."

  "That's the only reason you're here?" he asked, his voice strained. "A personal debt?"

  "Yes." Okay, that was a total lie, but saying she needed to see him, touch him, have him one last time was too pathetic to admit to herself let alone out loud.

  "Then consider it paid," he snarled and grabbed a pair of boxers off the pile of their clothes on the floor that he'd made after gathering them from the hall last night. He jerked them on without another look at her. "I can watch out for myself. I've done pretty well on my own up to now."

  He had no fucking clue. Someone who was willing to go this far to ruin Flynn's career and put him behind bars wasn't going to give up. The only way to win was to take the other guy out first. Flynn couldn't do that on his own.

  She grabbed her jeans and panties from last night and slipped them on, not willing to lose on the clothed power dynamic. "Sometimes it's smarter to be a team player."

  "I'm the one who does that for a living, remember?"

  She pulled on her shirt, bypassing her bra because doing the hook, twist, lean, and fluff to fasten it and get her boobs in place in front of Flynn didn't go with winning this argument—and she needed to win it. "Not if Orlando's guy is successful in framing you for stealing the Cup."

  "He won't be and I sure as hell don't need someone like you helping me to keep my name clear." He put on his jeans and only then did he make eye contact with her, narrowing his eyes in a cold glare. "I don't trust you. I don't like you. I don't want you here."

  In fifth grade, Emily Hassock had punched her square in the nose hard enough to make blood spurt from it like a geyser. That hadn't hurt as much as this. Gillie had known his rejection was practically assured, but she'd held out hope—especially after last night.

  "You need me." It came out in a sad, quiet whisper that she wished she could take back as soon as it cleared her lips.

  "No. I don't." He placed his hand on the small of her back and propelled her out the bedroom door and down the hall to the kitchen/living room space. "Get out."

  All she'd wanted was one last night with the man she loved despite it all and the opportunity to get a win in her column to fix some of the red in her ledger. She should have known it wouldn't have turned out like the fantasies she refused to let herself fully form but she'd been stupid enough to hope, to think their connection wasn't completely severed. She was an idiot. A loser. A pathetic wimp who'd let her heart rule her brain and better judgment. That wasn't who she was—not anymore.

  "Fine." She grabbed her purse from the kitchen counter and stuffed her feet into her shoes. "I'm out of here."

  "Don't let the door hit you on the fine ass on the way out," Flynn called out to her retreating form. "Don't worry, it's only a few blocks’ walk to Ten Pints. If your rental car isn't there, the only hotel in town is another two blocks farther on."

  Fury—at herself, at him, at the whole world—eating up her stomach lining, she tugged open the door with more force than necessary and whirled around to face him. "You are such a dick."

  He had the audacity to smirk. "Abso-fucking-lutely."

  "I hate you." He wanted the truth? There it was.

  "Don't doubt that for a second." He lowered his hands so his thumbs were hooked in the waistband of his jeans and his large hands framed his junk. "But you sure do love my cock."

  "Yeah, but if only it came as a separate accessory," she retorted. "Good luck with the Cup, hockey boy. Don't bother to call me from jail, I won't accept the collect charges."

  Wrapping her rage around her like a coat against the Michigan cold—even in early August—she stormed out the door, down the porch and out to the street. There weren't any sidewalks but she didn't care. Righteous indignation echoed with every stomp as she stuck close to the shoulder of the road.

  If she hadn't been so pissed off and imagining all the ways she could torture Flynn Kazakov, she would have noticed the black SUV with tinted windows when it passed her. She definitely would have realized it had slowed down, made a U-turn, and pulled up beside her. And she would have been ready to fight with every dirty trick in her bag before the back door opened and a hand reached out, encircled her arm, and yanked her off balance.

  5

  Gillie

  The world tumbled sideways as fear squeezed Gillie's throat shut. None of her limbs worked. Her brain shorted out. Then, she heard her brother Marko's voice and her brain latched on to the memory of being in the Devil's Dip Gym with him one Sunday afternoon.

  "Never get in the car, Gillie," he told her during a big-brother-insisted self-defense session with herself and the Camacho sisters, who'd been dragged to the class by their brother Isaac. "If they're trying to snatch you off the street, it's only so they can kill you more slowly at a second location. Fight like hell to stay out of the vehicle."

  Oh, fuck no. She wasn't going down like that.

  The white-hot panic cleared just enough for her to function and she let herself go limp so she dropped to the ground like a sack of potatoes. The move surprised the towering slab of muscle in a dark suit holding on to her arm enough that she slid her arm free. She fell to the pavement, her cheek banging against the cold asphalt. Before she could scramble back to her feet, she was yanked upward by her arm until her toes barely touched the ground and she was eye to thick black mustache with her would-be kidnapper. He held her forearm in such a tight grip that it felt like it would snap. Still, she clawed at him with her free hand and kicked out with her legs even though her inability to get a firm stance limited the impact. The giant grinned at her and terror roared back to the forefront. This time, though, it powered a scream loud enough to rattle the black SUV's windows before a ginormous hand slapped over her mouth and silenced her.

  A second man peeked out from the SUV's back seat. "Miss Pike, please excuse my man's enthusiasm for his job but I'd like to have a word with you—in private."

  Since her mouth was still covered, she answered in the only way she could…with a hard elbow to the big man's ribs that made her fingers go numb.

  "You're coming with me one way or another," the man in the SUV said. "Wouldn't it be preferable to do so without being knocked unconscious?"

  Figuring a dislocated shoulder was better than dead or worse, she stopped balancing on her tip toes and let all of her weight hang from the arm the asshole was holding her up by. He was a big man but the move still forced him to adjust his stance. That's when she kicked back one foot with all the force she had, connecting right below his kneecap. The big man let out a wheezy groan, released her arm and crumbled to the ground behind her. That shouldn't have happened, but she wasn't about to question it.

  Both feet finally on the ground Gillie wobbled, her balance fucked up by adrenaline and fear. The ground rushed forward. Her vision went fuzzy.
An arm wrapped around her waist, jerking her back against something—no someone—solid. Instinct took over. She struggled against his grip, digging her nails into his forearm and twisting. But it didn't do a damn bit of good.

  "I've got you," Flynn said against her ear. "Come on, we've gotta get you out of here."

  That calm voice—the one that always cut through the bullshit—was enough to push back the hysteria again so she could run. Steadier, she put her weight back on her own feet and looked over at him. Fury blazed in his eyes as he clutched a wood baseball bat in one hand. Then, hand-in-hand, they sprinted the half block to his house and to safety. Sirens were wailing close by as they climbed the steps to his front porch.

  Gillie looked back in time to see the SUV peel away with a rubber-burning screech. "Who in the hell was that?"

  "I was hoping you could tell me," Flynn said before dropping her hand as if she was radioactive and then going to greet the cops squealing to a stop in front of his house.

  She may not know exactly who but it was too convenient not to be the money man. Orlando liked to do his own dirty work. That left the mystery money man—and if he was willing to snatch her off the street for a chat that meant more trouble than she wanted to handle on her own.