Hot on Ice: A Hockey Romance Anthology

by Avery Flynn

  Another giggle, along with two red-tipped fingers poking into the center of his crisply starched blue shirt. “It is…if you get all the words in. The actual phrase is Laissez les bon temps roulez.” The French words rolled softly off her tongue like rainwater dripping off the waxy green magnolia leaves that were everywhere down here.

  Whoa.

  Kurt didn’t spend any days—or any minutes—thinking about flowers. Or comparing women to flowers like freaking Shakespeare. What was wrong with him? Skates and sticks—hard, sharp, manly objects—those were his thing. Teasing a woman into breathless, screaming pleasure—that was his thing. Poetic imagery was not his thing.

  No matter how amazing Lisette looked in that red dress. It was all lacy so that it looked like lingerie—but classy. And the way her hair was swept back to expose her neck just begged for Kurt to—

  No. He wouldn’t turn into some geeky, love-struck poet. He also didn’t intend to let his dick take over and march her upstairs to a hotel room. Tonight would be a real date. Drinks. Dinner. Conversation. Because it was the fucking least he could do for her.

  Hearing that she’d sold her stuff to finish paying for school? It gutted him. Kurt’s fans and the press called him brave and strong for continuing the season after Jasper died. Like he had a choice. It wasn’t brave. He’d promised Jasper that he’d win the Cup. Kurt skated every game with an equal mix of determination and desperation.

  But Lisette? She personified strength. And bravery, with the giving up everything to forge a new path. It had to be hard. Scary, too. God, he admired the hell out of her for doing it. So many unhappy people didn’t have the balls to make a change. Not even a small one. Kurt was sitting here, protected by a buffer of literally millions of dollars, and couldn’t stop waffling over that possibility for himself.

  So yeah, he’d treat her to a fun night out. And he’d say it was just for Lisette’s benefit. A treat for her. That’s what he’d told the F-Bombs, Finn and Flynn, when they’d given him shit for walking out of the Rage’s locker room sporting cologne and a fresh shave at seven o’clock at night.

  This night was not at all for Kurt. That’d make him a selfish jerk. He refused to admit that he’d worked out a way to spend the evening with her because he wanted to. Because being with Lisette—even shopping for balloons and streamers, for fuck’s sake—made him feel better than he had in a hell of a long time. Because he couldn’t stop smiling when he thought about her. Because his dick sprang to attention when he thought about her. Because she made him laugh and didn’t treat him like a pathetic sap. Because Lisette’s smiles and tenderness were the emotional balm his ragged heart craved.

  Fuck a duck backward.

  Had he really just thought that? Kurt didn’t just want a drink now. He figured he needed to douse his brain in rubbing alcohol to wash out these stupid, flowery notions flitting through it like an annoying swarm of mosquitos.

  Swallowing his irritation with himself, his dick and his traitorous brain, Kurt said, “Whatever happened to giving out an A for effort? Especially since I’m a transplant?”

  “Well, that’s not an excuse. It’s the reason you need to buckle down and bone up on all things New Orleans. We don’t take ourselves seriously, but we do take our traditions seriously.”

  “Then you should appreciate me bringing you here to kick off the night.” Kurt guided Lisette into the famous bar with a hand at the small of her back.

  The back he’d tasted.

  She gasped in what looked like surprise and pleasure—and God help him, he remembered hearing exactly that when he’d had his tongue on her nipple. Yeah, this night might be a treat for Lisette, but it promised to be torture for Kurt.

  “The Carousel Bar! I haven’t been here since my twenty-first birthday.”

  “Never, for me.”

  “Why not?”

  Kurt took in the angled mirrors edged in gold that spoked up from the also-mirrored column holding an array of bottles and glasses. Lights circled the mirrors, the hand-painted jester faces in between each, and the underside of the carousel roof. The circular bar and the fancy stools with exotic animal scenes brightly stitched onto their backs slowly rotated in the middle of the high-ceilinged room. “Seems like a date place. Not where you’d come after practice to grab a beer and shoot the shit.”

  “Don’t ever discount a chance for a good time.” Her voice dropped. So did her gaze, right to his lips. “This is New Orleans, cher. We’re all about taking pleasure however and whenever we can.”

  Shit. He was only human. If that wasn’t an invitation to the kiss the girl, Kurt didn’t know what was. So he did. Just stopped right in the doorway of the historic hotel and kissed her. Not hard enough to smear her deep-red lipstick—this wasn’t his first rodeo. But firm enough to let her know that he was glad to be there with her, not the guys. Glad to take his pleasure and swallow her moans of it.

  When Kurt felt her wobble in the shiny, sky-high red pumps he’d also picked out, he ended the kiss. As he dragged in a deep breath, he caught a whiff of her perfume. Something different than what he was used to—dark and sweet. Like magnolias crushed beneath two naked, thrusting bodies. At least, that’s what it made him think of.

  Jesus. Not that he’d ever say that out loud.

  To anyone.

  Ever.

  “Too bad we can’t sit at the bar,” Lisette said wistfully.

  “Why can’t we?”

  “The stools are full. People plant on them early and don’t leave. I’ve heard the bartenders here make more in bribes for stool space than in tips.” She waved beyond the wide gray pillar. “But I’m sure we can find a table in one of the back rooms.”

  Like he’d let her big night out get derailed by something so easy to fix. Kurt never ever used his celebrity status to benefit himself. He got the fun, the tight-knit team, the oversized paycheck and all the glory. Those were more than enough perks.

  But for Lisette’s sake? Yeah, he’d cash in on his status as what the press called the guy who brought the Cup to New Orleans.

  “It’s not called the Back Room Bar. It’s the Carousel Bar, and if you want to sit at it, then we will. Simple as.”

  Kurt strode forward. Lifted his chin at the muscled bartender with the salt-and-pepper beard. Waited for the nod of recognition, the assessing sweep of the laughing, toasting couples ringing him. Kurt turned back to Lisette. Stroked the backs of his knuckles down her cheek to a smooth slide that ended with a brush along the swell of her breasts that lifted up to meet him as she sucked in a breath. Dusky heat rose to her cheeks, along with a sort of dazed smile. It basically made Kurt feel like he could move mountains. Invent the cure for cancer. Do two back-to-back Ironmans. Making Lisette feel good was something he wanted to do as often and compulsively as breathing.

  Taking her hand, he led her to the bar where—no surprise—two seats had suddenly opened up. “Give us a couple of whatever you’re famous for,” he said, palming a fifty to the bartender as thanks for the seats. Lisette, craning backward to see what animal was on her seat, didn’t notice. Good. She didn’t strike him as the type of woman who cared about status and bankrolls. Probably why he liked her so much.

  Propping her chin on her palm, Lisette pursed her deep-red lips. “I’m shocked you didn’t order a hurricane.”

  “I’m a transplant, not a tourist.” The word came out of his mouth as though it’d been wrapped in day-old, stinky crawfish shells. Kurt knew, no matter where he got traded or chose to move, that acting like a tourist was the quickest way to turn off the fan base. It made the locals feel like you didn’t want to be one of them. Like you weren’t adopting the new city with open arms.

  And honestly, Kurt loved New Orleans. Not just because his mom, step-dad and Jasper had moved here two years ahead of him, giving him added incentive to join the Rage. He loved the culture, the history, the food, the music… Everything about the Big Easy fit Kurt as well as his custom-molded team helmet. “I leave it up to the bartenders
wherever I go. Gets you a fun drink and a local experience.”

  “What was your favorite drink in New York, after you won the Cup there?”

  “Not champagne. They shot off so many bottles it felt like we’d showered in the stuff. Sticky and sweet and glued onto our sweat. We did so much press afterward we stayed like that for hours.”

  Her nose wrinkled. “I never imagined champagne could be in any way disgusting, but I think you just made that way.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize.” Lisette’s hand dropped to his forearm. “I asked. I wanted to know. I want to know lots about you, Kurt.”

  It shocked him. Women wanted to hang out with him. Be seen with him. They wanted the muscles he worked so hard on wrapped around them. But he’d never gotten the impression that they wanted to know things about him. Especially not once Jasper died. Everyone seemed too scared that he was a powder keg about to go off if they probed even a little beneath the surface.

  “Like what? My favorite hot-dog topping? If I prefer a stick or automatic? If I dress to the left or right?”

  Her fingers swayed up and down his arm as lazily as he chased the puck during warm-ups. “I’d rather discover that last one for myself. Instead of you telling me.”

  Whoa.

  Something had happened to Lisette ever since the dressing room. She was flirting. Being suggestive. Well, being a dream date, when you got right down to it. Kurt couldn’t keep his eyes off her or the metaphorical drool in his mouth.

  And the thing was, it didn’t seem like she was taking pity on him. Not like she was trying to cheer him up. Simply nursing him back to emotional health. No, Lisette wanted him.

  This night was supposed to be all about giving her a treat. Making her happy.

  If Kurt Lundquist was what she wanted, who was he to say no?

  “The way you look tonight, babe, you could pry out my deepest, darkest secret with one finger.” Kurt grabbed her pinky. Sucked it into his mouth slowly. When it popped back out, he said, “This one, right here, is all it’d take.”

  “I’ve always thought that deep, dark secrets should be saved for way past midnight. When you’re both naked.”

  Great. Another super-suggestive comment, coupled with her lids dropping over those molten-chocolate eyes, that had his dick straining against his fly. Not that Kurt was complaining. Much. He’d never turn down this particular kind of torture. Not from her.

  “Well, I want to look my fill of you in this dress for a while. What can I tell you fully clothed?”

  “What will you do if you quit hockey?”

  He dropped her hand. Straightened up. “Why does it matter?” Telling her he was even thinking about leaving the team had been a risk. A crazy, stupid thing to do, born of desperation. Kurt had needed someone to tell him it wasn’t an idiotic move. Just as much as he needed to not tell people and start a panic until he actually made up his damn mind. So putting it out there was enough. Talking about it? That pushed his luck too far.

  “Look, it’s a crowded bar with music playing. Nobody will hear you.” As if she’d read his mind, anticipated his worry that an undecided germ of an idea could turn into a widespread rumor that would get back to his team. “This won’t go any further than right here,” she said, drawing a semicircle on the bar in front of them. “But I know you’re too smart to even contemplate a change like this without there being more to the plan.”

  “There’s no plan,” Kurt admitted. Just letting himself roll around the idea of leaving…that was big enough that it’d stopped him cold. “That’s part of what’s holding me back. All I’ve got are a couple of ideas that might turn into a plan. With some time and effort.”

  Lisette leaned in, her chin propped on her fist. “Such as? Coaching, I assume?”

  “I could do that. I think I’d be good at it. It’d be a way to keep one foot in the game, you know?”

  “But…”

  The woman read him like a comic book. “I don’t even know how I’d make it work…”

  “You’re stalling. Just tell me.”

  Maybe saying it out loud would make it real. Or, for once and for all, convince him how stupid and impossible the idea would be. Either outcome counted as a win, right? “It was hard for Jasper to sleep those last few months. But he was too sick to do anything. So I read to him.”

  “I remember,” she murmured.

  “Big books about history. As thick as my wrist. The most boring-looking things I’d ever seen. Except that they weren’t. It wasn’t just a bunch of dates on a page, with a lot of names of battles. It was people giving up their lives for what they believed. Kings choosing between listening to their toadies, or their well-placed enemies—or their guts. Setting a course for an entire nation with a couple of strokes of a pen. Action movies? They’ve got kick-ass special effects. But they’ve got nothing on the guts and passion of real history. Real wars, assassinations, coups and treaties. Stuff that changed the world without the benefit of the internet or TV or even electricity. History’s amazing.”

  The bartender plunked two cut crystal rocks glasses in front of them, each garnished with an orange twist. “Sazeracs. New Orleans’ official cocktail. Rye, bitters and simple syrup. Some claim it’s also America’s oldest cocktail.”

  Kurt had a feeling that was like the George Washington Slept Here claim that ran the length of the East Coast. The first president would’ve had to change inns at least twice a night every night to accomplish all that bed-hopping. “Some—including you?”

  He shrugged and wiped the already spotless bar. “I made yours fresh. So it’s a whole two minutes old. That’s all I know.”

  Lisette burst out laughing. Kurt didn’t even care that it was at his expense. Anything was worth it to watch the laughter transform her expression into one of sheer pleasure. It was almost as good as the look she’d had when he’d thumbed her nipple into a pencil-hard point. She sipped her drink, then shot the bartender a grateful smile. “Go on, try it. It’s delicious, you know. Otherwise, it wouldn’t still be famous.”

  Hell, it had rye in it. That was all Kurt needed to get on board the Sazerac train. As he threw back a swallow, Lisette asked, “So you want to be a history teacher?”

  Damn. She’d almost made him do a spit take. It sounded so official, just stated matter-of-factly like that. “I don’t know.”

  “Come on. What else would you do with a history degree but teach? Or do you want to write the three thousandth so-called ‘fresh take’”—she made air quotes—“on Columbus not actually discovering America?”

  “Okay.” Kurt splayed his fingers wide on his thighs, bracing for the big reveal of the truth he’d barely admitted to himself. “In a dream world, where somehow I magically have a college degree, I teach junior high history. And coach the hockey team, too. Since it’s a perfect world, I’d get to do both: make history exciting and help kids discover the excitement of team sports. Maybe even tie them together. Soldiers are just a big team. Everyone works together for a greater good. Just like a hockey team.”

  It sounded stupid. His idea of using sports to maybe bring history to life. The first smart-ass seventh-grader who stood up to him would probably point out that Washington’s army at Valley Forge with no rations or supplies for winter had had it a hell of a lot worse than their middle-school hockey team skating laps to build endurance. But Kurt couldn’t let it go. The idea woke him up at night. Or rather, gave him something to think about all those dark and empty hours when he couldn’t sleep. Kurt slugged back probably too much of his drink.

  Lisette’s soft fingers curved around his, guiding the glass back to the bar before he could toss back any more. “I love that idea. If you have passion for both things, so will your students.”

  That helped. Her quiet approval helped a hell of a lot. Helped settle the jumbled nerves in his stomach that he hadn’t even gotten before the last playoff game of the season. “I don’t have a degree. And who’d hire an ex-jock, anyway?”

/>   “You’ve got that huge thing called name recognition going for you. And you can get a degree. People do it every day. Don’t look at the obstacles. Focus on what you want and go for it. Just like you did with the Cup.”

  She made him believe. Hell, with Lisette as his own personal cheerleader, Kurt figured there wasn’t anything he couldn’t do.

  A shot glass appeared in front of him. Before he could even ask the now-frowning bartender why, a meaty paw landed on Kurt’s shoulder. “I promised the guys if I ever met you, Hawk, I’d buy you a shot of Grey Goose for bringing the Cup home to the Big Easy.”

  Damn it. He bit his tongue to keep from letting the curse words fly. Kurt never brushed off fans. But he hadn’t expected one to interrupt his first real date with Lisette. “Thanks, but it’s not necessary.” With the side of his hand, Kurt moved it along the bar to the middle-aged man in the blue blazer. “Why don’t you drink it? Toast yourself for being a great fan of the Cajun Rage.”

  “Ha! If you insist.” That elbow bent smoother than a blade hitting freshly Zambonied ice. “One’s not enough, though.” Leaning closer, he used that super-serious tone people got once they’d passed their limit. “We’ve gotta repeat to be taken seriously in the league. I know your contract’s up for renewal. No trading yourself around to the highest bidder. The Hawk belongs to New Orleans.”

  “You bet I do.” That appeared to appease the man, who moved away after a triple-tapped back slap.

  Maybe Kurt should’ve taken that shot. “So much for pipe dreams.”

  “What do you mean?” Lisette asked.

  “You heard the man. I belong to New Orleans.”

  Lisette held up her hand as if trying to stop him from even thinking it. “That’s not true. Sure, you have a contract, but it’s just that. Simply business. Women get all flustered about changing hairdressers, thinking it’s disloyal. It truly isn’t. It’s just business. An exchange of money for services. And you can make a similar exchange by teaching.”