by Lynda Aicher
“You’re serious.” It wasn’t a question, so she didn’t answer. He shoved a hand through his hair, sweeping his bangs off his forehead before they fell back in place. “Damn.” He glanced around the empty arena and finally took a seat on the mat.
He crossed his legs with a grunt then leaned back on his hands to stare up at her. His expression clearly asked, “Happy?”
“Scoot back a bit.” She nudged his bent knee with the toe of her boot then took a seat across from him after he complied.
“Now we’re talking.” His eyelids lowered in a heated look that was part show and part real, if she was reading him right.
She smacked his leg. “Focus, Rylie.”
“I am!”
“On the game, not the sex fantasy playing out in your head.”
“But it’s a very good one.” A slow sexy smile curled over his lips and upped the smoldering heat in his copper eyes. “I’m willing to share.”
Unwillingly, her eyes dropped to his crotch and the bulge that was clearly defined beneath the worn denim of his jeans. Her sex clenched and she inhaled sharply at the tingling sensation that puckered her nipples. That was not where she needed her thoughts to go. It certainly didn’t help her heart rate or stop the errant track of her own racy thoughts.
She flicked her gaze up. “That’s not necessary.” She wet her lips in a deliberate move that he tracked. “I have my own.”
“Oh, man.” He jerked away, head dropping back to expose the long line of his throat. “That is so not fair.”
Her low laugh succeeded in breaking the strange joking-but-serious moment. “I never said I played fair.”
Her laughter dried up when he nailed her with a somber look. “I know that.”
Right. And when did he think she hadn’t played fair? The bar? The shower? Or was it on the ice? She cleared her throat and gripped her knees tighter. “Are you ready to get to work?” The chill of the ice wouldn’t be held off by the thin mat for long.
He sat up straighter, rotated his head to stretch his neck then nodded. “Sure. What are we doing?”
Pleased that he seemed to be game, she jumped into her explanation. The one she’d withheld until now so he couldn’t refuse before trying it. “I want you to close your eyes and visualize yourself in a game situation.”
“You know I do that all the time, right?” He arched a brow. “This isn’t new to me.”
“Good. Then you won’t have any trouble doing it.” She tugged her phone out of her hoodie pocket. “Can I record this?”
Suspicion narrowed his eyes. “I guess I know who to hunt down if it appears on the internet.”
“Is that a yes?” She unlocked her phone and waited.
“I guess. Just audio, right?”
“Yup.” She started the memo recording app then set her phone down between them. The wariness hadn’t left his expression when she glanced up. “It’s so you can listen to it later. That’s all.” She flicked her chin at him. “Now close your eyes.”
His huff was subdued but still there. After a moment of eye communication that said he was humoring her more than anything else, he rested his hands on his thighs and complied. His eyelids drifted closed, long lashes dusting dark against pale skin.
Damn. A warm flush heated over her nape and down her chest in a rush of desire that went straight to her core. He was too gorgeous.
She inhaled a long, slow breath through her nose and yanked her mind to what they were doing. “I’m going to run through a series of game scenarios and I want you to tell me how you’d react. Describe the play you’d make in each situation.”
He shifted on his bottom and opened one eye to peek at her. “That’s it?”
She nodded. “That’s it. Can you handle that?”
His mouth opened for what she was certain was going to be a comeback lined with sexual innuendo. She lowered her brows in warning, and he snapped his mouth closed, eyelid following.
She was too warm, even though she’d left her winter jacket on the bench. A damp sweat covered her back and her cheeks were heated like she’d just finished skating. It was good for getting her mind in game mode. Bad, though, for focusing on the task she’d outlined.
“Okay,” she finally started, her own eyelids drifting closed. She let the distinctive scent of the ice along with the cool tinge of the air frame her mind-set. “Until I say differently, you’ll be in defensive mode on these plays. Behind the blue line, guarding your net. I’ll let you know which zone you’re in when it changes.”
She heard him take a deep breath. “Shoot.”
She opened her eyes and started. There was a list of situations tucked in her pocket that she’d written down last night. It turned out she didn’t need it. Each play she threw at him was one she’d been in herself. Most often, she’d been on the attacking side, which helped her assessment of his defensive approach. In her head she was countering his moves and analyzing if and how she could beat them.
He kept his eyes closed the entire time, which gave her the unhindered ability to study his reactions. His brows would dip while she outlined a setup, his lips flexing between a line and pursed. He’d started off relaxed, shoulders down and chin up, but that slowly changed when she shifted to offensive maneuvers then penalty-killing plays. His spine stiffened, arms drawing into his sides, fingers curling into fists where they rested on his legs. She noted it all, along with the slight delay before his answers.
“That’s it,” she said, laying a hand on his knee. “You can relax now.”
His eyes popped open. He blinked a few times and the dazed glaze flitted away. “Wow.” He blew out a breath. “That was more intense than I’d expected.”
She stopped the app recording. “In what way?” The urge to soothe him had her tightening her grip around her phone.
He rolled his shoulders and shook his head. “Just…” Another big exhale. “I guess I didn’t want to get it wrong.”
Excitement built in her chest. Her fears that she didn’t know enough or that the exercise would fail faded away. To her, his problem had become crystal clear.
Despite her inner elation, she ensured her voice and expression remained neutral when she responded. “What? Your answer or the play?”
He frowned. “What’s the difference?”
“In this situation, there was the trained answer. The one coaches have hammered into your mind on the tactical approach to every situation.” The line between his brows deepened as he gave a slow nod. “Then there’s the instinctual play that works for you based on your experience and strengths.”
There was none of the playful man staring back at her now. This was one hundred percent the committed professional facing her. “And which one did I give?”
“Both. You started off with your instinctual moves. Your answers were confident and quick, the plays often a variation of the standard approach.” She gave him a second to process that. “When I moved to the offensive plays, it changed over to the tactical answers. Your responses slowed down, your body tensed up and your answers were close to textbook.”
He stared at her, expression hard, but she got the feeling he wasn’t seeing her. The chill of the ice had long ago penetrated the mat to numb her bottom, and she wanted to shift around. She didn’t though, afraid to break the intensity of the moment.
“And the penalty-killing plays?” he asked, his voice a deep rumble.
“A mix. About seventy percent were instinct answers. The trained replies were usually given on the offensive opportunities. The ones where you’d have a chance to make a shorthanded goal.”
“Huh.” He scratched at his jaw, his brows still lowered. She could almost see him running his answers through his mind, analyzing each one to see if he agreed.
She held up her phone. “We can go somewhere and listen to this if you want. Or I can send it to you if you’d prefer to go through it by yourself.”
He unfolded his legs, wincing as he stretched them out on either side of her. He leaned ba
ck, rubbed his hip then braced his palms on the edge of the mat. “So what does it mean?”
Her insecurities came rushing back to twist in her stomach. What if she was wrong? What if her interpretation hurt him instead of helped him? It’d been a long time since she’d been in a situation that’d left her this unnerved at her own abilities.
“Come on.” He nudged her with his leg. “Tell me what you think. You told me to trust you, now dole some of that trust back and dump it on me.”
He was right. She’d dragged him into this exercise and she owed it to him to see it out. “This is only my assessment. It’s up to you to take what you want from it.”
He cocked his head, lips lifting in a half smile that for once wasn’t filled with cockiness. “You’re nervous.” His smile widened, head slowly nodding as the idea took hold. “Why?”
She wanted to deny his statement but couldn’t. The corkscrew in her stomach gave another twist and she stared down the ice, avoiding him.
“Hey.” There was another nudge to her leg. “Samantha.” He shifted into her line of sight, concern tugging his brows down. “What’s wrong?”
She stared at him and realized how silly she was acting. This wasn’t a life-and-death situation. Just her opinion on his game. Since when did she ever not speak her mind when it came to hockey? When her words had the potential to hinder someone she cared about, that was when.
She sucked in a breath and let that realization settle into acceptance. Unwanted or not, she cared about Dylan, and that acknowledgment eased some of the tightness in her chest. She would never do anything to deliberately wreck his game—or him. It was a relief to know she hadn’t veered that far off the cliff.
“Nothing. Sorry.” She wiped her palms on her jeans and gave him what she hoped was a reassuring smile. “So based on everything I’ve seen of your play and the exercise we just did here, I believe you’re thinking too much on offense. You’re second-guessing your instincts and overanalyzing where you’re least confident, which is ultimately holding you back and hurting your game.”
Silence greeted her words and it echoed loud and accusing over the thundering beat of her heart. She’d given advice to players many times in her career, but this was the first time she’d stressed over it. His reaction was important to her. More crucial than a discussion on skills and weaknesses should be. But then, she always cared more about someone’s opinion when that person was important to her. Like her father.
“It’s sort of what I was doing last year,” she added when no response came from him. “I was letting the pressure interfere with my game. Once I acknowledged it, I was able to let it go and get back to just playing.” And there she was, opening herself up to him even more. Would she regret it?
His eyes narrowed again and he tipped his head back to stare at the rafters. The longer he remained quiet, the louder her worries nagged at her. Would he blow her off? Laugh? Get mad? Defensive? Not care?
She bit her lip to stay quiet. Exactly how important Dylan had become to her was hammered home with every nervous doubt that peppered through her mind. The urge to move hummed through her, vibrating under her skin until she fought with the impulse to run off the ice and out of the rink.
“Maybe you’re right.”
Lost in her own anxieties, she almost missed Dylan’s quiet admission. She leaned forward, analyzing his expression, which was difficult, given he was still looking over her head. She wet her lips and asked, “About which part?”
“That last bit.” He sat up then, curling his legs back in to cross them again. His eyes were bright when he focused on her. “About overthinking the offense. I want to improve that part of my game so fucking badly that I’ve gone to the extreme. Like with my left side.” He waved his hand, the animation spreading to his face as he warmed to his analysis. “I overcompensated so instead of playing my game smarter like you said, I thought too much on it, which opened up my right side.”
“Exactly,” she exclaimed, punching the air as he nailed the issue. “Ninety percent of this game is—”
“Letting your reflexes kick in so you can play the game at hand,” he finished for her, beaming. “And I’ve been too stressed about playing better to let that happen. Holy shit! How could I not see that?”
Relief flooded through her so quickly she almost sagged to the ice with it. She hadn’t been talking out her ass, and he wasn’t mad. She might’ve even helped him—a lot.
“You’re a fucking genius.”
He swooped forward and had her cheeks in his hands and his mouth closed over hers before she could think to stop him. Her breath caught in her chest, shoulders tensing in surprise before she simply absorbed the heat of his lips on hers. Something she hadn’t realized she missed until it was there again.
His kiss was hard and impulsive at first, just lips on lips that pressed firm. But that changed when he eased back enough to follow it up with a softer brush, then another and another until her mouth parted on a sigh and he took full advantage.
Her body came to life under his touch. The nerves that’d clenched her stomach loosened with the desire that flowed from her core.
He guided her head so he could press in closer, sink deeper into her mouth with each pass of his tongue. It was heated yet lazy, and her brain fizzled out as she lost herself to the gentle sensations. Lips, sighs, short inhales paired with little bites. He sucked her lip into his mouth, teeth tugging on the tender flesh to add a bit of pain. The move was a shot of fire that beaded her nipples and tore a moan from her chest.
A piercing wolf whistle broke the quiet to ring through the arena. Sam jolted back, wide eyes staring at Dylan’s inches away.
“Way to go, Pretty Boy!”
Sam jerked her head toward the voice and ensuing clapping. Two Glaciers players stood grinning at the entrance to the rink. Her heart dropped to her stomach and her breath was sucked from her lungs.
“That’s a new move,” one of the guys called.
Mortification flushed hot and quick up her neck to cover her face. Their rousing support of their teammate’s conquest reminded her of what she’d momentarily forgotten. This was exactly the situation she’d sworn she’d never find herself in again. She’d worked too hard against guys like this to prove herself, and with one stupid kiss, it’d all been diminished. She would now be nothing more than another one of their locker room jokes.
Another female conquered.
“Fuck off, Feeney,” Dylan yelled. The harsh cut of his voice had the smiles dropping from the other guys’ faces. “And get the fuck out of here.”
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Feeney asked, arms spread wide.
Sam shoved to her feet and forced a wide smile as she faced the hecklers. Any sign of embarrassment would be jumped on in a second. “Are you jealous, Feeney?” she asked, ensuring her voice held the same boy-banter note his carried. “You can’t find a girl who’s willing to stick around when she’s sober?”
“Yates?” Feeney’s jaw dropped, and Dylan chuckled where he stood at her side before the other man snapped his mouth closed, scowling. “What the fuck are you doing with him?” He pointed at Dylan.
That was exactly the question she was asking herself.
“Maybe she’s hanging out with someone who isn’t an asshole,” Dylan replied before she could. The low, even words drifted across the space with a clear warning enclosed. A glance at Dylan showed a hard glare that was colder than the ice they stood on.
“Holy shit,” Feeney cried. “I was fucking right. Damn it. I should’ve wagered some money on it.”
The other guy she recognized as winger Paul Bowser tugged on Feeney’s arm and backed away. “Come on, man. Let’s go.”
“What the fuck crawled up all your asses?” Feeney grumbled. With one last glare of his own, he followed Bowser down the tunnel away from the rink.
The tension wound from Sam’s muscles to include the space separating her from Dylan. What had she been thinking, kissing Dylan where they could
be caught? Had been caught. Exactly what she’d been doing during their other encounters—not thinking.
The same way she hadn’t with Andrew and his buddies—her teammates at the time.
The potential impact of the simple incident had her swallowing back the sickness that rose in her throat. So much for having nothing to lose.
Feeney’s words continued to boom in her mind. I should’ve wagered some money on it. She forced out a long, slow breath. She’d sworn she’d never again put herself in a situation that made her the butt of a joke. Or a locker room bet. Yet here she was…
Once again, she’d failed herself, her dad and every coach who’d spent hours honing her skills until she was one of the best centers in the sport. One who’d tossed away her hard-fought dignity for a kiss. This time from a man whose whole focus was hockey and the career he still had years to enjoy.
Years she resented with every breath she took.
She turned to Dylan, needing to see his expression. “What did Feeney mean?”
Dylan’s mouth dropped open, brows shooting up. “How would I know? I have no fucking clue what he’s talking about.”
She studied him, wanting to believe yet still so wary. “What should he have wagered money on?”
“I don’t know,” he insisted. His gaze never wavered. No looking away or hedging. Either he was telling the truth or he was a damn good liar.
“I can defend myself,” she mumbled, shifting to her other annoyance.
He gave a low gust of a chuckle and shook his head. “Yeah. I’m well aware of that.”
“So then why did you butt in?” She swiped the mat off the ice to keep from hitting him and rolled it with more force than necessary. “You only made it worse.”
“Made what worse?”
“That.” She pointed toward where the guys had been. “With them.”
“So I was supposed to just stand here and let Feeney cut you down?” His confusion shifted to one that said he thought she was borderline crazy.
“Yes,” she insisted, determined to hold firm.
“Sorry, darlin’.” He dropped into his drawl and the shutters closed over his features. The half grin had the staged cockiness that usually grated on her. This time sadness and loss swooped in to chill her from the inside. She hadn’t seen that full-blown cowboy front in weeks, but her irrational response had pulled it out of him. He was throwing up his own protection. “I was raised better than that.”