Playing Hard_A Chesapeake Blades Hockey Romance

by Lisa B. Kamps

  This…this was hot and wet. This was what he wanted, what he'd hadn't been able to stop thinking about. Carnal desire and need and excitement all rolled into one powerful punch strong enough to bring him to his knees. And when her hips pressed against the length of his erection…yeah, fuck. His knees damn near buckled right then and there.

  He broke the kiss with a silent growl, his breath leaving in a strangled gasp when she looked up at him with eyes glazed with desire. Then she blinked, her tongue darting out and sweeping across the swell of her bottom lip, and he damn near groaned again.

  "I thought we were getting pizza."

  Pizza? How could she think about pizza right now?

  Caleb cleared his throat and tried to step back, damn near knocked himself out when his head smacked against the brick wall.

  "Pizza. Yeah. Sure." He rubbed the back of his head, watching the playful smile that curled the edges of her mouth. "We, uh, we could get it to go. I don't live too far from here—"

  "I told you, I'm not sleeping with you."

  "Who said anything about sleeping?" And shit. Damn. Fuck. He hadn't meant to say that out loud, hadn't meant to give her a reason to haul off and slug him or verbally slay him.

  To his surprise, she didn't do either of those things. And she didn't give him a withering look or storm off, either. She just stood there, her head tilted to the side as she watched him.

  And watched him some more.

  A slow smile spread across her face and danced in her eyes, one that filled him with both excitement and terror. Maybe he had counted himself lucky too soon, maybe now was when she would haul off and throttle him.

  Except she didn't. Instead, she reached down and grabbed his hand, tugging until he had no choice but to follow her.

  "I actually think getting take-out is a great idea."

  Chapter Twelve

  "You don't like losing, do you?"

  Caleb raised one brow and pinned her with a disbelieving expression that silently asked if she was crazy. "Does anyone like losing?"

  Shannon shrugged, a smile teasing her mouth. "Probably not, no. But some people handle it better than others."

  She shifted on the sofa, stretching her long legs and crossing them at the ankles before placing her feet back on the coffee table—right next to his. Caleb stared at their feet, both covered in matching white socks. His were large, almost clumsy looking next to her smaller ones. He'd never been into feet, had never even paid that much attention before tonight—until seeing Shannon's resting so comfortably next to his. He wondered if her toes were crooked like his from being jammed into skates for most of his life, or if any of them had been broken like his. Were her toenails painted at all? Maybe a delicate color, like a pale pink. No, Shannon wouldn't pick something pale. If her nails were painted, they'd be something bright and colorful and—

  What the hell was he doing, sitting here thinking about whether or not the woman next to him painted her toenails? He needed his fucking head examined. Not just for that, but for this whole night.

  Because this was not what he had planned. Not even close.

  Not that seduction had been on the schedule, not really, but there had always been a tiny hope in the back of his mind. Especially after that kiss. Yeah, definitely after that kiss.

  He sure as hell hadn't planned on bringing her back to his place and playing video games. But that's exactly what they'd been doing for the last hour: eating pizza and playing video games.

  And she was kicking his ass while doing it, too.

  She uncrossed her ankles and nudged his foot with her own. "Come on, one more. I'll even let you win this time."

  Caleb tossed the controller onto the table and shook his head. "I think I'll pass."

  "Aw, look. You're pouting."

  "No, I'm not."

  "Yeah, you are. Admit it."

  "I'm not pouting."

  She playfully elbowed him in the side. "You are. It's kind of cute, in a weird, immature way."

  Caleb turned his head to the side, his gaze dropping to her mouth before darting back to her laughing eyes. "Did you just call me cute?"

  Shannon rolled her eyes and looked away, but not before he noticed the flare of interest in their depths. "Oh please, don't go getting all excited. I also called you immature."

  "But cute. You definitely said cute."

  "I didn't mean it. Lord knows, your ego doesn't need more feeding. Just forget I said anything."

  "That's not feeding my ego. No more than it would be feeding your ego if I said I thought you were cute."

  Shannon snorted, the sound just a little too loud to be called delicate. Caleb watched the color bloom on her cheeks, noticed how she looked away and fidgeted just the tiniest bit. No, she wasn't fidgeting—she was easing away from him but trying to be subtle about it. And she didn't ask him to repeat the compliment or even try to fish for more, like most other women he knew. In fact, she looked uncomfortable, like she wished he hadn't said anything at all.

  Caleb lowered his legs from the table and shifted sideways on the leather sofa so he was facing her. He draped his arm along the back, let his hand drift down to her shoulder. She stiffened but didn't move away. She also wouldn't look at him.

  "You don't like compliments, do you?" It was a statement, even if he did phrase it as a question. She lowered her gaze to the twisting hands in her lap and shrugged before forcing a laugh.

  "Don't be an idiot. Everyone likes compliments."

  "Then why are you blushing and trying to scoot away from me?"

  "I'm not."

  "Liar." He didn't say anything else, just sat there and waited for her reaction. She held herself still for a long minute as the silence stretched around them, broken only by the low music coming from the paused video game. Caleb sighed and leaned over for the remote, hitting the button that would turn the entire entertainment center off. Now the room was completely silent, the stillness heavy and absolute.

  He mentally cursed himself for turning the thing off. At least before, there had been that annoying background music instead of this uncomfortable silence. He shifted positions again, his hand once more brushing against her shoulder. Shannon stiffened and for a second, he expected her to jump to her feet and storm out. Instead, she turned and faced him, her eyes narrowed as she watched him.

  "What game are you playing, Caleb?" There was nothing light or playful in the clipped words, or in her expression. This was a different side of Shannon, one he'd never seen before. Quiet. Serious. Untrusting.

  Wary.

  He dropped his hand and moved away, his gaze never leaving hers. "Why are you so convinced I'm playing a game?"

  "Because I'm not your type. And don't lie and say I am because we both know it's not true."

  "You keep saying that. So tell me: what's my type?"

  Shannon rolled her eyes then looked around the large living room, like she was searching for an answer. She finally sighed and waved one hand, the motion taking in the leather furniture and glass and chrome accents, the large wall of windows and sliding door that led to the balcony, the twinkling lights reflected on the harbor just beyond.

  "Not me, that's for sure. I mean, look at this place. We're not in the same league. Hell, we're not even in the same fucking zip code."

  Frustration bloomed in his chest, some of it slipping into his voice when he spoke. "Why the hell do you keep saying that?"

  "Because it's true. I mean, look at you. You're…you. And me—I live in a studio above my brother's garage. I'm the one with the lethal strike of a cobra. Even Chuckie said so."

  Caleb started to laugh and choked it back at the last second, nearly strangling with the effort. "A striking cobra, huh?"

  "It's not funny!"

  "It's a little funny—oomph." He grabbed his side where Shannon had elbowed him then moved back just a little, out of range.

  "It's not. And that's exactly what I'm talking about."

  "Okay, you lost me. Hell, this whole conversatio
n has lost me. What are even talking about?"

  She waved her hand between them. "This. You. Me. And…and whatever it is you're doing. I'm not your type. Not even close."

  "How do you know what my type even is?"

  "I don't know but I'm pretty sure it's not someone who's just one of the guys—which is what I am."

  "What the hell ever gave you that idea? Trust me, you are definitely not just one of the guys."

  "Really?" Disbelief was clearly etched on her face. "How many dates do you bring home for pizza and video games?"

  "I—well, none. But that doesn't mean—"

  "I rest my case." She placed her hands on the edge of the sofa, started levering herself up. Caleb grabbed her, the motion throwing her off balance. She toppled back to the sofa and landed in his lap. He released her, just long enough to give her a chance to move if she wanted.

  She didn't move.

  Caleb breathed a quick sigh of relief then wrapped one arm behind her, his touch light, his grip loose. "Why do you have such a hard time believing that maybe I just like you? That maybe I'm comfortable enough with you to bring you back here and let you kick my ass in video games?"

  Shannon snorted. "Let me? Oh, please. We both know I kicked your ass because I'm better than you."

  "Yeah, you keep telling yourself that. Now stop avoiding my question."

  "I'm not."

  "Yeah, you are. Now, why are you so convinced I'm playing games? Why can't you believe that maybe I actually like you and want to spend time with you?"

  "Why?" Shannon shifted, not enough to move off his lap, but enough to put just a little distance between them. "Because most men tuck their tails between their legs and run off because I intimidate them."

  "I'm not most men."

  "No, you're not. You're a player."

  Caleb bit back another sigh then reached up and ran his free hand through the long strands of her hair. Soft, satiny-smooth. Entirely too tempting. He tucked the hair behind her ear and reluctantly dropped his hand before capturing her gaze with his own. "You need to stop listening to Taylor."

  "Are you saying you're not?"

  "Am I a saint? No. Never said I was. But that doesn't mean I'm playing you."

  "We haven't even been out on a date."

  "Wrong. We've been out on four."

  "Four?" Her brows shot up, then quickly narrowed. "Where the hell did you come up with that number?"

  He counted off on his fingers. "The Maypole. The diner. The hockey game. Tonight."

  "None of those count."

  "The hell they don't."

  "They don't. They're not even real dates."

  "You're so full of it! They certainly are real dates."

  "I say they're not, so they don't count."

  Caleb chuckled—not at her words, but at the small pout that played around her mouth and the hint of laughter that danced in her eyes. He reached up, swiped her lower lip with the pad of his thumb, felt her lean a little closer to him. "Then what counts as a real date?"

  She propped one hand on his shoulder and placed the other in the center of his chest. She shifted on his lap and he swallowed a groan at the feel of her tight ass wiggling against the hard length of his erection. How could she feel that and not think he was interested?

  He almost asked her but she started talking, silencing him.

  "A real date is when you get dressed up and go out. You know: dinner. The movies. Something like that."

  "We can do that." The words came out in a ragged whisper, hoarse and almost desperate. He cleared his throat and repeated them.

  "We could, yeah." Shannon leaned even closer, so close he could feel the weight of her breasts brush against his chest. So close he could feel the heat of her breath against his mouth. He swallowed back a groan and tilted his head up, wanting to capture her mouth with his own, wanting to taste her. She pulled back just the tiniest bit, a smile teasing her lips.

  "Or we could go to a wedding together. That would count, too."

  "Wedding?" The word was strangled, filled with feigned horror. "What wedding?"

  "Sammie Reigler, one of my teammates. She's getting married in two weeks, and I need a date."

  "Weddings are—" He cleared his throat, searching for the right words. A wedding? Holy shit, that was the last place he wanted to take a date. Weddings made women get crazy-stupid ideas. Weddings gave him hives. "I'm allergic to weddings."

  Shannon leaned back then shifted so she was straddling his lap. He groaned, swallowing back both frustration and laughter when he noticed the teasing expression in her eyes. "Then take some Benadryl."

  "Real funny. Haha. I can't make it. I'm sure we have a game that day."

  "You don't, I already checked."

  "How about we go to Vegas instead? Or maybe a quick trip to the Bahamas? That would count as a date, right?"

  "Nope. It has to be the wedding."

  She wiggled against him again, eliciting another groan from him. He grabbed her hips and held her in place, rocked his own hips against her then nearly swore. Stupid. So fucking stupid. The only thing that move accomplished was making him more frustrated. At least he wasn't the only one—he saw the way her lids fluttered, noticed the way her chest rose and fell on a quick breath as she pulled her lower lip between her teeth.

  He leaned up, caught her lower lip with his mouth and sucked, ever so lightly. "And, uh, what happens if I take you to this wedding?"

  "Well…" She rocked against him once more, nice and slow, her fingers curling in the thin cotton of his shirt. "It's at a hotel and we'd probably be drinking. Which means we'd have to get a room."

  "One room? Or two?"

  "Just, um, just one."

  "Doesn't that mean we'd have to sleep together?"

  "Who said anything about sleeping?" She tossed his earlier words back at him and rocked against him again. Once, twice. He sucked in a deep breath and tightened his hands around her hips, holding her still.

  "That's blackmail."

  "No." She leaned forward, brushed her mouth against his then pulled away before he could kiss her. And damn if she wasn't smiling. "It's actually bribery. So—is it a date?"

  He pulled her closer, half-expecting her to stiffen or push against him, then leaned up and captured her mouth. The kiss was hot, needy, filled with promise and frustration. He broke the kiss with a small groan, knowing instinctively not to push things, not to push her. Not now. Not tonight. He was only slightly appeased to see that her breathing was as harsh as his own; slightly mollified to see her dark eyes smoldering with the same desire burning in his.

  "It's a date."

  Chapter Thirteen

  Shannon crouched low, bounced twice on her skates then swung her stick from side to side, tapping each post before rolling her head. Deep breath in, hold it. Release, nice and slow. One more time for good measure before getting into final position just before the puck dropped.

  Action exploded at center ice as Taylor fought for the puck, finally hitting the winger from New York with her shoulder as she dug with her stick. The puck broke free from the melee and slid across the ice, hitting the blade of Rachel's stick. She turned and skated up the ice, passing the puck behind her to Taylor. Back and forth, moving into the offensive zone, setting things up for an early shot.

  Shannon straightened, allowing herself to relax for a fraction of a second as the action unfolded at the other end. She held her breath, watching as Taylor made a final pass to Rachel then skated around the back of the net. It was a classic set-up. All Rachel had to do was shoot. If she scored, fan-fucking-tastic. If not, Taylor would be there for the rebound—

  And fuck, fuck, fuck. How the fuck had Rachel missed? She totally whiffed the shot! Now the puck was heading back this way, being propelled through center ice by one of New York's D-men. Shannon dropped to a crouch, her gaze focused on nothing but the puck. From her periphery, she saw one of the Blades—it had to be Sammie, nobody else was quite as small as she was—dash across the
ice to intercept. Bodies collided with a dull thud but not before the puck shot free, straight toward another player from New York.

  Shit, fuck. Breathe. Focus.

  Closer…closer. Shannon watched the other player's stick, watched as the woman shifted her weight from one leg to the other. Just a small sign, a little tell…Shannon didn't move, just kept watching as the player moved closer and pulled back on her stick—

  Now!

  Shannon followed the motion of the stick with her eyes, watched as the woman followed-through on the shot. The puck sailed straight toward her, low and fast. She reached out with her glove hand and snagged it before it crossed the line, started to throw it to the side for Sammie. But Sammie wasn't close enough and there were two players from the other team waiting on it, skating in fast to knock it free and shoot it in on a rebound. Shannon pulled her glove hand into her chest, cradling the puck and waiting for the whistle.

  The shrill blast echoed in the chilled air, followed by a short burst of subdued groans from the home crowd. A split-second later, Shannon felt the slash of a stick across her lower back, sharp and stinging. She straightened, dropping the puck to the ice and jumping to her feet, ready to swing at the woman standing a foot away. But then Sammie was there, and Dani and Maddison, coming between her and the player from New York. And then the ref was there, separating all of them before anything else could happen.

  Yeah, because God forbid if they actually started fighting.

  Shannon reached down for the puck, tossed it to the ref then stared at him, waiting for him to call a penalty. He simply looked at her then skated away.

  "What the hell? No penalty? Come on! How could you miss that?"

  The ref turned back, frowning, then shook his head.

  "What? Are you fucking blind? She slashed—"

  Taylor skated closer, practically shoving her hand in Shannon's face to quiet her. "Don't. You'll draw a penalty."

  "Me? What about her? Did you not fucking see that?"

  "Yeah, I did. Let me handle it." Taylor nodded once then skated off toward the ref, her face a mask of fury as she started talking to him. Shannon couldn't hear what was being said but she could tell Taylor was losing her cool. Her face was turning a dangerous shade of red and she was motioning wildly with one hand. The ref shook his head again, his mouth thinning into a hard line.