The Slot: A Rochester Riot Sports Romance

by Colleen Charles

  Spud smiled and nodded. “Can I get you anything, miss?”

  “No way, dude,” Cole said. “I got this. I’ve finally perfected that Kigali Kong recipe and Eloise is just the customer to try it out. She’s no stranger to a little treat now and then.” He moved behind the bar next to Spud, pulling out cups and containers.

  “Pleased to meet you, Spud,” El said. “I assume that’s a nickname? If not, I’d be anxious to meet your parents.”

  “My real name’s Spencer. Spud has more to do with my shape,” he said, smiling and patting a hand to his belly before moving away to continue his cleaning tasks. “And if you met my mom, she’d tell you she didn’t like the nickname. But my dad does. Uses it all the time.”

  She turned back to Cole as he continued shuffling his ingredients. “You moonlight here?” she asked with a chuckle. “Guess eight mil a year doesn’t go as far as it used to.”

  Cole stopped in mid-motion and flashed her a mischievous smile, the effect so sexy Eloise thought her heart might melt and drip down through her toes. “Checking my pay stubs are you?” He clucked his tongue. “What would Murphy say?”

  “It’s public record.” Eloise unbuttoned her coat and climbed onto a barstool to face him as he worked, despite her aversion to tall seating – one of the hazards of being short and full-hipped. She watched him create his masterpiece from scratch, starting with fresh-ground beans.

  “Now these are a medium-roast,” he said. “I get them from a college buddy who ended up on a coffee plantation in Rwanda. Did you know Rwanda grows amazing coffee beans?”

  Eloise shook her head. Aside from Kylie’s steamed milk creation, she didn’t much care where her coffee came from. She could certainly see Cole’s passion for it though as he talked and brewed. His antics got her body firing, wondering if that same passion for coffee and hockey transferred to all of his pursuits.

  When he’d finished, he slid a wide-brimmed cup across the counter to her, its foamy surface decorated with an outline of a sunburst. A whole vanilla bean served as a stirrer. It looked too beautiful to drink.

  “It’s on the house. Sorry I don’t have any powdered doughnuts to go with it,” he said with a grin.

  “I’ll forgive you,” she said. “Just this once.”

  He’d made one for himself as well and lifted his cup in a small toast. Eloise smiled her thanks and raised hers to her lips. The deep, almost smoky flavor of the brew was intoxicating; she’d never tasted anything so unique, and she liked it.

  “Wow.”

  Cole smiled. “Succinct, but descriptive nonetheless. I like a woman who verbalizes what she likes. In one syllable or less.”

  Spud nodded his approval from where he stood a few feet away, tidying the bar shelves. Eloise reminded herself why she’d come. “Mr. Davies, can I ask you something? I was talking to one of your neighbors a few doors down, and he said he was worried about the new whiskey bar hurting business around here. What are your thoughts?”

  A shadow flickered over Spud’s round face. “I’ve been here a few years now and being near the Arena is good for the most part; lots of fans stop by before and after games. I’m sure you know what they charge for food and drinks inside the rink,” he chuckled. “But this VIP lounge thing is just unnecessary. Guys like Sheehan Murphy don’t need a bigger piece of the pie, they’re already stinking rich. Why does he have to squeeze out small businessmen like us? It’s unfair.”

  Before Eloise could respond, Cole interrupted the conversation. “Don’t get this guy started on the evils of corporate greed,” he warned her. “You’ll be here all night. You’d think he owns the place,” he said with a crafty smile. He moved to her side of the bar and took a seat next to her. “You like?” he asked, pointing to her coffee.

  “It’s wonderful,” she admitted, taking another sip. “So in addition to playing guitar, you’re a gifted barista, on top of being a pro hockey player. Is there no end to the talents of Mr. Cole Fiorino?”

  He shrugged. “I’d rather talk about your talents. Where are you from, and how does a girl like you end up in the hockey world?”

  “I’m from Ohio. I studied business administration at NYU then moved to Minneapolis to get my graduate degree at Carlson. Rochester wasn’t far away, and a headhunter drafted me right out of grad school. Been here ever since.”

  Cole rested his chin in his hand as he listened to her talk, his blue gaze piercing her. Focused on her in a visual caress. “You have family back in Ohio?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said, taking another sip of the decadent brew. “My mom and dad, and my sisters. I’m the oldest before you ask.”

  He grinned. “Me too. I have a younger brother. He’s at UMD.”

  “Hockey player, I’m guessing?”

  “Oh, yeah,” he said, eyes twinkling with pride. “Damn good one too. Are your sisters all as sexy as you are?”

  Eloise set her cup down and laughed outright. “Okay, now that’s a pretty old pickup line for a guy your age, but I’ll take it as a compliment. And yes, by all accounts, my sisters are gorgeous.”

  “You think I’m trying to pick you up?” he asked, feigning indignation.

  “Are you?”

  “Well, if you have to ask, I’m doing a pretty poor job,” he laughed. “Any other questions?”

  She looked at him through the wisp of steam still rising from her cup. Damn, he was a racehorse; a tall, dark, handsome Italian stallion. Oh, the questions I’d have for you if we were alone in my stable right now.

  “Why do they call you the Beantown Bard?”

  Cole’s smile widened at her query. “That, pretty doughnut-lady, is a question best answered over dinner. How about tomorrow night?”

  Chapter Six

  Dressed in a suit and tie, Cole sat at the bar of the Northern Lights Bistro in uptown Rochester waiting for Eloise to arrive. He’d offered to pick her up in a town car, but she’d declined. Very independent lady, and smokin’ hot. She had that exotic look he loved with her thick chestnut brown hair and emerald eyes. He stirred his scotch and soda, stabbing at the ice cubes in his glass. He wasn’t given to nervousness around women, far from it. His old teammates on the Bruins would piss themselves laughing if they saw him now, scrubbed and polished up to impress a lady when they knew he could fuck anything in a skirt whenever he wanted to.

  But man, this chick was a knockout. Her road-hugging curves had him salivating even more than a carton of the powdered doughnuts they both craved. That silky hair cascading over her shoulders put him in mind of a Greek goddess, and he’d love to see her in a gauzy toga with her tits bared to complete the fantasy. And then he’d yank her hair, bend her head back, and kiss her senseless.

  However, she was planets apart from his usual type. She wouldn’t simply fall at his skate-clad feet in a heap of feminine promiscuity. He wondered about Ryder’s choice of words in describing her – chiller unit, Frosty the snow-cunt. He winced at that last one. Tasteless and crude. He’d thought better of Ryder before he said that. The man’s stock had plummeted in Cole’s eyes because his feisty Italian mother had raised him to respect the fairer sex.

  He and Ryder had known each other in their early days in minor hockey, both of them bright-eyed and hopeful in making it to the bigs someday. He knew being passed over by the system, and the scouts had made Ryder bitter, but not to the point of being a misogynistic asshole. And his insinuation that he’d already sampled Eloise’s goods rankled him more than he wanted to admit. Cole still held old-fashioned values, and he didn’t consider women that had been around the block too many times for anything serious.

  Cole did accede that Eloise oozed confidence and clearly had achieved massive success in her career; the ice-queen act could certainly have helped her get there. But it could all be just that – an act. He could spot a workaholic and knew it was typically a substitute for something missing in that person’s life. Somewhere in history, Cole felt something had gone horribly wrong that men had stopped caring and providing
for women, stopped worshipping them and respecting them in a way he felt they should. Perhaps it was his studies in philosophy, or perhaps just the fact he had a good example at home, but he felt strongly that women should be celebrated and revered, like his own mother had been. No one commanded more respect and adoration than a beautiful and staunchly Catholic Italian woman, he chuckled to himself. And her Spaghetti Bolognese kicked serious ass.

  In fact, his mother would kick his own ass from here to Sicily if she knew the extent of her son’s biblical knowledge of the opposite sex. He had no particular axe to grind with the Catholic religion in which he’d been raised, but the celibacy thing until marriage was not a concept he supported. He had no problem with promiscuity, and with his lifestyle, it could hardly be avoided. Constantly on the road and being entertained by host teams and their management, the stream of parties, booze, and broads seemed never-ending. Funny thing though, he still wanted his own ideal woman to be above reproach.

  You hypocritical douche, Fiorino.

  He took another sip of his scotch and suddenly choked, sputtering and gasping for breath, eyes watering. Eloise strode toward him, coat on her arm, wearing a gorgeous black cocktail dress that accentuated her hourglass figure. Her shapely legs rocked a pair of killer stiletto pumps. Black with tiny gold buckles.

  God, he wanted to slide his hand up her inner thigh. Would she be wet and slick? The image of black lacy panties flittered across his mind. The kind that were easy to take off. With his teeth. He shook his head to clear his lust and the last of the scotch, waved and got up from his seat as she approached. His baser instincts wouldn’t get him anywhere with this classy woman.

  “Hi,” he said, pulling out a chair for her. “Our table should be ready soon. Care for a drink?”

  “I’ll wait, thanks,” she said, smiling up at him.

  Her lips looked like fresh cherries, waiting to be bitten. Why hadn’t he noticed how full and lush they were until this moment? The perfect shape for pulling into his mouth and sucking on. He tamped down his rising lust again. The physical sensations coursing through his body and heading straight south were becoming an annoyance.

  “That is one fantastic dress,” he said with a low whistle, scanning his eyes up and down. He just couldn’t help it. Like she was an ice cream cone on a hot day, and he yearned for that first lick. “You look amazing. I’m guessing you didn’t buy it here in Minnesota.”

  “Thank you,” she said, settling into the chair. “You’re right. I order my clothes from New York stores that I fell in love with when I lived there.”

  Cole draped her coat on the back of her chair and returned to his seat. “Well. New York should be grateful.”

  Eloise fixed him with a pointed stare. He’d noticed her eyes before, but at this close range, he marveled at their intense green color. Everything about her was intense. Damn, he wanted this woman in a horizontal position more than anything. And the fact that she wouldn’t fall at his feet in a puddle of pathetic willingness, worshipping his NHL cock like it was water in the desert? That fact made her even more challenging. And appealing.

  “Okay, I want a man who can honor his promises,” she said.

  His had snapped up in confusion. Had he made her any promises? Was she pissed already? “What?”

  “You promised to tell me the story behind your unique nickname.”

  Cole inhaled deeply, inflating his chest. Praise the Lord. He didn’t think he could take it if he’d disappointed her before the plane even left the runway. “But, soft! What light through yonder window breaks? To rush the line and split the D; it is sublime O Victory!” He raised his open hand into the air as he spoke. At her dumbfounded look, he relaxed his pose and started to laugh. “That’s one of my locker-room soliloquies,” he said. “The guys make fun of me, but I know they love it.”

  “You lied to me, you are a poet. No wonder you have so many names, Coleman Arthur Fiorino… the Third, I suppose? English major?” she asked, her mint-green eyes still a little bugged.

  “Philosophy, actually. Boston College. But no Third. I’m the first, the original.” And I’d sure like to be first to fuck you right over this cocktail table, sweetheart.

  “Table for Cole?” the hostess called, just as Eloise opened her mouth to question him further.

  Cole winked at Eloise. “That’s us. Let us enjoy a great repast, milady.”

  ***

  Eloise couldn’t picture a more different date from the one she’d had with Ryder. Cole Fiorino looked stunning in a suit, his facial scruff not detracting in the least from his stellar appearance. It was sexy. He was sexy. Broad shoulders filled out the tailored lines of his jacket. His slacks draped perfectly over powerful legs. And his smell. The scent of Gucci made her want to lick the musky cologne off his muscled neck. She lingered over the remains of dinner on her plate, enjoying the moment as long as possible before broaching the subject she’d been avoiding all evening.

  “How upset is your friend Spud about Murphy’s bar?” she asked. “I’m sure he was downplaying his feelings because I was right in front of him yesterday.”

  Cole frowned, the creases in his brow deepening. “Hey, I’m a stranger here. I’ve only known Spud since I moved out here, but I don’t really fit in with his crowd. I mean, I make a shit-ton of money playing hockey. I don’t think I’m qualified to have an opinion on the plight of the small businessman, but I guess I’m an idealist. I think opportunity should be for everyone, not just the corporate elite. I hate when big business loses sight of everything but their bottom line. They become faceless machines, rolling over everyone in their path.”

  “I thought you said Spud was a good friend of yours? How long has he owned Blues & Brews?”

  “Oh, Spud’s not the owner, he just works there. My friend Trey owns it, but he’s off on a snowmobile trip right now, somewhere north of Brainerd.”

  “Oh,” Eloise said, the name Trey sounding a lot like Trev and sending a chill down her spine. Trevor was a name she’d tried very hard to forget, but she kept on topic. “Not every company is like that,” she continued. “They’re in business to make a profit after all, no different than your friend, just on a bigger scale. Big companies take care of their employees too, affording them health benefits and savings plans. The club takes care of you, doesn’t it?”

  Cole regarded her with interest, as though still deciding what to make of her. “Yeah, it does. I try not to think about Sheehan Murphy being the hand that feeds me though.”

  “Sheehan Murphy is a piece of work, I’ll say that much. But he’s smart enough to capitalize on the success of his family’s business. Smart enough to invest those profits in a professional sports team. Smart enough to invest in you.” She took a last sip from her wineglass, letting her comment hang in the air between them.

  After a moment, Cole smiled. “I’ve got to hand it to you, El. You’re truly a master of public relations. You’re able to defend a douchebag like Murphy, yet condemn him at the same time. How do you do it?”

  “Just comes naturally, I guess. Being the eldest in the family, I mastered playing both sides pretty early. I’ve always had to take charge, rein everybody in and make them see reason, no matter how much it hurts. Taking one for the team. It’s what I do best.”

  “That’s too bad. Honorable, but a bit of a waste, if I may say so. I think you were destined for better things than a peacemaker and keeper of the status quo.” His voice grew quieter, but his eyes spoke louder as he leaned in closer. Eloise knew a come-on when she saw one and felt panic rising at both what he’d just said and what he might say next. Was he complimenting or insulting her?

  “You’re a beautiful, strong woman, El Robertson. You deserve to be looked up to and pampered, not stuck stewarding the interests of a no-class millionaire, being just one more cog in his ruthless wheel.”

  “You mean I should be put up on a pedestal, like some vestal virgin?” Eloise suggested sarcastically. “Depending on others to take care of me? No, than
ks, I’ll earn my own way. On my own merits.”

  “I understand that,” he said, his voice dipping even lower, “but you shouldn’t have to. I’d take care of you if you were mine.”

  Mine.

  Eloise sighed helplessly. Men! They might wear different pants, but inside them, they were all the same – ego on legs. Thinking the helpless little woman couldn’t ever take care of herself.

  “I think it’s time we call it a night,” she said, gathering her purse and coat.

  “Wait,” Cole said. “Did I say something wrong?”

  Eloise looked into his gorgeous blue eyes for what might be the last time. She hoped not, but if she had to hack her way through another forest of male chauvinist underbrush to do so, then she wasn’t sure she had the strength. “No, I’m sure you thought you were saying exactly the right thing. Just to the wrong person. Thank you for a lovely evening.”

  Cole looked crestfallen. Jeez, she almost hated herself. She’d managed to do it again, throw cold water all over a hot guy, and this time, she could almost hear a sizzle in the pan.

  “You’re welcome. I didn’t mean to offend you,” he said, rising from his chair. “Let me help you.” He crossed over to her side of the table and helped her slide her coat into place. Tingles overtook her body everywhere his fingers grazed. “Will you give me a second chance?” he asked, his hands lingering on her shoulders and his sexy voice low in her ear. She clamped her eyes shut against the onslaught of emotion.

  He wasn’t making it easy for Eloise to exit with her principles intact, nor her panties dry. Dammit, she wanted to hear that voice coming from the pillow next to hers in the worst way. Or beneath her. Or behind her. “Well, I suppose even Shakespeare got a second chance,” she said with a slight glimmer of hope. “Why not the Beantown Bard?” He smiled, a sliver of confidence dancing in his dreamy eyes. Her face returned a less-than-hopeful grin. “Goodnight.”

  Chapter Seven

  There were ghosts in the car as Eloise drove home from her date with Cole. She couldn’t seem to concentrate on the road and missed a few turns along a route she knew well. What was wrong with her? Mister Man Candy Fiorino wasn’t so imposing to chase away her stellar sense of direction.