Body Check: Blades Hockey

by Luis, Maria

  Beautiful, fucking beautiful.

  My mouth finds the sensitive skin behind her ear, that sweet spot of hers that’s always felt like my secret weapon. If she’s mad? Kiss her there. If she’s sleeping and I want to wake her up? Kiss her there. If she’s determined to hold the upper reign and I want to tumble her off the throne and regain control? Kiss. Her. There.

  A wicked grin spreads across my face when her fingers scrabble for purchase on my body and her hips swivel a little off rhythm. I break from the “torture” long enough to roughly whisper in her ear, “Do you think I can make you come just like this?”

  Her slick movements slow, and then her left hand is on my shoulder, the other folded over her heart. I see the crown of her blond head as she looks down, and I have no doubt as to what she’s seeing: her legs spread wide; my cock pulling an X-rated peep show out of my sweats; my stomach and chest flushed with need.

  I lean into her, fully prepared to take her mouth with mine, when the hand on her heart flattens over my own and applies pressure.

  Like ice water has been doused over my head, everything freezes—my skin, my muscles, my heart.

  “Holls.”

  The pressure on my heart eases, her hand going momentarily slack, before strengthening again. “We can’t.”

  Fuck that. “We are, right now. You don’t think I don’t want you? You don’t think I haven’t spent every day of the last year thinking of you, missing—”

  She shakes her head, effectively killing the words on my tongue. “Our problem was never about wanting each other, Jackson. It was about everything else. The distance, the way we ended up coexisting like we were nothing more than friends who had sex, and then not even that.” Her blue eyes, always so luminous and excited about life, appear dull and worn in her heart-shaped face, like sea glass that’s been buried in the sand for centuries. “Having sex won’t fix any of our issues. It’ll feel good right now and then we’ll regret it in the morning.”

  When she makes a move to climb off my lap, I instinctively curl my arms around her frame to keep her from leaving. It’s a desperate attempt, a last move to remind her that I’m the same man she met and fell in love with at Cornell.

  “Do you ever wonder?” I ask. My hands smooth over her shoulders and down her spine, and I don’t miss the way she shivers under my touch. “Do you ever wonder where we’d be now if we’d fixed what was broken between us?”

  Her hot breath skims my chest, and it’s my turn to fight back a shiver. A soft, barely there kiss lands at the crook of my neck. It feels like good-bye and I squeeze her to me that much tighter.

  And then she’s speaking and there’s nothing but a lingering chill all over again: “There was never going to be any fixing when we weren’t willing to compromise. We wouldn’t change—that was our downfall.”

  I open my mouth, fully prepared to say something to salvage what little relationship we have left but break off when I hear the door swinging open.

  I turn just in time to see Cain burst through the door that should be locked right now, phone in one hand and his gaze trapped down on it. Shit, shit, shit.

  “Carter! You got a sec for—” He glances up, jaw visibly dropping as he takes in the scene before him. “Oh, fuck.”

  Actually, fucking is definitely not what happened here.

  I wind one arm around Holly, trying to shield her from his view as much as possible. “Can you give us a minute?”

  “Yeah! Yeah, sure, you got it, man.”

  He doesn’t move. Instead, he drops his gaze down to my lap and his brows shoot up. Coughing into one balled fist, he mutters, “The beast is out, Cap.”

  The beast? I glance down, only to see the tip of my still-hard dick peeking out past the waistband of my pants.

  Someone just kill me.

  Dainty fingers that aren’t mine snap my waistband back into place, and I don’t know whether to hug Holly for doing me the favor or beg her to end my misery. In the end, I find myself going mute as she awkwardly clambers off my lap and lands on her hands and knees in a hasty attempt to flee the scene of the crime.

  In other words, us losing control and nearly hooking up.

  I look to Cain, who’s now posted up against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest as he assesses us. “Dude,” I grunt, yanking on the fabric of my sweats as I climb to my feet. “What are you still standing there for? And how the hell did you get in here?”

  It seems like a slice of poetic fate that I’m supposed to be the man in charge of a team of hockey players, the guy who’s always in control, and I can’t even make my erection submit.

  No more hockey.

  The Bachelor re-runs.

  IRS auditing.

  The damn thing swells in my pants, taunting me with the very clear point that I’ve got a very massive problem.

  “Don’t ‘dude’ me, man, the door was slightly ajar. Guess you didn’t notice,” Cain says, a smug smile all up on his mug. He points at my crotch. “Stand down, good sir.”

  Deep, even breaths, that’s what I need. Maybe some Jim Beam, if I drank alcohol anymore. To the Blades defenseman, I do my best to look completely at ease when I mutter, “Please don’t talk directly to my dick.”

  “Who should I be talking to?” He looks to Holly. “You up for conversation, Ms. Carter?”

  Her cheeks burn a muted pink as she snags her backpack and other equipment from the floor and tries to edge around him and out into the hallway. “Not particularly, Weston, no.”

  “Perfect!” His gaze flicks over to me again. Or, more accurately, to my dick, which has yet to get the memo that sex with Holly is most definitely off the table. Cain gives me a shit-eating grin. “Where were we again? Oh yeah, I was just—”

  “Cain.”

  “Yeah, Cap?”

  “Get the fuck out of here before I personally cut your laces.”

  He sucks in a harsh breath. “Low blow, man, low blow. But like I was saying . . .”

  Holly glances back at me, her teeth digging into her bottom lip. I can read the hesitance in her expression. Though we’ve got a shit ton to talk about—starting with the fact that she rode my hard-on like a champ—it doesn’t look like my teammate is going anywhere anytime soon.

  I give her a curt nod, and she subsequently ducks under Cain’s arm to sneak out into the hallway.

  “So, yeah,” Cain goes on, the bastard, “if I learned anything from my grandfather, it’s that taking double the dosage of the little blue pill will do some serious damage. Doesn’t matter how desperate you are to get it up, don’t do it. Not unless you want your dick to fall off.”

  My hands land on my squared-off hips. “You realize I have to kill you now, right? There’s no other option.”

  “There are always other options.” Holding up a single finger, like he’s checking the direction of the wind, his eyes go comically wide. “Oops, hold on a minute, I hear someone calling my name.”

  “Cain—”

  I step forward as he leans his head out of the hotel room and shouts, “Having a laid-back night, Harrison! Yep, yep, super easy. Just having a little talk with Cap’s dick and laying out all the ins and outs of over-abusing Viagra at his old age.”

  Old age?

  Hooking my arm around Cain’s shoulders, I forcefully drag him out into the hallway where I fully plan to dump his ass. When he comes up spluttering, I narrow my eyes on him. “Whatever you came in my room looking for, you can get it tomorrow.”

  He plucks at his old-as-heck T-shirt, righting it over his pecs like I’ve done it major harm. “Don’t worry, I got what I needed.”

  And what the hell does that mean? My core muscles bunch together as I twist to face him. “What did you say?”

  “What did I say or what did I mean?” He throws me an overly dramatic wink, and I have the sudden urge to bench him tomorrow, just for being a prick. “I said exactly what I said, but what I meant is, the team loves Holly, Carter. She’s a good egg and you’re a good guy, but m
ost of us remember how miserable the two of you were by the end of things. Your game was off, and it cost us the Cup.” His hands land on my shoulders, squeezing once. “So, we think that it’s best if you took a little taste of your own medicine . . . focus on the game, Cap, and only on the game. We want to win. We don’t want Holly to cry. And even though you can be a major asshole sometimes, we don’t want you looking like some extra out of The Walking Dead anymore.”

  I can’t deny it; my first inclination is to drive his body face first into the decrepit carpet beneath our feet. But my second . . . Hell, my second acknowledges that what he says has some truth to it.

  I was miserable.

  Holly was miserable.

  And, yes, my preoccupation last season cost us our run at the Cup when I couldn’t get my personal life separated from my life on the ice. I let emotion control me, the way I’ve constantly warned rookies like Kammer not to let happen.

  Tonight, though, showed me everything that I need to know: I want my ex-wife with everything that I am. And I mean that I want all of her, both the seductress when she’s grinding on top of me and the vulnerable side that she shows to no one but me.

  I can win the Stanley Cup and earn back my place at Holly’s side.

  There’s no way I can’t.

  I clap my hand down on Cain’s shoulder and offer him a blasé grin. “Got it. No more trying out for The Walking Dead. That I can handle.”

  His blond brows knit together. “And eye on the prize, right? No fucking around with Holly when the two of you are finally getting your shit together and acting like normal, non-lovesick people.”

  “Oh yeah.” Lie, lie, and lie some more—pretty sure I picked that up from a former teammate. “We lost our heads. Sometimes shit happens, y’know? Anyway, it won’t be happenin’ again. My dick can promise that.”

  Cain’s expression relaxes. “Your dick’s making promises now? Should I ask it—”

  “No.”

  “But the Beast has got to have a say in—”

  I give his shoulder a shove. “My dick would like to be left out of this narrative, thanks.”

  The door to my right opens and Beaumont’s head pops out. “What’s this about Cap’s dick?”

  Jesus Christ, they’re like goddamn grandmothers on this team, always nosily eavesdropping. The least they could do is bring me snacks before breaking out the claws. Pointing at Andre, I grind out, “Shut it. We’ve reached the end of this talk and I’m going to bed.”

  From down the hall, I hear, “Carter’s dick is making promises nowadays!”

  Harrison.

  And I thought we were friends.

  I inch back toward my hotel room, thankful, at least, that us veterans are given our own rooms during away games. If I had to put up with any of these pricks for the next eight to nine hours, I’d smother them in their sleep and then send their families a gift card to the Olive Garden.

  I’m a kind person like that.

  “Jackson Carter, owner of the Genie Penis,” Beaumont muses, rubbing his stubbled chin. “I’m thinking ahead . . . merchandise. T-shirts, mugs, bookmarks for our literary fans. I’m a genius.”

  “You’re an asshole,” I mutter, disgruntled, “and Zoe should have run from you at the altar.”

  He steps into the hallway. “I may have to make a wish for that to never happen.” His big hands drop, and I see my life flash before my eyes before I’m smacking the two offenders away before they have the chance to grope me.

  The problem with hockey players?

  There’s no boundary that won’t be crossed in the name of screwing with your teammates, and not a single one of us has any shame.

  Even so, the next person to touch my junk isn’t gonna be Andre Beaumont.

  No, Holly is the only one who’ll have that opportunity—even if that means pulling out the big stops to show her how much fight we still have left to give when it comes to saving our relationship.

  I flash Beaumont the bird, do the same for Cain, and then close my door in their faces, a grin on my face. They might be annoying as all get out, but after so many seasons together, they’re also family.

  Moving to the small desk by the window, I pick up my cell from where I left it earlier. I’m not comfortable with the way things ended with Holly tonight, and though she probably won’t see my text till the morning, my gut is urging me to send something to her now, to smooth any troubled waters.

  Only, when I tap the screen awake, I find a text from her already waiting for me. I’ll be damned if my heart doesn’t take off like a sprinter at the starting line.

  Holly: You asked me if I ever wonder about us . . . Only every day since we signed the papers.

  Holly: Sometimes I think you’ve ruined me for anyone else.

  I run my thumb over the glass screen encasing her words, imagining them being whispered in my ear, her hot breath warming my skin. Opening the messaging app, I type back my response and lay it all out on the line:

  Me: Tonight, I took my first breath of air in over a year. This thing between us . . . it’s not over, sweetheart. If you think I’ve ruined you for anyone else, just know that for me there’s been no one else. Full stop. Period. I’m ready to breathe again, Holls, and I only do that with you.

  I set my alarm and leave my phone on the desk.

  And when I climb under the covers and slip between the sheets, I do what I’ve done for months . . . I wrap my hand around my hard cock and jerk off to the vivid memories of my ex-wife. Only now, it’s not to memories gathered from our marriage, but of tonight when I finally had the chance to taste her again.

  Sweet. Bold. Mine.

  I’m an addict, hooked on the feeling of her body rubbing against mine. I imagine it’s her hand gripping me. Her hand twisting at the crown before slicking all the way down to the base. Her palm cupping my balls and gently squeezing.

  My knees rise up, tenting the sheets, my closed fist moving faster and faster over my dick as I recall her half-shut lids as I rocked her over me. The way her hips rolled seductively. How her hands fluttered over my shoulders as she clung to me and rode my body with everything she had to give. My name was a prayer on her lips. A prayer of sin, maybe, but I’ve never been the most penitent of men.

  Until now.

  Sometimes I think you’ve ruined me for anyone else.

  As hot ropes of cum jet onto my stomach, I pray that there will only be me in her future. That she’s as ruined as I am.

  I’ve never been a religious man . . . but that’s never stopped me from kneeling at the altar of Holly.

  17

  Holly

  I swallow a delicious mouthful of pasta, then dash a napkin across my lips. “Thanks for letting us crash Sunday dinner,” I tell the Cain family, who are seated at the table around me.

  Earlier in the day, Carmen, Adam, and I made the short drive south to Connecticut to visit Weston and his immediate family. We’d needed progress on his storyline for the show, something outside of therapy rooms and hotels, and Weston suggested family dinner at his parent’s place.

  It’s the first family dinner I’ve been invited to in ages. In all the years that I’ve lived in New England, my grandmother visited only once. She was a creature of comfort, hated leaving her bubble of small-town Louisiana, and Lord knows her eyebrows might as well have been stitched to her hairline when we visited Sal’s and she discovered that the restaurant only offered unsweet tea. Take away a Southern woman’s sweet tea and there will be hell to pay, I assure you.

  As for Sam, my brother is firmly planted on the West Coast. If your name isn’t High Tech, then you simply aren’t on his radar. I love him, but he’s always been more interested in computer software than doing the whole sibling thing. Or, really, relationship anything with anyone. Case in point: he’s never had a girlfriend or a boyfriend or a “friend” of any sort that involves him spending any amount of time away from his computers.

  Jackson was my family in every way that mattered.


  Jackson, who I humped rather shamelessly just last week in Chicago. Nothing like eradicating boundaries one dry-humping session at a time. If there was a competition for who could almost make oneself come just by grinding, I’d take first place.

  At the kick to my ankle, my back shoots straight and I trade a quick glance with Carmen. “And,” I rush out, making eye contact with the very blonde Mrs. Cain, “thank you for letting us film it all for Getting Pucked. Not every family would agree to do this for us.”

  The Cain matriarch’s eyes twinkle as she spoons another helping of mashed sweet potatoes onto her plate. “We’re not exactly like every family out there, Holly. Has Weston ever told you all about his very first hockey game?”

  Weston, playing the part of embarrassed son, rolls his eyes and takes a long pull from his beer. “No, Ma, I didn’t because they don’t care about any of that.”

  “Sure we do.” Adam mimics Weston and drinks from his beer bottle. “We’re pretty much here for all of Weston’s dirty secrets.”

  If my sound mixer wasn’t seated across the table, I’d slap him upside the head. As it is, I grit out a smile and shoot metaphorical daggers at him with my eyes. “We’re totally not here for the dirty secrets.” I glance over at one of the four cameras we positioned in every corner of the room upon first arriving earlier in the evening. “If anything, we’re interested in learning what it’s like for all of you to have an NHL player in the house. What are the pro’s, the con’s? All that comes with being related to someone famous and in the public eye.”

  Until we’d arrived in Hartford, I’d had no idea that the Cain family was ridiculously wealthy or that Weston was part of a dynamic-twin duo. Maybe I should have done more research or maybe it’s because the Blades defenseman is notoriously tight-lipped about his private life.

  Tory, the not-so-infamous twin, leans forward to prop his arms on the table. His blond hair is cut like Weston’s, shorter on the sides and a little longer up front. If it weren’t for the difference in their noses—Weston’s has clearly been broken multiple times—I’d have no idea who is who.