by Olivia Dade
“It’s too much. Too many people depend on me right now. And you took charge of the issue tonight, but most of my problems can’t be solved by computer wizardry. I’m sorry, but…” She spread her hands. “I can’t pile more worries on top of the ones I already have.”
“I made you worry tonight?” He hated that. Hated it.
“No,” she said quickly.
Too quickly. For once in her life, Con was lying.
“No?” He kept his voice neutral. Non-combative.
She sighed. “Yes. I felt terrible about interrupting our date and leaving you alone for an hour. Then you got roped into providing free tech support over the fucking phone, and I felt even worse. And now I’m tired and cranky and anxious about money, and I don’t want to suck on you like a juicy turkey leg anymore.”
At that image, he choked a little bit.
“I have enough problems. I don’t need to agonize over my romantic inadequacies too,” Con said with an air of finality. “Let’s face it. I’m meant for booty calls. Nothing more. Which means we’re done, Sam.”
He let her words sink in, working through their implications. “So nothing I actually did or said tonight worried you?”
“Well, no.” She rubbed her temple fretfully. “But be honest. You didn’t want to spend your evening this way. You didn’t even get a decent BJ out of it.”
“I prefer indecent ones.”
She snorted in the passenger seat. “You would, you lewd lumberjack.”
He spoke as carefully, as sincerely as he knew how. “What if I told you I had a great time tonight? That I’d rather spend the evening unblown and helping your sister than settling for a booty call?”
Her answer came immediately. “I’d say you’re a fucking liar, Wolcott.”
The first twinge of anger tightened his chest. “Think hard, Constance. Have I ever lied to you? Even once?”
“No.” She shifted in her seat. “But—”
“No buts. I mean it.” Easing his foot off the accelerator, he brought his car back within the speed limit. “You don’t need to worry about me. I can take care of myself. If I start to feel neglected, I’ll tell you. Or, better yet, I’ll act like a grown man and entertain myself with books or movies or friends until you’re free. Or, best of all, I’ll help you with your responsibilities so you’re happier and have more time and energy for me. And whatever else you want to do.”
His point made, he returned his attention to the road and let Con think a little.
“I don’t…” She was fidgeting in her seat. “You mean that?”
“Yup.” Pushing his hair back from his forehead, he exhaled slowly. “Nothing would make me happier than sharing your burdens, Con. And that’s the truth. So break up with me if you’d like, but don’t do it in response to some version of me that only exists in your head. When you’re overwhelmed and taking care of your responsibilities, I’m not going to whine and make your life harder. That’s not who I am. That’ll never be who I am.”
A long silence fell over the car, but Con’s restlessness seemed to ease by the minute.
Finally, she sat up straight and laid a hand on his knee. “I’m back in the mood for sucking on you like a juicy turkey leg. I thought you should know.”
“That’s welcome news.” He took her hand in his, clasping it tight. “Want to go back to Buccaneer Times this weekend and catch the rest of the show?”
Her smile shone brighter than the lights on his dashboard. “Yup. Can’t wait.”
16
The Niceville Ice Rink and Sports Complex—dubbed Iceville by locals, for obvious reasons—hadn’t changed much in the last decade. Since moving to the area, Con had attended occasional public skating sessions there on the weekends. Partially to keep her on-ice skills sharp, partially for the exercise, and partially because she loved the bite of icy air against her face as she stormed down one side of the rink, navigated the turn at the end, and reversed course. Grace wasn’t her objective. Speed, power, and control were what she wanted.
As she pushed open the door to the lobby, the familiar surroundings steadied her.
Same candy machines, full of ancient gumballs and mysterious neon pellets. Same concession stand, offering the same fountain drinks and nachos laden with faux-cheese—also neon. Same scarred wooden benches, positioned so parents could see their kids emerge from the locker rooms after practice. Same musty smell, attesting to stinky pads, jocks, and gloves located somewhere on site.
And when she entered the rink itself, the austere concrete bleachers to one side appeared freshly painted, but she couldn’t pinpoint any other alterations. The banners celebrating junior and amateur hockey victories from long ago remained ensconced on the walls. The netting around the rink contained a few pucks, as it always did. And the Zamboni still rumbled loudly as it smoothed the ice sheet in preparation for the amateur adult league game.
No, nothing had changed. Nothing except her.
She hadn’t come to the ice rink to skate today. She’d come, bizarrely enough, to cheer on her boyfriend of two weeks. Like a good little athletic supporter.
Wait. Athletic supporter? Despite her discomfort, she huffed out an amused snort as she climbed to the top of the stands and took a seat on the unforgiving concrete. Only one other woman was sitting all the way up there, a pretty redhead in a puffy yellow jacket. She was cradling a steaming travel mug as she stared at the locker room doors.
Sam and his team were probably still changing, so Con didn’t need to follow the woman’s example. Although tearing her gaze away from the place where he’d emerge in just a few short minutes was proving more difficult than she’d anticipated. Embarrassingly difficult.
For Christ’s sake, she’d woken up beside the man and eaten lunch with him at work. Why was she so starved for the sight of him? Why did she—she shook her head in disgust—miss the damn lumberjack? How had he altered her this much after only fourteen days of dating?
“Who are you here for?” the redhead asked, her green eyes warm.
Con hesitated. Although all her friends knew she’d been officially dating Sam for a couple of weeks, calling him her boyfriend still didn’t come naturally. And since this woman was a stranger, surely no relationship explanations were necessary?
“A friend. Sam. On the blue team.” Shaking off the awkwardness, Con smiled at her. “What about you?”
“My sister Natasha. The green team.” The redhead laughed. “You shouldn’t have any trouble finding her. Compared to the rest of them, she’s a foot shorter and a mile meaner.”
Con laughed too. “I’ll keep an eye out for her.” She offered her hand. “Nice to meet you. I’m Constance.”
“I’m Petra.” The woman’s grip was strong and warm, probably from holding her hot drink.
As other people filed into the stands, Con tried to reconcile herself to the strange sensation of observing rather than participating. Waiting and cheering, not skating herself. Just like a normal significant other. Just like the other women making their way onto the bleachers.
A few of them had come alone, like Petra and her. But more were toting baby carriers or pushing strollers, which surprised her, given the late hour. Others were cajoling recalcitrant toddlers or ordering shrieking preschoolers to stop running up and down the steps.
Better you than me, she thought.
Petra leaned closer to make herself heard over the caterwauling. “What number does Sam use? After watching the games for a couple of years, I’ve gotten to know players on all the teams.”
“Ummm…” Con stalled.
Petra’s face brightened when the locker room door opened and the first player clomped out in his skates. “Oh, here they are!”
As she craned her neck to hunt for Sam, Con hoped the other woman forgot her question. Mainly because Con didn’t know the answer. During all those months spent trying to keep her distance from him, she’d missed quite a few pertinent details. Hell, she h
adn’t realized he even played amateur hockey until a few days ago, much less memorized his number.
Once she’d found out about the hockey, though, everything had started to make sense. His level of fitness. His physical ease. The way he sometimes referred to “working the D” and snickered to himself in bed.
This whole rooting-for-her-man thing was so weirdly…domestic. But he’d asked her to cheer him on at his next game, and she hadn’t seen a good reason to refuse. Especially since he knew she loved hockey. And she couldn’t regret saying yes, even now. Not after the way he’d beamed at her promise to come, his gaze soft with affection. Not after the way he’d hugged her, as if she’d offered him much more than a couple hours of her time. Not after the way he’d immediately demonstrated his appreciation.
Orally. Then digitally and orally.
So here she was. She’d come prepared for a long, cold evening. An insulated container of coffee and a warm blanket filled her backpack. Money for intermission nachos nestled in the right pocket of her down jacket. Her gloves and hat were both made of thick fleece, and her long silk underwear should stave off the worst of the chill.
She was ready to play her part. No matter how squirmy the prospect made her.
Right then, he darted through the locker room door, his eyes immediately moving to the concrete bleachers. And as soon as he spotted Con, his face lit with a huge grin and he waved a gloved hand.
Petra made an odd sort of noise, like a breathy sigh. “Oh. That’s your friend? I definitely know him. He’s hard to miss.”
After seeing the expression on Petra’s face, Con began to regret the description of Sam as a mere friend. “Yeah. That’s him.”
She waved back at her boyfriend. And after one last jerk of his bearded chin in her direction, he sprinted onto the ice and began his warm-up. Loud concussions drowned out the kids as the players began to shoot pucks in all directions, practicing their slapshots against the sides of the rink and trying to fire pucks into the nets, past their goalies.
“Good work, Natasha,” Petra shouted to her tiny sister, who’d just whizzed a wrist shot into the top right corner of the net.
When Sam took his own shot, a heavy slapper that slid between the goalie’s legs, Petra hollered for him too. “Way to go, Sam!”
Clearly startled, he glanced up at the stands. When Con pointed at Petra, he gave the woman a friendly smile. Nothing about that smile was suggestive. Nothing indicated more than platonic appreciation for Petra’s unexpected praise.
Still.
Con slanted a narrow-eyed look at her erstwhile companion. Cheerful. Pretty. All but drooling at the sight of Con’s “friend.” And Con couldn’t blame the woman, not when Sam looked like the hottest fucking hockey player in human history and his girlfriend had essentially declared him fair game.
Well, fuck. It appeared she wouldn’t be sitting quietly and simply observing, as she’d planned.
“Keep pounding it through his five-hole, Wolcott!” she called out.
Sam’s head snapped up again, and he started laughing as he skated toward center ice.
Petra coughed out a laugh too. “Jesus, hockey terms sound filthy.”
“Yup.” The next time Sam lined up to take his shot, Con got to her feet. “Crash the crease, Sam! Get that fine ass of yours moving, or I’ll spank it when we get home!”
He saluted her, his wide grin visible even through the cage of his helmet. And as he fired the puck toward the goalie—who caught it in his catching glove with an expression of smug triumph—Petra turned Con’s way.
“Just your friend?” Her eyes twinkled in cheerful skepticism. “Really?”
Con sighed. “We’ve only been dating a couple of weeks. I’m not used to it yet.”
“I see.” Petra’s lips twitched. “He appears more comfortable than you do with the whole situation.”
“He’s a fan of commitment.” Her nose wrinkled at that word, despite her best efforts. “And he’s trying to convert me to his way of thinking. With some success.”
“Thus the two weeks of dating.” Petra nodded and then offered a fist-bump. “Change is hard. But when that change involves going home with a slab of lumbersexual hotness, maybe it’s worth the discomfort.”
Con bumped knuckles with her. “Word.”
The redhead pursed her lips. “If I can’t perv on your boyfriend anymore, I guess I’ll have to entertain myself a different way.”
“How?” Con’s chest had loosened with Petra’s acknowledgment of Sam’s unavailability, which was…odd. She wasn’t prone to jealousy. Had always figured if a man wanted another woman, so be it. He could have her, with Con’s compliments. Finding a new lover wouldn’t prove difficult. It never did.
But if she didn’t know better, she’d have called that sharp twist in her gut, the anger that had risen with Petra’s clear interest in Sam…possessiveness. A conviction that Sam wasn’t merely a temporary amusement or distraction, easily won and easily discarded. Not at all.
He was hers. Hers alone.
“During the game, I’m going to call out the most sexual-sounding hockey phrases I know.” Petra smirked. “And they’ll all be real terms, so no one can object or kick me out.”
“I’m in,” Con said. “As long as I’m the one who screams something about penetrating the goalie.”
“Deal.” Another fist-bump.
The buzzer indicating the start of the game sounded. Con settled into her seat for the opening faceoff with a smile, mentally prepared for a fun two hours of cheering for her boyfriend, discomfiting various onlookers, and imagining the long, hot night ahead.
***
“Get it deep!” Petra bellowed.
Con waved her arms. “Go to the dirty areas, Wolcott!”
She could swear she heard Sam laughing, even with all the background noise.
As the final seconds of the game ticked down on the scoreboard, the two teams remained tied. Then Natasha—AKA the Tiny Terror—fought for the puck against the boards, went streaking into the offensive zone, dodged both defenders, and flipped the biscuit up over the goaltender’s shoulder. Then flipped him off in triumph.
Sam’s team groaned. One guy even slammed his stick against the side of the rink, breaking his twig in half. All the while, the green team and their supporters whooped in delight. A man in the row below Con announced, “She may be an asshole, but she’s our asshole.”
The moms in the audience heaved tired sighs. They were long past covering their kids’ ears by that point. And after one final faceoff, the game ended. The audience began to trail to the lobby door, while the players shook hands, thumped backs, and skated toward the locker rooms.
“Your sister…” Con shook her head. “She’s a goddamn delight. Like a tornado in need of anger management training.”
Petra’s answering laugh was brief. “Yeah. I think she’s still bitter that she can’t make a living from hockey. Not the same way a guy with her talent could.” She appeared to force a smile. “And I’m bitter that you’re going home with that prime piece of male real estate.”
When Petra nodded toward the rink, Con turned to see Sam at the edge of the ice. He was waiting, with his trademark unflappable patience, for her to finish her conversation and notice him.
“Thanks for the great company, Petra.” She high-fived her new friend. “You and your sister fucking rule.”
“You know it.” Petra began gathering their assorted trash. “I’ll clean up here. You go chat with Paul Bunyan on ice. See you next week?”
“Yup.” After one last grateful grin at Petra, Con sprinted down the stairs toward her man. He watched her the entire time, his helmet off and dangling from his left hand.
When she got closer, she could see the evidence of his exertion and exhaustion. His hair was tangled, swept back from his forehead, and dark with sweat. Color stained his cheekbones, and he was still breathing hard. Between all their recent fucking and the late-night
game, he hadn’t gotten enough sleep, so dark circles had appeared under his eyes.
But those eyes didn’t seem tired. They were soft. Affectionate and…proud.
He lifted his palm and pressed it against the glass. She did the same from her side, and they connected through the chilly barrier. For a minute, he didn’t speak, and neither did she.
“Nobody’s ever come to see me play before,” he finally said. “Not even Penny.”
From what Con could tell, most of his teammates brought along their wives and children every week. Her heart pinched at the thought of him scanning the stands each game, registering that no one was there for him. Again. Still.
“I enjoyed it.” And miraculously enough, that was the truth. “Unless I have an emergency, I’ll be here for all the mayhem from now on.”
“That was the best game of hockey I’ve ever played.” He wasn’t smiling, but Jesus, the way he looked at her warmed her to the bone.
Her fingers curled in on themselves a little. “Bullshit. You lost, Wolcott.”
“No.” He shook his head. “You let everyone know I was yours. In public. That’s a win, Con.”
A lick of fear seared through her chest, and she took a sharp breath. But the panic faded quickly, more quickly than ever before, and her next inhalation came easily. Naturally.
“I might still kick your ass to the curb,” she warned him.
“Maybe.” He didn’t turn away or change expression. Just melted her with that steady gaze while he stood there, completely calm and unmoving.
Shit. Who was she trying to fool? Couldn’t she offer him something more in response to all his effort and caring?
“But until I do, that ass is mine.” She slapped her palm against the glass in emphasis. “All mine. And I don’t give a fuck who knows it. So go get dressed, come out to the lobby, and I’ll drive you home. Then it’s time for a coaching session.”
“About what?” he asked, raising his brows.
She waggled hers. “Finding the slot.”
“Like I said,” he told her before skating toward the locker room. “Best. Game. Ever.”