by Sara Rider
“Hey, don’t worry. My buddy knows I’m coming. He’ll look for me eventually.” He shrugged off his jacket and set it on the ground. “Here, we can have our own party until he comes.”
“Turn around first,” she ordered in her most authoritative voice.
“Why?” he asked innocently, but his eyes zeroed in on her crossed arms.
“Because I’m asking.”
“Fine, just promise you aren’t planning to push me down the stairs.”
The thought that she could make this giant of a man unwillingly budge a single inch was so absurd, she laughed in spite of herself. He turned around without further argument, giving her the chance to dig inside her dress and pull out the underwire from the other side of her bra.
“Done,” she said with a sigh of relief. Her boobs might not be perky and round anymore, but at least they were even. She eased onto the ground and watched him pull a couple of beers from the six-pack he’d been carrying.
He slid down the wall and took a seat a few feet from her on the ground. The faint scent of his cologne pushed through the dank odor of the stairwell, making her feel like she could finally breathe again. She wanted to inhale the spicy, masculine notes until they filled her senses. “Beer?”
When he handed her the dark brown bottle, she hesitated. Despite smelling like a brewery after some guy accidentally spilled his beer on her dress, she hadn’t had a drink all night. She took her job seriously, which meant never drinking when she was on one of Parsons’s networking errands. But she was tired of being the good girl who never got anywhere. She was twenty-one years old, a straight-A student, and the hardest-working intern Pantheon Sports Management had ever seen. For once, she just wanted to relax. “Sure. After the day we’ve had, why not?”
He popped the cap off his beer and tossed it into the corner of the landing, then took a long sip.
She copied his movement, wrapping her hand around the top and twisting. “Ouch!” The metallic edges dug into her palm, leaving a harsh red imprint.
“Let me.” He leaned over, covered her hand holding the bottle with his, and popped the cap off like it was nothing.
“Thanks,” she muttered, cheeks burning as his hand lingered over hers. The dual sensation of cold glass and his warm skin made her whole body tingle.
With a sly grin, he slid his hand away, no doubt completely aware of the effect he had on her. “If it makes you feel better, I’m super claustrophobic.”
“Really? Or is that just a feeble attempt to cuddle up to me?”
He winked, and she rolled her eyes. “What? I’m a man who likes to take advantage of a good opportunity. And from the way you keep biting your lip, I can tell you’re thinking about it, too.”
Her hand flew to her mouth.
He punched her lightly in the shoulder, like she was one of his jock buddies. “I’m just messing with you. So are you in a terrible mood because the party sucks, or is it just my company making you miserable?”
“I can’t say I’m happy to be stuck with the guy who saw me fixing my bra, but I can’t really blame you for that. Bad timing.”
“For the record, I disagree. That was miraculous timing.”
Thank god the lighting was dim, because she could feel a flush creeping up her neck. “Anyway, I’m sure the party will be fine if you’re actually here to party.”
“What other reason is there to be at a party?”
She took a sip of beer. She hated IPAs, but the hoppy, malty flavor was less bitter on her tongue than anything else she’d had to deal with tonight. “Work.”
He raised his eyebrows with shock. “Uh, no offense, but you don’t really seem friendly enough to be a prostitute.”
She couldn’t stop the high-pitched laugh from bursting out of her chest. “I’m not a prostitute, I’m a sports agent. Or, at least I will be. Right now I’m just an intern.”
His grin returned. “That makes more sense. But I wouldn’t have pegged you for an agent.”
“Why’s that?”
“You’re a woman.”
“Really? I hadn’t noticed,” she said sarcastically.
“Well, you could always unzip your dress again if we need further proof,” he responded with mock seriousness.
The half-bottle of beer she’d drunk must have already gone to her head, because she was starting to find his incessant flirting and cocky attitude more charming than annoying. Somewhere along the way, the tension had eased from her shoulders, and the millions of thoughts roaring in her mind faded to a dull whisper. “I’ll pass.”
“I’m Nick, by the way.” The smile he gave her was genuine, and made him look even more devastatingly handsome.
“Jillian Nichols, currently with Pantheon Sports Management,” she added drily.
“So, Jillian, why do you want to be a bloodsucking leech when you grow up?”
Taking a page from his book, she punched him in the shoulder.
“Ouch, you’ve got muscles there, Nichols.”
“No, I don’t. See?” She flexed her pathetically thin bicep. “I literally hit you as hard as I could. It doesn’t matter how many weights I lift, or even if I eat a crate full of steroids. I cannot put on a single pound of muscle no matter how hard I try. I also can’t throw a ball of any shape or size without tripping over my own feet, and I’ve been cut from every team I’ve ever tried out for.”
He laughed. “That’s the strangest thing I’ve ever heard a woman brag about.”
“I’m not bragging. I’m explaining why I want to be an agent. I suck at sports, but I love them and want to be involved in some way. I’m also smart and know how to get what I want. Distractions can make or break an elite athlete. How can someone focus one hundred and ten percent on their training when they’re worried about a contract dispute or whether they’re getting traded next year? Athletes need someone to look out for them, make sure they’re not getting worked over by the real leeches out there. Being an agent means I can stay involved with the sports I love and make a real difference for the athletes who need someone on their side.”
She quickly knocked back the rest of her beer to mask her embarrassment. She’d been rambling on like a Miss America contestant. Where did that even come from? She wasn’t the type to share her life story with strangers.
“So you want to help people. That’s cool,” he said with what seemed to be genuine sincerity. She had a pretty good bullshit meter, but she’d known Nick for less than ten minutes. She couldn’t help but be suspicious of a guy who went from jerk to Prince Charming that quickly.
She shrugged.
“All right, tell me how you’d help Dean Sanderson.”
“The Toronto right wing? He hasn’t lived up to his potential at all.” Every nerve in her body seemed to electrify with his question. He was challenging her, but she was more than up for it.
“Yeah, but he’s still got some good playing days left.”
“And that’s why I’d try to get him a trade to the lowest-ranked team in the league that’ll take him. He needs a new start. Somewhere he can feel like he’s actually contributing rather than taking up space on the bench.”
He twisted to face her, and narrowed his eyes. “Interesting strategy. And what about Joe Symonds?”
“Forty-one and refuses to retire? There’s no question he’s getting sent down to the minors at the end of this year, so I’d push for a trade with Dallas. From what I can tell, the only thing he cares about is getting on the ice. It doesn’t matter who he’s playing for or what league. Dallas’s farm team is close by, which means he could stay in a big city, which would make his wife and daughters happy, and he could keep playing until his body disintegrates.”
“Impressive. You know your hockey.” He continued to lob questions at her, debating amiably with some of her assertions, until she’d completely lost track of time.
&n
bsp; Eventually, she was yawning too much to answer coherently.
“Am I boring you?” He flashed a cocky grin that suggested he wasn’t all that worried about the possibility she wasn’t enjoying his company.
“No, just tired.” She smiled, realizing she’d been anything but bored. In fact, she’d actually managed to have some fun in spite of the late hour and cold concrete chilling her butt. Nick had surprised her by being easier to talk to than she’d expected. Sweeter, too. She hadn’t experienced this kind of connection with anyone in a long time. That thought triggered an internal alarm in her brain. She was here for work, not pleasure. Unless she wanted Parsons to fire her tomorrow, she’d best remember that.
He shifted closer, letting his knee rest against hers. “Want another beer?”
She shook her head, trying to ignore the wave of heat bursting from the spot where their bodies touched. “We should try knocking again. Maybe someone will hear us.” She stood up and banged on the door.
He was on his feet behind her in less than a second. She didn’t actually hear him stand up, but she could feel the heat of his body radiating behind her, like her body was wired to detect him.
“Your zipper,” he said gruffly. His hand wrapped around her hip, causing her to suck in her breath, while the other slowly pulled the metal tab up to her nape.
“Thanks,” she said breathily.
Instead of letting go, he tightened his hold on her side. It was possessive. Thrilling. “You’ve got freckles all over your shoulders.” His finger ran along her skin, like he was tracing a line between each little brown dot.
“My mom says they’re the devil’s kisses. One for each of my sins.”
“She’s wrong. I think they’re beautiful.” His whispered words caressed the sensitive skin on her neck like a kiss.
She shivered and braced her hands on the metal door. How would it feel to let go of her responsibilities just once and act like a normal twenty-one-year-old? One who remembered that parties were supposed to be fun, not high-stakes business meetings. One who had a seriously dangerous attraction to the guy currently setting her skin on fire.
His hand crept around to her stomach, pulling her closer and making her core feel like a volcano about to explode.
Her resolve shattered under the weight of her desire. She twisted to face him and ran her hands along his chest, emboldened by the hungry look in his eyes. He dipped his head, and her heart fluttered. She wanted to kiss him. Lose herself in him. She pressed up on her toes to close the distance between their lips, anticipation ratcheting in her belly with each disappearing inch of space.
The door behind them swung open, smacking her square in the butt.
“Salinger! You made it!”
She jumped out of Nick’s arms and rubbed her tender butt cheek while he engaged in some sort of secret handshake with the frat boy. Under the weight of her growing embarrassment, the stairwell started to feel uncomfortably small, like the walls were closing in on her. She wanted to push her way through the two burly guys, grab her stuff, and get the hell out of there. But that would mean reminding Nick of her presence. Right now, she kind of appreciated that her almost-make-out partner had already forgotten she existed.
Exhaustion won out over embarrassment. “Excuse me,” she muttered, slipping between the door and the other guy’s arm and heading straight into the heart of the pulsing bass to find Turner.
He was passed out on the floor with an empty bottle of vodka still in his hand. Disappointment mixed with relief in her stomach. Parsons would be pissed, but there was nothing she could do about it now. Time to go home.
She located her coat beneath another girl’s butt on the sofa. The boots, buried beneath a massive pile of footwear near the front door, took a little longer to find. Nick breezed into the apartment just as she found the left one.
“The Punisher’s here!” a random voice yelled.
And that’s when it hit her. The guy she nearly jumped in the stairwell wasn’t just another college jock. He was Nick “the Punisher” Salinger—first-line defenseman for the Minneapolis Warriors and the biggest goon in the NHL. She’d just spent the better part of an hour trapped with a star NHLer, and instead of acting like a professional, she’d turned into a puck bunny. Her desperate urge to leave amplified a hundred times over. She needed to get out of here.
“Hey, Jillian, wait up. I never got to ask for your phone number.”
She froze at the sound of Nick’s voice. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
Another guy stepped in front of her, blocking the exit. “Maybe you should give me your number instead,” he slurred. She tried to push past him, but the guy didn’t move. He seized her upper arm, squeezing so tight she yelped.
“Let her go,” Nick growled.
“Maybe I don’t want to.”
All she saw was Nick’s fist flying toward the guy’s face before all hell broke loose.
2
PRESENT DAY
“I’M SORRY, MR. SALINGER, but I don’t work with losers.”
Jillian Nichols kept her face and body as still as an ice princess in winter, showing no sign of the fact that she’d spent the better part of the last ten minutes wondering if he remembered her and the hour they’d spent trapped together in a dark stairwell. Wondering what his lips would have tasted like if she’d kissed him all those years ago. Doubtful. The only thing he likely remembered from that night was the giant, national-headline-making brawl that nearly cost him his career. Besides, he’d probably had millions of encounters with young, female hockey fans over the years, even if the memory had been burned into her brain for almost a decade.
Nick Salinger’s expression wasn’t angry. Nor did he appear to be stunned that someone had dared to insult his greatness. Instead, he reacted like every other warm-blooded man who’d taken one too many hits to the head.
With an arrogant smirk.
“I’ve won the James Norris trophy four times. I’ve got two Olympic gold medals, one bronze, and when I was seventeen, my high school voted me least likely to succeed in our yearbook. And most likely to get arrested.”
“That’s an interesting set of accolades.” She kept her voice level.
“I’m not only the most successful person to come out of Blades, Minnesota, I’m one of the most successful athletes in the country. And I’ve never been arrested.” He leaned forward and flashed a devilish smile. “At least not for anything that went on my permanent record.”
None of that changed the fact he was bad, bad news. She’d followed his career more closely than she’d like to admit and had come to the conclusion that the sweet side she’d seen in him that night was nothing but a facade. Despite the fact he was one of the most photographed faces in the NHL, he was a brute on and off the ice. That infamous fight was the last straw before Minneapolis dropped him over his bad attitude. The New York Vipers picked him up shortly after, and though he’d been with them for almost a decade, his infamous behavior hadn’t gotten any less volatile. “Am I supposed to be impressed?”
“The point is, you can call me a lot of things, sweetheart, but loser isn’t one of them.” Salinger leaned back in the leather armchair and set one heavy brown boot on the edge of her desk, followed by the other. The cheap, veneer-topped Ikea desk creaked ominously, tilting subtly to the right.
He raised his eyebrow, like the shitty state of her office was some kind of secret joke between the two of them. Most of her work was conducted over the phone or over lattes and kale salads at classy bistros. But since that work had yet to make her a millionaire, she saved money by renting a crumbling, one-room office in a heritage building in New York’s Lower East Side, investing her spare income on a wardrobe of chic-but-serious business suits and don’t-fuck-with-me heels. It wasn’t glamorous, but Nichols Sports Management was hers. Her vision, her methods, her dreams. Just not her decor style.
>
Which was fine because no one ever came to her office. At least not until ten minutes ago when Nick Salinger barged in and demanded she take him on as a client.
And now he was smirking like there was no doubt in his mind she would say yes.
“You represent some decent hockey players in the junior leagues, but none in the NHL. Face it, you need me.”
Jillian’s blood pressure jumped so high, she could feel her pulse pounding in her veins. She grabbed her favorite crystal Eiffel Tower paperweight and rammed the pointy tip into his left calf.
“Argh!”
She allowed the corners of her mouth to twitch upward for the briefest smile when his feet dropped back to the floor with a thud. “I don’t work with assholes, either.” She picked up the contract she’d been frantically working on and tapped it against her desk, straightening the mess of paper into an organized stack.
“Feisty,” he said while rubbing the spot on his leg.
“No. I just don’t have a high tolerance for arrogance and rudeness.”
He leaned forward, dropping his arms against his thighs, causing his gray Henley to stretch tightly across his broad shoulders. “You sure you’re in the right business?”
“You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t think I was,” she answered coolly.
He shrugged a shoulder. “You’re right.”
She nodded, not caring whether he even realized he’d complimented her. The fact was, female sports agents didn’t get a whole lot of compliments or recognition. She’d take praise where she could, intentional or not. Even when it came from an alpha-hole hockey star.
“I’ll admit I’m a jerk, but you don’t have to like me. You work with underdogs, misfits, and the athletes that no other agent has the balls to take on. You thrive on chaos. I’m your perfect client.” He flashed her a smile that brought out the full force of his chiseled jaw.