by Chloe Liese
I roll onto my back and grin at her, feeling mildly vindictive about the half-naked, handsy Italian yoga instructor. Couldn’t be some crunchy, maternal type. No. Had to be a guy who looks like he’s a cover model on some cologne ad and who speaks her language. Literally.
It might be nice to see her squirm a bit. “What do you say, Frankie? Let’s do it.”
Frankie glares at me. Clenching her jaw, she turns and grimaces at Fabi. “Fine.”
“Eccellente!” He claps his hands.
Frankie’s scowling at me but I just give her a wider grin. There’s my grump I love to needle with a smile.
“Camel pose. Ustrasana,” he says. Frankie and I kneel at his direction, knees touching. Then, gripping each other’s forearms, we lean up and away into the pose. Our groins fuse with the position—my pelvis pressed into the soft hollow between her hips. Frankie’s breath hitches as I bite my cheek to stifle a groan. This is torture. I was half-mast when I woke up, but now there’s nothing remotely “half” about what’s inside my sweatpants.
“Breathe into the pose. Hearts open, chests to the sky,” Fabrizio says, before he steps away for his water.
All I can feel is Frankie. The warmth of her thighs and the welcoming give between her hip bones that my aching body fits perfectly. She shifts, a deliberate movement. A decadent swirl of her hips.
Sweet Jesus.
I try picturing that one time I walked in on Freya and Aiden making out when they were first dating—like really making out—because there is nothing more revolting than seeing your sister with her tongue down a guy’s throat, but not even that quells the heat surging through me. I’m a slave to the pound of my pulse, the urgent need to be closer to Frankie, deep inside her, connected.
“Francesca,” I warn.
She cracks open one eye and smirks at me. “You got yourself into this mess, Søren. Before you accepted a couple’s pose you might have considered we’d be pretzel-ing each other’s intimate bits.”
I hiss when she does another shimmy. That’s it.
Gripping her forearms, I tilt my pelvis even deeper, sliding myself against the warmth between her thighs. Her eyes widen as she makes a tiny muffled noise.
“How ya doing, there, fresterska?”
“What did you call me?” she squeaks.
“You’re not the only one who speaks another language.” I roll my hips against hers and feel her nails dig into my forearm.
“Good.” Fabrizio comes back. “You have beautiful energy together.”
This guy’s senses must be dulled by all the patchouli he’s bathed in. There’s nothing beautiful about this. It’s pure, sexual, vindictive frustration.
“Now we end with one more pose that brings you together,” he says.
After releasing each other’s arms, we follow his direction to spin away and sit, back to back. My rotation involves a subtle adjustment in my sweatpants after that camel posing nonsense.
“Spinal twist.” Fabrizio leans over us, drawing us upright until our backs are flush against the other’s. I feel Frankie’s vertebrae, the poke of her shoulder blades, and catch the faintest wisp of her orchid perfume mingled with tantalizing sweat. “Now, both to your right. Your hand to the other’s leg, and lean into it, lengthening your spine.”
Frankie’s hand sits high and firm across my thigh. Mine grips above her knee, since my lumbar isn’t quite as flexible. It’s quiet but for our breathing.
“Ujjayi breath,” he says softly. “In through your nose, and out, like the waves beyond us.”
Our deep breaths sync, the rise and fall of our backs in tandem.
“At last.” Fabi sighs happily. “Peace is restored.”
13
Frankie
Playlist: “The Calculation,” Regina Spektor
“So.” Ren slides the milk my way along with a small crock of sugar. “Fabrizio, eh?”
I dump a heaping spoonful of sugar into my mug and stir, glowering at Ren. The empty ache between my thighs is entirely his fault. I haven’t been this sexually frustrated since I hit puberty. I know I shouldn’t have kissed him last night. I let my heart get carried away by his swoony sweetness, and I kissed him for it.
But I expressed regret. I made it clear it was an oopsie.
Why, then, did he have to get all flirtatious and corner us into doing tantric yoga this morning? Now I have to suffer his absurdly sexual presence all day, walking around with the lady version of blue balls. Just fucking great.
I take a slow breath that does nothing to cool me off, then sip my coffee. “I chose Fabi because I get to keep up on my Italian and stay limber.”
Ren mutters something into his coffee.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.” He sets down his mug and gives me a look I can’t read. “Want some breakfast?”
“What’s on the menu?”
Ren backtracks to the fridge. I make a valiant but largely unsuccessful attempt not to stare at all the muscles made obvious by his sweat-soaked shirt stuck to his body. “Egg whites. Berries. Turkey bacon.”
“Yuck.”
He grins over his shoulder. “Welcome to hockey season diet, Francesca.”
“Don’t you need carbs? Little bit of fat? You burn insane calories playing.”
“I do.” He closes the fridge door with his hip, arms brimming with ingredients. “But they have to be the right ones. I make smoothies for that.”
Dumping his armful on the counter, he then begins chopping veggies. “I promise, it’s a surprisingly good omelet. I’ll add some cheese for you. We won’t tell Lars.”
I nab a freshly chopped piece of green pepper and crunch on it. Lars is the team dietician and wellness coach. “He’d kill me if he knew how I was influencing you. What do you think Lars eats? Besides wheatgrass smoothies. I think he has one percent body fat.”
“No clue. But I’d bet the minivan he hasn’t had a burger in a decade.” Ren tosses the onions and peppers into a pan that holds the tiniest drop of olive oil known to man. “It would explain why he’s so grumpy all the time.”
“Now, let’s not judge the grumps of the world. We have our reasons.”
Ren glances up and sets down his knife. “You’re not grumpy, Frankie. You’re just…”
I bite back a smile and steal a piece of cheddar. “I’m grumpy.”
“You’re serious.”
“You’re sweet, Zenzero. But I’m grumpy. It’s in everyone’s best interest. Keeps the boys in line and afraid of my hexes.”
Ren grins to himself while he lets the omelet bubble in the pan and blends us a berry smoothie. We eat quickly and in quiet, stealing spare glances while Pazza weaves between us, scarfing down whatever we drop.
When I take my last bite, Ren asks, “So. What’s the verdict on the egg-white omelet?”
I drop my fork and pat my belly. “Delicious. Saved by the cheddar.”
“Yeah.” He sweeps up my plate and stacks it onto his. “The cheese makes it edible. Otherwise it really does taste like cardboard.”
Sliding off my barstool, I take the last sip of my smoothie and set down the glass. “Thanks again for breakfast, Zenzero. Leave those dishes and I can do them after my shower?” My body’s stiff. I need a hot shower before I try to do something as dexterous as dishes this early. If I tried now, I’d end up dropping and cracking everything I tried to hold.
He waves his hand. “Takes two seconds. And you’re my guest.”
“Well, then at least let me whip up something good for breakfast tomorrow. I make a mean microwaved breakfast sandwich.”
With his laugh still echoing in the kitchen, I head for my guest room and hit the shower. I turn the water hot, letting it soothe my joints which limbered up at yoga but then slowly stiffened as my body cooled. Once I’m out of the shower, I wrap myself in a towel, then throw my hair up in another towel to make a turban. I do my routine—moisturizer, under-eye concealer, a little loose powder so I’m not shiny. Gabby used to try to cover m
e in makeup, but any more than this and I feel like I’m wearing a mask.
I wear enough masks as it is.
I’m just capping my vanilla lip balm when I hear Ren’s front door open and shut. Pazza’s in my room and starts barking like crazy. Unease prickles my skin.
“Ren?” I call.
No answer. Pulling open the bathroom door, I call Ren’s name again. Nothing.
Except for a faint rustling noise in the kitchen. Now I’m more curious than anything. Is Ren out of the shower already? Maybe he grabbed the newspaper. That would be why I heard the front door. It’s not like people break into multimillion-dollar beachfront homes, slam the door behind them, and raid the kitchen.
Burglars raided your pantry.
Shit. They did, didn’t they?
I have an overactive imagination. It’s fed my anxiety many years now, but with counseling, I’ve learned to coach it, to help myself focus on rational explanations and calm the nervous, irrational beast inside. And, ya know, weed helps. But there’s no weed in my system currently, only logical thought telling me everything is most likely fine.
Slowly, I walk toward the kitchen. When I clear the hallway and have a good view, no one’s there. But then I realize the refrigerator’s open.
Suddenly, a man pops up. I let out a bloodcurdling scream and stumble back into the hallway wall.
“Frankie!” Ren yells from deep in the house. I hear a door banging open, the pound of his footsteps.
The man grins at me as he shuts the fridge with his butt and shines an apple on his shirt. Which makes him seem much less threatening. Unless he’s one of those smiling serial killers. Who eats a healthy snack first.
My terror starts to fade when I realize I recognize his eyes. They’re Ren’s eyes. Ren’s cheekbones, his long nose, without the bump from being broken. This must be—
“Frankie.” Ren collides with me, pulls me against his body, and spins so I’m shielded from the man. Glancing up, he locks eyes with the guy and mutters something that sounds remarkably close to fustilarian.
Exhaling heavily, Ren peers down at me. “Okay. You’re okay.” A gentle hug and I’m pulled closer. “It’s just my brother. Are you all right?”
I nod. “I’m sorry I freaked. I heard someone come in, and I called you, and you didn’t answer, so I went to see who it was, and he just popped up like a jack-in-the-box from the refrigerator, and I lost it.”
His brother leans a hip against the counter. Crunching on the apple, he speaks around his bite. “Ren seems to have lost his manners, but then again I’d be a little addled too, if I had someone like you in my arms with only a towel between us.”
Ren and I gulp simultaneously. I realize now that he’s bare-chested, a towel slung low on his hips. Mine is knotted above my breasts, but all our movements have loosened it considerably.
“I’m Viggo,” he says.
Ren doesn’t seem to care about an introduction. “What are you doing here?” he asks sharply.
Viggo smiles and swallows his bite. “I brought the baked goods for your next Club meeting.”
“Baked goods?” I ask.
“Yes, ma’am,” Viggo says, “I’m a self-taught pastry chef.”
“He’s also enrolled in carpentry school,” Ren adds, “learning everything there is to know about bikes, and has taken up the fiddle. He has issues with commitment—”
“Attention,” Viggo corrects him on a wide grin and a wink.
Ren sighs heavily, and his hand skates over my back as he stares at his brother. I don’t even think he realizes he’s doing it, soothing me with his touch. “Baking is one of his many hobbies that I made the mistake of supporting.” Ren glares at him. “You know damn well it’s not tonight. I have a playoff game. Not that any of the Bergmans can be bothered with hockey.”
Shrugging, Viggo crunches his apple. “Oops.”
Suddenly, I feel fabric shifting. A squeak sneaks out of me as the towel slips past my breasts.
“Ren!” I yelp.
He spins, so his back is to Viggo again. I’m shielded with the towel pinned between us. “I’ve got you. Your virtue’s preserved.”
I snort in laughter. “My virtue. I lost my virtue in tenth grade, Zenzero.” A blush heats his cheeks. “But thank you. I didn’t want your brother seeing me naked.”
At the worst possible time, my hip gives out, and I wobble in his arms. Ren catches me, then tugs me closer, but not before the towel slips lower and now—
Ren’s eyes widen. My bare breasts smash against his chest. And for the second, but definitely most prominent, time I’m feeling… “Ren,” I whisper hoarsely. “Is that your—”
“Yes.”
“Poking my—”
“Yes.” He clears his throat. “And he’s very sorry for being so assertive.”
I felt the promising outline of it during yoga this morning, but now it’s confirmed. The man is ginormous.
“It’s okay,” I tell him, trying to be calm about this. “It’s…it’s just a bodily response. It’s not your fault but, holy shit—”
“You okay over there?” Viggo calls. Another crunch of his apple.
“When I’m out of this pickle,” Ren mutters. “I’m going to ram one of those apples straight down his throat.” He glances down at me. “I am so sorry about this.”
“I’m the one who’s sorry. It’s all me and my bum leg’s fault—”
“No, it’s not, Frankie.” He gives me a gentle squeeze that I think is supposed to reassure me but ends up just pressing all our nakedness together. I’m trying not to respond myself, but my nipples are rocks against his chest, my throat and cheeks burning with a flush. A warm, needy ache between my legs makes me feel even more unsteady.
“I have a plan,” Ren says. “I’ll just walk you backward, down the hall, and then you’ll be out of Viggo’s sightline. I’ll close my eyes and you can get to your room in privacy.”
“Okay.” I nod. “Good idea.”
Slowly, we start walking in step toward my room. Ren moves steadily, leading with a nudge of his knees that I follow as I take careful steps backwards.
He peers down at me, trying very valiantly not to look below my chin, at my bare breasts pressed against his chest. It’s his crowning feat of chivalry. Me, on the other hand, I’m shameless. I can’t stop fixating on how my nipples tighten, how they scrape across the soft dusting of hairs on his solid chest. I feel the hard planes of his pecs, the heat of his skin.
“It’s like we’re dancing.” I stare up at him, trying to distract myself. “I bet you’re a good dancer.”
Ren grins. “Why do you think that?”
“How you’re moving now. How graceful you are on the ice.”
His grin broadens. “Thanks, Frankie.”
“You’re wel—”
We freeze as Ren’s towel loosens between us. Before either of us can reach and save it, the towel drifts down, followed by mine, fluttering past our thighs.
Ren curses under his breath, holding me even closer, trying to pin the fabric somewhere around our knees.
I stare at him, wide-eyed with shock. “Did you just say carbuncles?”
“No.” He grimaces. “Maybe—”
Before Ren can say another word, I gasp as our towels drop completely. We’re naked, front to front. Ren opens his mouth, as if to say something, when a low whistle interrupts him.
“Man, brother,” Viggo says around a bite of apple. “I need whatever workout you’re doing. Those. Glutes.”
Ren’s eyes drift shut. I’ve seen that look only after Maddox does something particularly asinine. That’s Ren’s Give-me-grace-Jesus-I’m-trying-not-to beat-the-shit-out-of-somebody face. “Get. Out. Viggo.”
Peering past Ren’s shoulder, I see Viggo smirk. “I kinda want to stick around and see how this plays out.”
“Frankie,” Ren says, deathly quiet.
“Hm?”
“I’m going to pick you up, but hold you close so he can’t see you. I�
��ll keep my eyes straight ahead and then set you in your room.”
I nod. “Okay. Good plan.”
“And then once I set you down, I’m going to murder my brother.”
I usually hover in the corner with the other in-house PR and media folks during press conferences. Press conferences aren’t my responsibility, but they affect my work. To do my job well, I need to keep track of everything that’s going on with the team, so watching press conferences unfold live is imperative.
Rob, Ren, Tyler, and Coach sit up at the table, cameras flashing on them. They’re all in their suits, but unlike Rob and Tyler, Ren’s hair isn’t wet and curled up at the edge of his collar like normal. His cheeks aren’t flushed from the cold air and sixty minutes of hockey. He wasn’t allowed the play again with his concussion and his healing shoulder which doesn’t seem to bother him much now, but Amy said shouldn’t weather contact sports yet.
“Why is Ren up there?” I ask out of the side of my mouth to Nicole, our press coordinator.
She glances over at me, arms folded across her chest. “Why wouldn’t he be? He’s alternate captain. He’s also a media darling. They love him.”
“He didn’t play.”
“And he’ll be explaining how soon that’s going to change.”
Rob finishes answering a question when one of the guys in the bullpen calls out, “Ren, there are multiple photos circulating from yesterday and today showing you alone with the team’s social media coordinator, Frankie Zeferino. Can you speak to the rumors that you two are together?”
The world freezes with a resounding record scratch. Well, that’s what happens inside my head.
Ren’s usually a pro at press conferences, but this is new territory for him. Ren never gets photographed with a woman, never gets asked about evidence of a love interest, because there have never been any. I’ve seen Ren blush a lot the last couple of days. I’ve seen him trip over his words and scramble for the right thing to say. I’m prepared for this to turn astronomically bad.
But instead Ren blinks those pale cat eyes and leans on his elbows, close to the microphone. “Who I do or don’t spend time with outside the rink has nothing to do with my professional performance, which is the focus of this press conference. While we’re on that subject, I’ll be returning for Thursday’s game. Next.”