I tell them what we know—it’s not secret, especially from these two, who are now part of the family. Sort of. JP and Taylor’s relationship is pretty new, but I feel good about them together.
“I could try talking to Aline,” Lacey offers, referring to her mother-in-law. “We’re pretty close.”
I tip my head to one side. “That would be great. If you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind at all. Aline’s a sweetheart and I’d bet my left boob she knows a lot about this whole situation.”
My own relationship with Aline is cordial. She’s on the “other side,” but I have to admit, I do like her.
“Why your left one?” Taylor asks, lips twitching.
“I don’t like my left one as much as my right one.” Lacey grins. “Don’t tell me both your boobs are exactly the same?”
“Okay, no,” Taylor admits.
“What are we even talking about here?” I ask, trying not to laugh. “How did the conversation turn to mismatched boobs?”
“That always happens around Lacey.” Taylor shoots our friend a smirk.
“True. Anyway, yes, thank you for talking to Aline, if you can.” I sigh and drop my gaze to my plate. “It’s hard, thinking that my dad might have stolen their money.”
“Well.” Taylor pauses. “I know he’s your dad and you love him and look up to him, but it’s not a reflection on you.”
“I know. I just don’t get it. My dad has lots of flaws, but he’s not a thief. At least, I never thought he was.”
“Wait until you find out the truth,” Lacey says softly, reaching out to touch my arm. “All the facts. That’s what Théo would advise.”
“Yes, he would.” I smile. “Okay, you guys, who wants to come to the Ariana Grande concert with me? Tickets go on sale next week.”
“I love Ariana Grande! I want to go!” Taylor claps her hands.
“Me too!”
So all three of us plan how we’re going to get tickets to the concert and also plan to get together at Lacey’s place this weekend, since JP will be away on a road trip.
Chapter 4
Wyatt
I like to score.
Off the ice, and on the ice.
But I’m a defenseman. That doesn’t mean I don’t score any goals, however. The year I left Detroit, I had fifteen goals, not bad for a D-man. But I’m known more for my hard-hitting play. I once saw an article online about the top twenty hardest hitters in the NHL, and I was listed at number twelve.
My physical play often sets the tone for a game. I like to throw the body around and I’m fearless when it comes to blocking shots. At six-two, two hundred twenty pounds, I never back down. But I keep it simple and I never take crazy runs at guys.
This means I’m often hurting.
Tonight is no exception. We played against Colorado and in the opening minute of the game I took Sokolov hard into the boards. The crowd went nuts and it energized the team. I’d like to think it helped us win, three–two.
As the loud beat of “Free Heart” by Jordyn Banks pumps through the dressing room after the game (she’s one of our fans and this has become our victory song, even though she’s married to a player for a rival team), a jubilant satisfaction settles in me. It feels good to win.
My left shoulder and hip are throbbing, along with my leg where I took a puck, but that’s okay because we won.
“You’re fucking crazy, Bellsy.” Jimmy shakes his head at me as he takes off his shin pads. “Blocking that Miller shot.”
“I know.” I grin.
“But thanks.”
Late in the game, the Avs got a three-on-two rush against us, and if they’d tied it up, it could be a whole different atmosphere in here right now. I got a pat on the shoulder from Coach for that.
The best place to take a shot is in the shin pad or the pants, or maybe the outside of the skate where there’s more protection. But you can’t always control that, and tonight the puck hit me right below the shin pad and just to the side of the tongue of my skate. My leg went numb right away, so I kept playing. It didn’t seem bad. Now it’s hurting like a motherfucker. Teddy, our head trainer, drags me, hobbling, into the training room. Fuck, putting weight on my leg kills.
Teddy examines first my shoulder and hip, then my lower leg. It’s swelling up and red, but he pokes, and moves my foot around, and he’s sure nothing’s broken. He slaps an ice pack on it and I lay on an exam table for a few minutes, staring at the ceiling, my left leg bent, my right straight out with the ice pack on it.
I don’t mind the pain. I mean, I’m not a masochist. I don’t think I am anyway. I don’t enjoy it. But I do kind of relish it…like I deserve it.
I let my mind wander while I lay there and as often happens lately, it goes to Everly Wynn.
Standing with her in the media room last week, staring at her mouth, breathing in her scent, that spicy, sexy scent I remember so well from my bed New Year’s Eve…damn. She was pissed that I was trying to get out of the banquet. It’s not that I don’t want to participate (although dressing in a tux and serving food to rich fans isn’t high on my list of fav activities), but I can’t tell her what my conflict is.
I don’t talk about Heather and Owen to my friends. I can’t.
But I wish I could tell Everly, so she’d understand and not think I’m an asshole.
Why the hell do I care what she thinks about me? I’ve only ever tried to be an asshole around her. I don’t give a shit what anyone thinks of me.
I wanted to put my hands on her. I wanted to press her back against the wall and kiss the breath out of her. Like we did that night. Kissing her was…I don’t even know the words. Intense. Heart-stopping. Breath stealing. Soul burning.
There’s something about her that makes me crazy.
Dave Martin, our coach, walks by. “How you doing, Wyatt?”
“Good.” I lift my head and give him a thumbs-up.
“We’ve talked about blocking shots.”
“Yeah.”
“That was a good one. But we don’t want you hurt.”
“Me either.” I grin. “I’m okay.”
He nods and continues on.
I like playing for Coach. Last year, when I started playing with the Condors, Joe Daneck was our coach. Nice guy, but out of his depth trying to build a team with the mishmash of players we had. No wonder they kept losing. Then Théo took over managing the team and promoted Dave from assistant coach to head coach, and things are way better. I’m developing an intense loyalty to the guy, as are the other players. He’s smart and knowledgeable, tough and fair. He’s passionate about the game and that rubs off on the rest of us.
My leg feels better with the ice on it. Maybe I can go home now. I don’t mind a little pain, but I don’t want to be injured either. I need to be playing. The thought of sitting around doing nothing for weeks or longer scares the shit out of me. I take a deep breath and push that thought aside.
Thinking of Everly Wynn is stupid, but at least it doesn’t give me a panic attack.
“How are you doing?” Teddy returns after giving some attention to our young new star, Rintala, whose hand got slashed in the third. Luckily, nothing’s broken.
“Good. Can I go now?”
He lifts the ice pack. “Okay. Keep icing it. You know the drill. We’ll look at it again tomorrow.”
Tomorrow’s an optional skate. Guess I’ll be here, but we’ll see about the skating.
I go shower and change. The room’s pretty much cleared out now. Saturday night, lots of guys are heading out on the town. When I check my phone, I have a couple of texts from Jabber and Bergie telling me what club they’re at.
I just want to go home. Take some Advil, prop my leg up, and maybe drink a beer.
I cruise home along Pacific Avenue, through Venice Beach, which is liv
ely at this hour on a Saturday night, and into Marina del Rey, then turn off the dark side street to my place to park in the tiny garage that barely fits my SUV. I enter up the stairs into the mudroom, where I hang my keys, then into the kitchen of my unit. I’d already loosened my tie and unbuttoned the top two buttons of my shirt on the drive home. I head straight to the fridge and grab a cold beer, then limp over to my balcony.
The ocean’s vast and obscure, the sky above it streaky navy and purple clouds, a lifeguard tower pale against the dark gold sand.
Voices carry on the cool night breeze, female voices laughing, low chatter, then I distinctly hear the word “pegging.”
“Whoa. Whoa.” I speak loudly enough for them to hear me on the terrace below. My main floor balcony isn’t at the same level as Théo’s terrace. “I can’t be overhearing shit like that.”
I peer over the railing to see three female faces tipped up to look at me. Lacey, Taylor, and Everly.
Lacey grins. “Nope, you sure can’t.”
“You better take that inside,” I warn them. “I don’t want to know what you and Théo do. He’s my boss.”
She laughs.
“What are you doing outside anyway?” I ask. “It’s cold.”
“Um. We just stepped out for a minute. We’ll go in. Come on down and join us, if you want.”
“Okay. I need to change, though. Just got home.”
I shouldn’t go down there. Everly is there.
Who am I kidding? She’s why I want to go down there.
I strip off my suit as I hobble into the bedroom. I grab a pair of worn jeans draped over the chair in the corner and step into them, and pull a clean, long-sleeved tee from a drawer. Then I pick up my beer, shove my feet into a pair of leather flip-flops, and head next door.
The women are back in the living room, glasses of wine in hand, visibly tipsy.
“Girls’ night?” I ask, taking a seat in an armchair.
“Yes.” Lacey’s cross-legged on the couch. “JP’s on a road trip, and Théo was at the game tonight, so we got together. Are you limping?”
“Yeah.” I shrug. “Took a puck to the ankle. I’m okay.”
“Good game,” Taylor adds. “We had to switch back and forth between the Condors and the Eagles.”
“Did the Eagles win?” I lift my beer to my lips, trying not to look at Everly.
“Yes! Four–nothing. JP got a goal and an assist.”
“If he fought, he had a Gordie Howe hat trick.”
“No fighting.” She shakes her head.
“Thank God,” Everly says.
I grin, now looking at her. Christ. She’s so fucking beautiful. She may be drinking wine and dressed casually in skinny ankle-length jeans and a loose sweater, but she still looks perfectly put together, her dark hair all shiny with long bangs in a sexy swoop across her eyes, her lips a pale pink. “Are we going to debate fighting in hockey again?”
“Let’s not go there,” she says with a wry smile. “I think we covered that one.”
“Well, we’re sure as hell not going to discuss pegging.”
I watch in amusement as all three women turn red and don’t meet my eyes.
“Was it blocking that shot near the end of the game when you got hurt?” Lacey asks.
“Yeah. It hurts, but I’ll be okay.” I grimace. “Thought it was going higher.”
“That’s crazy,” Taylor says. “Why do you do that?”
“To stop the other team from scoring,” Everly answers. She eyes me. “But it is crazy.”
I shrug. “Just doing my job.”
“Have you talked to Théo about that?”
“Uh, no.” I don’t talk business with Théo when I see him, if I can help it. It’s a little weird living in the same building as the man who controls your career. “He doesn’t come down to the dressing room much, and usually not to discuss blocking shots.”
“Well.” She smiles. “He’d tell you that teams that block the most shots don’t win the most games. He has numbers and everything.”
“Of course he does.” Lacey smiles.
“He also has numbers about how many shots from the point actually go in the net, which leads to the question: is blocking a point shot actually worth it?”
I stare at her. Jesus.
“Also, just because a defenseman blocks a lot of shots doesn’t make him a good D-man.”
“Ouch.” I rub my chin. “Shot received.”
“I wasn’t talking about you specifically,” she adds.
“Really.” I lift an eyebrow.
“Some players have to block a lot of shots because they keep getting caught in their own end.”
“True.” I’m trying not to get defensive, even though she’s pushing buttons.
If she were a guy, I’d tell her to fuck off. But I can’t do that, and it strikes me at that moment how weird it is to be having this discussion with a woman. Not that women can’t know hockey—hey, I’m not that sexist! But you gotta admit, Everly is at an elite level.
As a Wynn, she probably came out of the womb spouting plus-minus stats.
“You could just get out of the way,” she says. “That wouldn’t make you less of a man.”
Heat slides through my veins and my fingers tighten around my beer. “I don’t do it to prove my manhood,” I grate out.
“Sure.” She smiles gently.
Christ. I want to turn her over my lap and spank that cute little ass and then flip her over and kiss that smart mouth until she’s moaning, not goading me. I feel a tug of desire in my groin.
Théo arrives home at that moment, providing a distraction as Lacey gets up to greet him with a heated kiss. “Hey, babe.” He grabs her ass and squeezes, right in front of all of us.
I bow my head to hide my smile
“Nice win,” she says to him, as if he played.
“Yeah.” His gaze lands on me over his wife’s shoulder. “Hey, Wyatt. Good game tonight.”
“Thanks.”
“The way you knocked the puck off Price’s stick in that breakaway was stellar.”
My chest puffs a little. “Thank you.”
Théo releases Lacey and disappears, returning a moment later with a beer. He takes off his suit jacket and slings it over the back of a chair and sits.
“We were talking about the shot he blocked,” Everly tells Théo.
“Yeah, another good move.”
“Tell us your honest opinion about blocking shots,” Everly says with a smirk.
Théo smiles wryly and glances at me. As the general manager of the team, he keeps his opinions about a lot of things to himself. He needs to because the league is so political. “Well.” He takes a gulp of his beer. “I can tell you that unblocked shot-attempts from the right or left points have a two percent shooting percentage. For shots from the point near the middle of the ice, it’s three percent.”
Everly nods while Lacey and Taylor look at Théo as if he were speaking Klingon. Man, this woman really does it for me.
“Yeah,” I drawl. “When you look at shooting percentages and the risk of screening the goalie, you have to consider if it’s worth it to step in front of a point shot.”
Everly swivels her gaze back to me. “I just said that!”
I shrug. “You weren’t wrong.”
She looks like she wants to jump up off the couch and come punch me. “You were just arguing in favor of blocking shots!”
I grin and lift my beer at her. “I wasn’t arguing. You were the one who was making blocking shots about manhood. It’s not about feelings. It’s about facts.”
She glares at me. Because I’m right.
“I don’t block every point shot,” I continue. “I make the best decision I can in a split second.”
“Is saving a
goal worth losing one of our best defensive players, possibly for months, due to injury?” Théo waves his beer.
“Is it?” Everly challenges.
“It depends.” Théo smirks again.
Everly sighs.
“In the dying minutes of a must-win playoff game, I’ll block that shot every time,” I say.
Théo nods.
“But in a different game, if I decide not to, it’s not because I’m a coward.” I meet her eyes. Our gazes lock and hold, and damn, heat slides down my spine. “And you don’t believe that either.”
Her lips twitch and she tosses her hair back. “Maybe not.”
Damn. Adrenaline surges through my veins, excitement fizzing inside me.
I catch the glances being exchanged among the others. What the hell is that about?
“I need more wine!” Lacey bounces up from the couch.
“Me too.” Taylor rises as well.
“I’m okay,” Everly says.
But when Théo follows the other two women to the kitchen, Everly and I are alone. We eye each other.
“Did you figure things out for the banquet?” she asks.
“I’m working on it.” I’ve already rescheduled the party. I’ll be at the banquet, but I’ll be late. I’ll let her know that…at some point. “So, princess, where’re you sleeping tonight?”
Her elegant eyebrows arch. “Princess?”
“Princess Wynn?”
Her lips thin. “Oh right. Look, I’m no princess.”
“Your dad’s the king of hockey. That makes you a princess.”
“Right.” She rolls her eyes. “And I’m sleeping here.”
“My bed’s available if you need it.”
“I don’t think I’ll get dumped for a man this time, since JP’s in Detroit.”
“So you’re sleeping with Taylor.”
“You make it sound dirty.”
“Nope. Sounds fun to me.”
“Oh my God.”
I laugh. “What’s wrong with a threesome?”
“There’d be nothing wrong with it, if it was two men.”
Whoa. “I’m not into dudes, but I’ll try anything once.”
She bursts out laughing. “Geez, I thought that would turn you off.”
Win Big Page 4