Chapter 7
WESTON
After New Year’s dawns, I wait until two a.m. to walk Abbi up the hill to her apartment. Protection isn’t even the point, though. Abbi could probably figure out how to avoid being alone with him.
Intimidation is the purpose of my involvement. When we walk outside together after her shift, I put a protective arm around her, and made sure to time our exit so that Price is standing right outside.
“Hey, remember me?” I ask him, stopping to make my point.
“Nah,” the oaf says, scowling.
“Yeah, I bet you’d rather forget.” I give him a Mr. Smooth smile. “My offer still stands, though. Bother her, and you’re signing yourself up for a dental bill much higher than whatever they’re paying you to stand here and watch the door. It’s your call.”
Abbi thanks me profusely, of course. “It’s ridiculous that you had to do that. But Price and subtlety don’t mix.”
“I got that impression.”
When I leave her on her doorstep again, we share an awkward goodbye, wishing each other Happy New Year, before I turn and go.
I never meant to be Abbi’s fake boyfriend for longer than it takes to eat a turkey dinner. But as long as Price is working weekends at the Biscuit, I consider it my sacred duty to keep up the charade.
And I have to say—it’s not a bad life. Over the next few weeks, we have lots of late night talks as I walk her home. She brings me free wings on the regular. And then there are our lengthy text conversations about hockey, wing flavors, and school.
Honestly, if we could just have sex, all my needs would be met. She’s basically perfect.
Abbi keeps telling me that I shouldn’t bother. That he isn’t threatening enough to warrant all this extra attention. But I don’t trust Price, so I keep up the vigil. Some nights I arrive late, have a single beer, and do some homework at the bar while Abbi finishes up her shift.
I like it here. The music is good. And even though my teammates have already gone home for the night, I’m pleasantly tipsy, nursing my last beer, and reading a short story for my English class on my phone.
“You really don’t have to do this,” Abbi says as she swings by to grab Tate’s abandoned beer glass off of table seventeen. She says it a lot, actually. “I can leave with Carly, or sneak out the back while he’s escorting someone else to her car.”
“Hey, I know,” I say with a shrug. “But I like the Biscuit, and it’s easier to read a chapter of econ when there aren’t hockey players calling me to watch a game on TV. This is like the library for me. But with excellent beer.”
And, fine, I’m hung up on Abbi. I’m man enough to admit it. So where else would I rather be?
She gives me a sweet smile, and a confused shake of her adorable head. And then she runs off to wipe down another table.
This is my life right now, and I’ve accepted it. Away games are a problem, though. Two weekends a month I’m on a bus with the team, playing U Mass or Maine.
Luckily, I have friends on the women’s hockey team. Women love me almost as much as I love women. So it was really no problem to ask my friend Chrissy to have a drink at the bar until Abbi got off shift last weekend, and then walk out with her.
You really didn’t have to send a friend to babysit me! came Abbi’s text the next morning. I’m a big girl. I can look after myself.
I know that, I’d quickly replied. But a good fake boyfriend looks after his fake girlfriend even when he’s busy making U Conn cry.
Nice win, by the way. Your fake girlfriend was super proud. That assist in the third period was extra sexy.
Thank you, baby!
See? We have the best relationship on campus. We have great chemistry. We’re mutually supportive of one another.
Except I haven’t been this horny since ninth grade, when Joey Birnbaum showed me how to find porn on my phone. And, sure, I could have hooked up after my last win. The female hockey fans in Maine appreciate Mr. Smooth almost as much as the ones in Vermont.
But it just wouldn’t feel right, you know? Maybe I really should consider a career in Hollywood. I’m better at this acting thing than I’d thought. I’ve gone and convinced myself that Abbi and I are soulmates. I can’t cheat on my soulmate.
Fifteen minutes later, she’s finally ready to go. She arrives at my elbow, her apron and visor missing. She’s touched up her lipstick, too, and now I’m staring at her mouth again, the way a puppy eyes the burger on your plate. Hungrily.
“All right,” she says, one hand on her hip. “Let’s get on with this charade. Although I’m sure he’s got the message by now.”
“What charade?” a gruff voice barks at close range.
I look up to see Price standing right behind her. Fuck. “Nobody’s talking to you, are they?”
“Asshole,” Price growls. “You and this stuck up bitch can have each other. I wouldn’t want your sloppy seconds anyway. She and her mom were just trailer trash, anyway.”
At the mention of her mom, pain flashes in Abbi’s eyes.
“Hey, fucknuts,” I growl, my blood suddenly pounding in my ears. “Now you’ve really done it. Take this outside?”
“No,” Abbi gasps, her hand shooting out to grasp my wrist. “Don’t get into trouble over him. He’s not worth it.”
Price makes a low chuckle. “Please. Make my day.”
I really want to. I could flatten him in seconds. I’m sure of it. But Abbi is begging me with her eyes not to.
Shit. It would feel great to deck him. But I know his type. He’ll call the cops and press charges for assault. Coach will lose his mind. I can hear the shouting already.
None of that matters, though. Only the look on Abbi’s face right now. It’s pleading with me for patience. If I hit Price, I’ll make her life more difficult in other ways.
“Okay,” I say softly. “Okay, honey.”
Now, the trouble with being a great actor is that sometimes you lose yourself in your work. That must be why I lean forward and give Abbi a very gentle kiss on the lips. It’s a kiss that says: your big strong boyfriend listens to you.
At least it was supposed to say that. But the moment our lips touch, something snaps. I’m not the fake boyfriend anymore. I’m not even Mr. Smooth. I’ve gone past that and straight on to Mr. Sexy Beast.
And Mr. Sexy Beast is famished. His kiss is firm and full of questions. Isn’t this nice? Can I have a taste? Why haven’t we done this before?
At first, Abbi goes still with surprise. But she gets over her shock in a heartbeat. Two hands quickly grip my jacket. Then she stands up on tiptoes to improve our connection.
I tilt my head and tease the seam of her lips with my tongue. Everything is bliss as Abbi lets out a little moan of longing.
But the sound seems to wake her up. Her eyes fly open again, and she takes a quick step backward. “Wow, I…” She takes a deep breath.
And then we both say “Sorry,” at the same time.
Yup. It’s awkward.
I look around and see a scowling Price on the far side of the room. He’s offering another waitress a walk to her car. And she’s turning him down.
Price is an honest to God predator. And I can’t forget that Abbi only asked for protection from him. She didn’t ask for my tongue in her mouth.
Right. Okay. I grab my backpack off the back of the bar stool and gesture for Abbi to precede me out of the Biscuit.
I have got to get a hold of myself. Abbi is a friend who asked for my help. The least I could do is not maul her like Price.
We walk away from the restaurant and head up the hill toward Abbi’s place in silence. I hope I haven’t totally fucked things up between us. But I’m not sure how to ask. And we arrive at the creaky front steps of her Victorian building before I work it out.
“So…” she clears her throat as we climb the steps. I always walk her all the way to the door.
“So.” I sigh. “Back there, that was…”
“Really great,” she says q
uickly. “Just putting that out there.”
Dude, Mr. Smooth whispers into my ear. You got this.
“It was, right?” I smile at her. “And you know what?”
“What?” she squeaks, looking up at me with hope in her eyes.
“The truth is that I’m not a very good actor. Never have been. I'm only convincing when I’m really excited about the role.”
“Is that so?”
I don’t even answer the question. I take Abbi in my arms instead. And I stare down into her grey eyes as I take her mouth in a firm kiss. She melts against me. Finally. This kiss is 100% real. It’s the one we’ve needed since Thanksgiving. Since forever.
Mr. Smooth is nowhere to be found, either. I don’t feel smooth when Abbi’s around. There’s only the bumbling idiot who needs her so badly. And the Sexy Beast who takes over when he gets the chance.
And now is his chance. I wrap an arm around Abbi’s waist and pull her tightly to my body. Her bag goes thunk onto the porch, and her hands grip my jacket.
“Abbi,” I say between kisses. “Come home with me.”
“No,” she says, and I almost weep with disappointment. But then she says, “My place is closer.”
Yaaaaaas!
And then we’re in motion. I reach down and grab her bag, while she whips a hand inside, fishing for her keys, hurrying to open the outer door, and then the door to her unit. The moment I hear the click of the lock, I lean down and sweep her up into my arms again.
She lets out a little shriek of surprise as her feet leave the floor. “What are you doing?”
“I’m going to carry you to bed. I’ve needed to kiss you for a long time. And I can’t take the chance that we get interrupted again.”
She wraps her legs around me. “Good call. Kick the door shut.”
"No more acting, honey,” I carry her inside. “I’m handing over my Academy Award. Now I’m going to have to win awards for other things I’m good at.”
“Like what?” she breathes, kissing me.
“Let me show you.”
And then I do. It takes all night.
* * *
THE END
* * *
Need more from the Moo U hockey team? Read all eight in 2021! Get the latest news at hearteyespress.com/moo-u-hockey
The Detour
K. Bromberg
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2020 by K. Bromberg
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by JKB Publishing, LLC
* * *
ISBN: 978-1-942832-31-7
* * *
Editing by Missy Borucki
Printed in the United States of America
Chapter 1
Harley
“Why are Dasher and Dancer always taking coffee breaks?” the radio disc jockey asks as I lower my head and squint as if the action will allow me to see through the darkened, snow-filled night just beyond the hood of my car. “Because they are star bucks.”
His laugh echoes out of the speakers while I roll my eyes so hard that it’s unsafe because they’re off this godforsaken road for way too long.
“Not funny,” I mutter.
“It’s funny. Come on. You know it is,” his smooth voice says to everyone listening but makes me feel like he's talking to me directly.
“No, it’s not funny, Bob. It’s cheesy. Just like this damn holiday is. Too much cheer. Too much stress. Too much damn everything.” I glance over my shoulder as some jerk flies past me at about forty miles per hour as if he’s impervious to the road conditions.
“How can you not like Christmas? The laughter. The love. The baked goods and the few extra pounds they add to help you keep warm in the cold. Being around those you love and the selfless act of giving.”
“Sounds like a load of crap to me,” I mumble.
“Can you believe it’s in five days? The big countdown is on. Before I start this next set of holiday favorites, what is your one wish this season? To visit a long-lost family member? To spread cheer to those who are doing without?”
“How about finding my writing muse again and if it’s not too much to ask, have some hair pulling, back scratching, toe-curling sex while I’m at it to help cement that muse in my head, huh? Can you guarantee that for me, Bob?” I say out loud, his name coming out as if it’s a slur. “That would really add some cheer to what’s been a shitty year.”
Because isn’t that what it boils down to? And by it, I mean my current, more than crappy state of mind.
It’s been a month since I walked in on my boyfriend screwing someone else. Someone named Gary.
I’d been putting up with my ex’s mediocre bedroom skills for so long because he was incredible in every other sense of the word. While his love for cooking, cleaning, and matching Tupperware lids was more than a bonus, he was my best friend and biggest confidant. But his penchant for allowing me to soak in long bubble baths, never giving me flack for wanting to hang with my girlfriends, taking regular spa days with me, and not caring when I went shopping should have been a sign that I was his cover so his family didn’t know his true self.
And oddly enough, I’m okay with the breakup (for obvious reasons). After a rocky few weeks where I felt betrayed, I came to the realization that it’s a pretty awesome breakup. I still get to keep my best friend in my life since I have no real reason to hate him, and for the first time in his, he gets to be his true self since I sat with him, holding his hand, as he told his parents the truth.
Win-win all around.
The problem?
Now I’m stuck in a state of bleh.
The kind of bleh that leaves me unable to find my writing muse again. The writing muse I need to finish the manuscript due to my publisher over a month ago.
A dozen books on the New York Times bestseller’s list, and I’ve lost my mojo.
Well, not exactly my mojo. I sit down to write every day. A laptop in front of me, a complicated Starbucks order to my left, and a notebook and pen to the right . . . but hours later and the same blank screen with the same blinking cursor blurs before my eyes.
Sure, words have been written and deleted what feels like a hundred times, but at the end of the day, my word count is nonexistent.
How does a romance writer succeed and finish a book when she hasn’t been able to string coherent sentences together for weeks on end? How does she meet a deadline when typing every single word feels like she’s scraping it from the bottom of a cluttered barrel only to realize it doesn’t fit anywhere on the page?
Add to the misery that incredible tropical vacation said ex-boyfriend/best friend and I were going to take to shake the winter blues? Yep, he’s taking Gary instead of me.
Good for them.
Miserable for me.
The question is, how do I get rid of this feeling of bleh?
Sex.
And not just any sex, but rather some old-fashioned bed shaking where I don’t have to think or care, only feel.
Hell, it’s not like I’ve been serviced properly in the two years I’d been with my ex, so I feel like this is a needed thing. Doesn’t everybody deserve some incredible after breakup sex?
My dilemma? Sure, I could have gone to a bar and found any Tom, Dick, or Harry to fix the situation, but I’d made myself a promise: No down and dirty until I finished—or at least found my way through the fog—this book.
So now I’m a romance author who has to write about great sex without getting any . . . and the writing part most definitely hasn’t been happening.
Shit, the idea part hasn’t even been happening.
As if on cue, an obnoxiously cute and jin
gly holiday chorus starts to play, prompting me to sigh as I drive—if you can actually call this slow pace driving—through the snow.
It’s because of Christmas.
It has to be this damn holiday, its artificial cheeriness, and its superficial notion that to give is better than to receive because I gave. Hell, I gave for two whole years, and now I’m alone and unsatisfied with an unfinished book and a dried up hooha.
Figures, though. Christmas is like Friday the thirteenth for me. Nothing ever good happens on it. Elves are like black cats. Standing under mistletoe is like walking under a ladder.
You name it, and on Christmas, it can go wrong for me.
“Is it snowing out there where you are tonight?” Bob asks when the song ends. “There’s nothing like a white Christmas to spread some joy, now is there?”
I let a laugh fall that is one hundred percent sarcasm. “How about you share the joy and spread some my way because this snow ain’t cutting it, Bob.”
And just as the next song starts to play through the speakers, flashing red and blue lights break through the solid wall of white in front of me. I hit the brakes and slow down—as if I’m actually going fast at all—as I come upon the flashing orange signs that say “Road Closed.”
Seriously?
I come to a stop at the roadblock and make out a state trooper shivering on duty and standing out in the elements. I roll down the window when he makes a motion to do so.
“Sorry, miss, but the conditions are too dangerous for you to continue. It’s a complete whiteout on the bridge ahead. We've had too many accidents tonight, so we shut it down.” He must gauge my slow blink and half chuckle laced with defeat because he offers me a smile. “The storm front will move through by the morning and—”
“The morning?” I all but screech.
'Tis the Season for Romance Page 11