by Sarina Bowen
“Usually,” I hedge. “Want to see something funny? I’m still not sure how to respond to this guy. He just sent me his picture today and asked for a dinner date.” I tap on the message and show the photo to Tank.
His eyes bulge. “That’s Blake Riley.”
“I realize,” I say with a sigh.
“But…Blake Riley plays for Toronto.”
“Yes, genius. That’s Fake Riley. Some dude stole his photo and is trying to pass it off as his own.”
“Holy shit.” Tank covers his mouth and laughs like a gossipy high school girl. And he looks unfairly handsome doing it. “People are insane. What does he think will happen when you turn up and find some ugly schmo?”
“I honestly have no idea. Maybe he looks a little bit like Riley? Or maybe he’s banking on me being too polite to call him out on it.”
He takes the phone out of my hand and starts tapping a reply. I’m really not sure how you’re going to fit in a New York dinner between practices in Toronto. “Can I send it?”
“Sure,” I grumble. I take the phone back after he sends it and then unmatch from Fake Riley, too. “You know he’ll just try it on someone else, though.”
Internet dating is the worst. Tank hasn’t figured it out yet, and he probably won’t have to. A single hockey player does not require technology to find companionship.
Popping off the couch, I head into the kitchen where I crack open two bottles of Brooklyn Lager. While I’m standing at the counter, it occurs to me that Dallas is playing its season opener against Boston tonight. So I open the league app to check the score. It’s 1-0 for Boston heading into the third period.
I tuck my phone away, grab the beers and go back into the living room.
Where I catch Tank checking the score on his phone. He glances up at me with a guilty face as I hand him the beer. “Sorry,” he says, shoving the phone in his back pocket.
“Don’t be. It’s one-zip at the start of the third.” I take a swig of my beer. “I checked, too. But I didn’t see who scored.”
We each take a sip of beer. And then we glance at each other. “You think…” He doesn’t finish the sentence.
“Should we just check in?” My gaze jumps to the remote control sitting on the TV.
Tank stands up and grabs it. He tosses it to me, and I have the game pulled up on ESPN before you can say rabid hockey fans.
“Damn. Palacio is skating with Trane,” Tank says.
“Where’d they put Huizing?”
“I don’t know. Hang on.”
We’re both leaning forward in our seats at the shift change. Huizing goes over the wall with a rookie and a recent trade from Tampa. “Whoa!” I gasp as the rookie tries and fails to get the puck back.
Everyone on the ice is skating like his life depends on it. They’ve got that new-season energy. Bart Palacio comes back out and steals the puck on a lucky poke check, runs it down the ice without Trane’s help, and shoots it through the five-hole for a goal.
“Fuck!” Tank shouts.
“Jesus Christ!” I notice we’re both standing. “Wait, who are you rooting for?”
“Not Dallas,” he snarls. Then he picks up his beer and drains it.
As the commentators cluck over Palacio’s goal, I walk like a zombie into my tiny kitchen and get Tank another beer. And while I’m doing some mental math on Boston’s chances, I also grab a pint of ice cream out of the freezer and two spoons.
“Do you think Boston is gonna give their backup goalie a few more starts this season?” I ask, handing him a beer and a spoon and sitting down on the sofa.
“They better,” he says, waiting while I dig in first. “The Atlantic division is rugged this year. They’ll need some relief as the season goes on.” He pops a bite of Ben & Jerry’s into his mouth and passes me the carton just as the next faceoff begins.
It’s a tense period. I’m not sure I even blink as the two teams battle it out. Somehow our ice cream is kicked, and we’re both polishing off our drinks when Boston finally puts another one in the net with ninety seconds on the clock.
“YAAAAAAS!” we both scream at the TV.
I flop back against the sofa as they cut to a media break. I look at Tank, whose face is as flushed as mine probably is. There are beer bottles on the floor, and there’s a chocolate smudge on my wrist.
“Wow,” he says. “We just…”
“Yeah.” I start to laugh, because I’d completely forgotten the reason he’d come upstairs in the first place. “No wonder I don’t go out on more dates. What is wrong with us?”
“Nothing.” He shakes his head. “We’re pretty much perfect. The real question is—what the fuck is wrong with everyone else?”
“Seriously. What the fuck, people?”
“What the ever-loving fuck?” he repeats. Our eyes lock, and something in his gaze startles me. It’s a mix of humor and warmth. But there’s also heat and hunger. That’s a potent cocktail, and so much more than I expected to find tonight.
Uh-oh. My inner Cinderella twirls around, giddy. She’s got it bad for the grumpy hockey player with the shapely, scruffy jaw and the bad reputation.
And then Tank pounces, pushing me down on the sofa. It’s bossy and a little bit rude, and I don’t understand why I like it so much. Tension coils inside me as I’m manhandled into place.
But he makes me wait for his kiss. First he rakes me with a hungry gaze, taking in the cleavage revealed by the silly blouse I’d worn for a date I’d forgotten the moment it was over. He makes a sexy, hungry noise, before finally dipping down to take my mouth in a demanding kiss.
I’m putty in his hands. I made this bad decision over an hour ago when I let him follow me home. One more time, I tell myself as I drink in his kiss, coasting my palms up the hard planes of his back. One more reminder of how good it can be. Then I’ll go back to dating available men.
Eleven
That Really is the TV
Tank
Bess is smart. That’s why she’s looking at me with a mixture of heat and trepidation. And I know exactly why she forgot to tell me that she’s living in Brooklyn now.
She knows I’m a hot mess. And getting involved so soon after my divorce is a dumbass thing to do.
But I’m doing it anyway. I push Bess down on the couch and kiss the confusion right off of her sweet face. Her mouth is cool against my greedy one, but it’s not unwelcoming. When I trace the seam of her lips with my tongue, she opens for me.
I up the ante and run a shameless hand up her bare leg. And I’m a little rough when I invade her panties and give her ass a dirty squeeze.
Bess makes a shocked sound against my tongue, but then her arms snake around my neck and she pulls me in closer. Nine years might as well be nine minutes. My body remembers how it is between us. I’m the one who’s supposed to push her boundaries. And she’s the one who takes it all and asks for more.
I sink into another slow, twisting kiss, rocking my erection against the cradle of her hips. There’s no mistaking my intentions. There’s no point in hiding how I feel about her.
Maybe I wasn’t looking for this. I thought I was too raw and angry to be anyone’s good time. But here’s Bess with her big blue eyes and her questing hands sliding under my shirt, asking for more skin. More heat.
For the first time in days, I know I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. The ugly noise of my life quiets as I sit back and yank my shirt over my head. “Need you, Bess,” I rasp.
And then I spend the next hour showing her just how much.
When I begin to wake the next morning, I find that I’m buck-ass naked and wrapped around her. She feels perfect against my bare skin. I push my nose into her wavy hair and doze a little longer.
It doesn’t take, because images of last night begin to play through my sleepy mind. Carrying Bess into the bedroom and then yanking down her skirt. Laying her out on the quilt and kissing and licking and teasing until she was begging for me. And then turning her around and bending her ove
r the bed…
Ungh. It’s been a long time since I woke up feeling happy and aroused.
“Tank,” Bess whispers.
“Mmm?”
“Are you awake?”
“You can’t tell?” I push my cock against her ass in a blatant display of just how awake I am.
“What time is it?”
“Who cares?”
She does, apparently, because she rolls, pushing me onto my back. I open my eyes. A puffy white cloud is the first thing I see. And when I sit up, the Manhattan Bridge appears against the blue sky. “Nice view. Kind of makes up for the tiny rooms.”
She runs a hand down my abs. “I do like the view. And I don’t need a big apartment.”
“Fair enough. But I want lots of things that I don’t really need.”
“Like me, for instance?”
“Oh, please.” I lie down again and kiss her bare shoulder. “Who says we didn’t need that? Both of us.” I roll over and trap her under my naked body. “I might need it again right now.”
Bess looks up at me with humor in her eyes. She reaches toward the bedside table and picks up her phone to check the time. “Says the man who has practice in thirty-five minutes.”
“Aw hell.” That’s unfortunate. The rink is right up the block, but my gym bag is at the Marriott. She’s right, I don’t have time. I run the pad of my thumb over her nipple, anyway. God, she’s sexy.
This summer I’d thought my dick was broken. I’d been single again after many years of marriage, but I hadn’t even glanced at a woman. I’d thought my marriage had permanently killed my libido.
But, nope. Bess makes me feel like a hormonal teenager. I’ll probably spend the quiet moments of my day remembering how I laid her out and had my filthy way with her.
Groaning, I lean down to flick my tongue over her nipple.
“Tank.” Bess puts her palm on my face and pushes me off her boob, the same way you’d discourage a dog who put his face somewhere he wasn’t invited. “Get up, stud. The new guy can’t be late.”
“I know,” I grumble. Thirty-year-old Bess isn’t intimidated by me at all, not like she’d been when she was twenty-one. I’m so screwed, because her confidence just makes me want her even more. When she’d flipped me off at the restaurant last night, I’d wanted to kiss her senseless.
It made me crazy to see her dining with another guy. And I’ve never felt more relief than when she left the restaurant alone. In my haste to follow her out of there, I’d left a hundred dollar tip because it was faster than calculating a reasonable number.
Bess makes me hungry again. Not for steak and ice cream, but for life. I’d spent the summer throwing a tennis ball for my teammate’s labradoodles and feeling sorry for myself. But I don’t feel that way any longer. “When can I see you again?”
She flinches. “You and I aren’t a good idea.”
Now there’s a blow to my ego. “Not true,” I argue. “I’m gonna have good ideas all day long, and you’ll be the star of all of them. Besides, you’re the only one in Brooklyn who likes me.”
“Not true,” she echoes, her expression softening. “At least it won’t be true for long. You’re a good guy, Tank. And a great player. They just need a little time to adjust to your way of doing things. Maybe you should spend some bonding time with the team.”
“I’m not here to make friends. And you didn’t answer the question. When am I seeing you again?”
“I don’t know,” Bess says softly. “We can’t have a fling, Tank. Not like we did before.”
“Why the hell not?” And is it just me, or aren’t we having one already? “You’re not the new girl at the agency anymore, trying to make a good impression.”
“You’re right. The stakes are even higher now.” She trails a hand down my ribcage even as she gives me the brushoff. “I have a reputation to uphold. I can’t date players. And it’s not like you really need any gossip swirling around you, either.”
“I don’t care what strangers say about me. They can fuck right off.”
This conversation is interrupted by her phone ringing. Or maybe it’s mine. I’m still not used to my new phone. “Is that me or you?”
“It’s mine. Get off me so I can see who’s having today’s first emergency.”
But I don’t. I grab her phone off the bedside table and hand it to her.
“Eric?” she says, answering. “Is something wrong?”
“Yeah,” he says, and since I’m six inches from the phone I can hear him. “What’s wrong is that you didn’t answer any of my texts during the game last night. And then this morning I remembered that you went on a Tinder date with a stranger. So then I worried you were dead.”
I chuckle before I realize that I shouldn’t.
Bess gives me a very stern look just as Eric’s voice says, “Who’s that with you?”
“The TV,” she says. “I’m not dead.” But you might be, her eyes threaten.
She gives me a little shove, and I allow myself to be pushed off her body. I grab my briefs off the floor and head for the bathroom so she can talk to her business partner in peace.
“That really was the TV,” I hear her say. “Believe whatever you want. I appreciate your concern, though.”
I can no longer hear the phone, but I’m certain Eric Bayer is laughing.
When I leave five minutes later, I make sure to steal a kiss. I make it a good one, because I need her to realize that she and I aren’t over.
Unfortunately, my new teammates aren’t as happy to see me as Bess was.
In the heat of a drill, I swing around to catch a pass, but there is no puck flying toward me. Instead, Jason Castro is on his ass on the ice, looking pissed-off, while Ivo skates away with the puck looking pleased with himself.
The whistle is loud and shrill. “Again!” yells the assistant coach.
“What the fuck was that?” Castro spits, getting up.
“You tell me,” I grumble. “If you got the pass off, I would have scored.”
“Really, Sure Shot?” he scoffs, using my old nickname. “You can’t get the pass if you’re outta position! The blue line is that way.” He jerks a thumb toward a spot behind him.
“I was open and ready. It’s not my fault you can’t find my stick with a compass and a map.”
“Because you’re in the wrong fucking place!”
“Not hardly,” I snap. “Get a clue. I’m not here to do things the same way you’ve always done them. And I wouldn’t be standing here if Coach didn’t think your playbook needed a few fresh pages.”
Speak of the devil. Coach taps a stick against the boards to get our attention, and I skate off toward the blue line to restart the drill.
“Arrogant fuck,” Castro says under his breath as he skates by.
“Dumbass,” I hiss.
Castro has skills, though. He’s young and fast, but he’s been on this same team for all three of his years in the Show. My unusual style of play has broken his little puppy brain, and he isn’t taking it well.
There’s a long list of good reasons why Brooklyn wanted me here. I have a lot of experience. Coach Worthington needed some of that. He also needed a D-man who played a different game than O’Doul and young Anton Bayer. It all makes sense on paper.
Although Coach was also hoping to get a share of the calm demeanor and leadership that I brought to the team in Dallas. But that guy? He’s left the building. Somewhere between the Dallas/Fort Worth airport and the Brooklyn Navy Yards, I forgot how to be Uncle Tank. My reservoir of patience and advice is dried out completely. I can barely keep my own shit together, let alone handle someone else’s drama.
So here we are, sweating like pigs, running the same play for the ten-thousandth time. We’re supposed to be fine-tuning our game against Philadelphia, but you can’t fine-tune a car that’s lying in wreckage all over the front yard. For two hours it’s been just like this—total chaos.
At this point I’m praying Philadelphia gets lost on the way to th
e stadium. It’s the only chance we have of maintaining our dignity on Tuesday.
We run the drill again, and this time Castro takes no chances, passing to Drake instead of me. But Drake is blocked by Anton, and the puck is stripped, anyway.
“Fuck a duck,” Castro grumbles.
I skate back to the blue line and pray for an end to this torture.
When the end of practice finally arrives, I make a beeline for the rubber matting beyond the practice rink. Unfortunately, several reporters do the same thing, and I find myself face to face with the difficult Miranda Wager and her infernal microphone.
They don’t pay her to be nice, I remind myself as I paste on a smile. “Hey there, Ms. Wager. How are you?”
“Excellent. Can we say the same for you? Looked a little hairy out there today.”
“Settling in takes time,” I say mildly.
“How’s Brooklyn so far?” she asks. “Have you found an apartment? The Brooklyn guys are known to take in strays. They’re a friendly bunch, aren’t they?”
That question is pure Miranda. She’s digging for a story about former rivals struggling to become teammates. Nobody has offered me a bedroom, but that doesn’t mean anything. “So friendly. But I’m headed home to such a beautiful hotel that I may never leave.”
This morning I was surprised to receive a series of messages from my agent’s assistant. She’d found me a better hotel room a lot closer to the practice facility. She’s sending a car to help me move from one hotel to another, and she’s booked me a massage, too.
Honestly, it’s all a little odd. I wonder if Bess yelled at Kassman for ignoring me.
“How are your old friends in Dallas faring without you?” Miranda asks. She’s still smiling, of course, while she twists the knife.
“I’m sure they’re getting their skates under them as well. Shame about that loss to Boston.”
As soon as I say it, I realize my mistake. I can’t mention Dallas’s struggles. If I’m a boring interview, Miranda won’t use the footage. I really don’t need any publicity right now. Not until I can prove myself.