SEVEN
Bren looked up at Remy, who was mouthing something. With a sigh, he slipped off his headphones, which until now had been doing their job of helping him tune out the locker room noise.
“What?”
“I asked how the nanny interviews are going.”
Every player had their rituals before a game. Petrov put two extra knots in his laces. Burnett put his socks on before his shorts, and his shorts on before his jersey. And Bren listened to violent, crush-your-soul death metal. You didn’t mess with a man’s pregame ritual, and you certainly didn’t mess with it to ask how the interviews for his kids’ nanny were going.
But of course, that’s not what the Cajun was asking at all. He had this twinkle in his eye that spoke to mischief on the horizon.
“Found one,” Bren said, praying that would shut him up.
“The hot Swedish chick?” Remy was curiously well informed.
Erik Jorgenson, obviously no stranger to the charms of his countrywomen, perked up. “You’re hiring a Swedish nanny?”
“Thinking about it. She comes with good references.” Or he assumed she did. A day later, and he hadn’t quite gotten around to calling. He told himself it was because he was focused on game five, though really it was because that kiss with Violet was taking up all his brain power. Right-hand power as well.
He’d known it would be spectacular. No, that was overstating it. He’d known it would be good. A good kiss. Put it down to the months of circling each other. All that pent-up tension between them, along with the pent-up tension in his balls, meant that Bren could have kissed Gretzky and pronounced it out of this world. He was in dire need of getting laid.
Yet she’d been so wet. For him.
As for her taste . . . Jesus, her sweet tang was better than whiskey. Maybe that kiss and the memory of how she’d tasted would tide him over. He could use it to jump-start his fantasy life. Yeah, because you haven’t been using your wicked fantasies about that smart-mouthed girl already. She took a starring role, all right. He just hadn’t reckoned on the reality outshining the fantasy.
“Yeah, Violet said she was a winner,” Remy commented with a half grin. Fucker.
Petrov raised an imperious Russian eyebrow. “Violet has met her?”
“Sat in on the interviews, I heard.” Remy again, as if Bren wasn’t even here.
“Violet’s helping you find a nanny?” Erik looked confused. “Perhaps you should just hire her.”
Remy smirked. “Yeah, Saint, perhaps ya should.”
Of all his teammates, Remy was the most attuned to the undercurrents between Bren and Violet, and he never stopped giving Bren shit about it.
Erik leaned in. “You do not approve of Violet, I think, Captain. She lives her life out loud and this bothers you.”
Bren hadn’t realized his weird vibe with Violet had affected anyone else on the team. “No, she can live her life any way she pleases. I’d like to hire someone who’s qualified to watch children.”
The Swede wasn’t listening. “Ever since Cade announced he likes men, she has been sad. Heartbroken.” He sounded much too hopeful.
Cade shouted from the other side of the locker room, “For the last time, Swede, she knew I was gay before any of you kickers and she is in no way heartbroken. Just go on that date with her already. Hell, she already paid for it.”
Bren swung back to Erik. “You haven’t gone on this date?”
“Not yet. She has been very busy.”
So Violet wasn’t on a date with Erik last night. Who else on the Rebels roster did he need to cut down in their prime?
“You want to date her? For real?”
“Why not? She is a beautiful woman and she likes to laugh. We would have a good time together, she and I. Very compatible.”
Well, that was just fan-fucking-tastic. Seeing Cade and Violet together—and Bren was right pissed at himself for being so relieved to hear they were only fake dating—had driven Bren wild these past few months. Not that he could, or would, do a single thing about it, because Violet was all wrong for him.
He could still feel the imprint of her kiss on his lips, her taste better than wine, her body like liquid fire in his arms. It was bad enough he’d spent months using her as fantasy fodder when he thought she was with one of his teammates; knowing how she tasted, felt, and sounded up close and personal was a particular cruelty.
I think if you were in this house, I might not make it to twelve.
For alcoholics, one drink was too many and a thousand were never enough. He suspected it would be the same with drinking down Violet, an addiction he couldn’t risk.
“Hey, boys, are we ready to play?”
Bren’s eyes snapped to the new arrival—the woman they had just been gossiping about. Those same eyes almost popped out of his head. Sweet Jesus. Violet stood at the door wearing a cheerleader outfit in Rebels blue and white. A deep-plunging shirt with a large R molded to her perfect breasts above a pleated skirt that barely skimmed her pert ass. In her hands? Pom-poms!
Occasionally Violet popped into the locker room before and after the games. “Morale building” she called it. Bren preferred to label it what it was: a complete and utter cock tease. But she’d never looked so blatantly provocative.
“Gimme an R!” With each letter of the cheer, she bestowed her favor on one lucky player. A kiss on Cade’s cheek, a squeeze of Remy’s bicep, fanning herself with a pom-pom in front of Petrov, which made the Russian laugh. Then she stood in the center and placed her fists on those shapely hips.
“Well, boys, we’re in with a shot here,” she said gruffly, a pretty spot-on impression of Coach Calhoun. “Home ice. The people of this city are behind us with our lovable loser status and shit.”
Everyone laughed, charmed by the impression and the sentiment. The city couldn’t be more excited and Violet’s spirit was infectious. Coach wasn’t so great at the motivational speeches, but at this point, they didn’t need it. Each man on the team had his own reasons for playing lights-out hockey.
“When can I get that date, Violet?” Erik asked with a cheeky grin.
She stroked his chin and fluttered her eyelashes. “Soon, my hot Swedish lover. Soon.”
Erik looked like every single one of his Christmases and birthdays had come at once. Prick.
Violet caught Bren’s eye, the first time she’d looked his way since she’d come in.
“So sad, Scot. Need a special cheer?”
He stood, his body itching for battle. For her. Did she think he’d forgotten how she tasted, how her supple skin felt beneath his fingertips? Did she think he’d forgotten a single fucking thing about that kiss?
The locker room buzz was loud enough that no one would hear what he said to her. “You’re playing with fire, lass.”
“Just doing my part for the team.” She fluffed a pom-pom under his chin. “Make me proud, handsome.”
Before Bren could comment, Coach Calhoun walked in.
“Okay, boys, we’re in with a shot here . . .” The rest was drowned out by the sound of everyone cracking up. With a final wave and salutation of good luck, Violet swayed that fine ass out of the locker room with every unattached guy’s gaze still affixed to it.
They lined up to head into the tunnel. A few reporters milled about, but they were experienced enough not to mess with the pregame routine.
“Hey,” Bren said, low enough so only Remy could hear. “Congratulations, Dad-to-be.”
Remy smiled over his shoulder. “No secrets in this family, I see.”
“Nope. I’m thrilled for you, brother.”
Remy nodded, his emotion appearing to get the better of him for a second before he said, “So. Hot Swedish chick?”
“Fuck off,” Bren muttered. He needed to purge from his brain all thoughts of Violet. In AA, you followed something called the twenty-four-hour plan. No pledges to never drink again, just an effort to get through it a day at a time. That’s how he approached his drinking, and that’s how he would approach Violet.
The Rebels had a game to win, and tonight, his kids were in the owners’ box with Harper. He would make them proud. Then tomorrow, he would call the references of his future nanny.