CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Jake
Madison Square Garden can seat over eighteen thousand people, and even at the best of times it’s a chaotic echo chamber. Sound reflects off the ice, bounces off the boards and the glass protecting the people in the stands, and pings back to hit you three or four times before drifting up to buzz in the air above the crowd.
Even on a practice day like today, with the stadium seats mostly empty, I can’t hear myself think over the shouts of the defensemen pushing in on either side of me, the string of verbal abuse coming from the bench, and the huff of my breath rasping around my mouth guard, but somehow I hear her laugh.
It’s like the mute button’s been hit on the rest of the world.
Coach Bosko’s calls to get open, the sharp shush of skates on ice, and the boom of male voices echoing through the cavernous dome fade to static as Shane’s laugh dances through the air. It isn’t loud, and I’ve only heard her laugh a handful of times, but I recognize it immediately and it has the same effect as if someone had shouted my name in a crowded room.
I snap my head around, catching a glimpse of Shane and Caleb West’s girlfriend Nadia walking down the steps to the practice viewing area over my shoulder.
My distraction lasts a second, maybe two, but it’s enough for West, who’s been riding my left ass cheek, to dart around me, blocking my path to the net. I spin to the right, barely avoiding smashing into the speedy little fucker. My skates both leave the ice as I do a one-eighty turn, then skid the rest of the way around on the edge of my right blade.
I’m off balance and West is already on me again—riding my right ass cheek this time—but I pour on a burst of speed, pushing hard, getting open just as I reach the forwards already in position near the goal. Collier shoots the puck my way, and I snap it toward the net, aiming for the right corner, ignoring the flash of pain in my bad arm as I move. Pearson pounces, hurling his body at the disc, batting it away seconds before it can go in.
A moment later the buzzer sounds, blaring through the chilled air, signaling the end of the scrimmage. I exhale sharply as my shoulders relax away from my ears, more grateful to see the end of a practice than I’ve been in years.
I didn’t embarrass myself—Pearson is one of the best goalies in the league, and there’s no shame in not being able to get one by him—but I came damned close to missing that pass. That woman up there, the one with the cherry red coat that accentuates the flush in her cheeks and the deep pink of her full lips, does something to me.
She’s like sunlight on water: blinding, but so damned beautiful it’s impossible to look away.
There’s no shame in being blinded by a beautiful woman, either, but as I skate past the family and friends gathered in the stands, I begin to rethink the wisdom of offering Shane season tickets. I’d love to see her pretty face watching me from the best seat in the house, but my game might not survive that much Willoughby exposure.
She waves as I skate by, a big grin on her face as she gives me two thumbs up and shouts, “Great try!”
I can’t keep from laughing, even though Grant and Nelson immediately start losing their shit and West thumps me on the back and says, “That’s right, dragon. That was such a good try! You’re such a big boy!”
“Go fuck yourself, West.” But there’s no fire in the words and I’m still grinning like an idiot as I head down the tunnel toward the locker room, passing the next practice group on their way out to the ice.
Twenty minutes later, I’ve showered and changed and dumped my filthy practice uniform in the equipment manager’s bin. I consider taking the time to shave—I was too wiped out to bother before I headed out to practice at the crack of dawn—but I’m too eager to get out to the woman waiting for me in the stands.
Ever since Shane and I said good-bye at the Met, a part of me has been on edge, feeling…not quite right. Like something important is missing.
Texting her last night scratched the itch for a while, but she signed off before I’d had my fill. I went to bed resenting the night for eating up so much of the day, and my first thought when I woke up was that it was only a few more hours until I got to see Willoughby again.
The woman is like heroin. One fix, one kiss, and I’m hooked.
I’m acting like a kid with his first crush. Worse. When I had my first crush I realized on some level that my devotion was at least partially wrapped up in how desperately I wanted to get to second base with Becky Scarcross. Her breasts were two perfectly round, bouncy, hard-on-inducing glasses of water and I was a sixteen-year-old boy dying of thirst.
And while I’m certainly attracted to Shane—I spent most of last night lost in filthy, wonderful dreams featuring her wearing that sunshine smile and nothing else—I also crave her conversation, her company, and the rush of solving another piece of the Shane Willoughby puzzle.
It isn’t like me. Yes, I enjoy women for many other reasons aside from fucking, but fucking is usually pretty high on my list. Especially at first.
Feelings tend to come later for me, after I’ve made a woman come a few dozen times. And then one morning I wake up in her bed feeling like I’d rather stay and make breakfast than sneak out while she’s sleeping, and I know it’s more than sex. I never fall this hard or fast, and it’s been years since I’ve fallen at all.
The hitch in my chest as I meet Shane’s eyes across the mostly empty bleachers is unprecedented this early in the game.
I should be disturbed by the “something’s missing” feeling she leaves behind when she says good-bye, or at the very least I should have my guard up. I have no idea where this is going, or if it’s going at all. She might not be up for more than friendship, even after the intervention is over. I would be an idiot of the highest order to get my heart broken by the woman I hired to help me get rid of the last woman who did me wrong.
I hold the thought in my head as a warning to take shit slow, but when Shane grins up at me and pats the seat next to hers, all I can think about is how beautiful she is when she smiles.
“Hey there, princess.” I lean in for a kiss, figuring I can justify stealing one in the name of keeping up appearances in front of the team.
The moment my mouth meets hers and the tip of her tongue sweeps across the seam of my lips, however, appearances are the furthest things from my mind. All I’m thinking about is how incredible she tastes—like caramel and coffee and a woman who’s not afraid to go after what she wants—and how right her hands feel on me.
She threads her fingers into my hair and pulls me closer, fusing our mouths so tight I can feel her teeth bumping against mine through our lips, but I don’t care. I love that she’s kissing me hard and close, meeting every deep sweep of my tongue with a twirl of her own.
I want to kiss her even harder, deeper. I want to strip off her clothes and get as close as two people can get, and then I want to get even closer. I want her thoughts, her ambitions, her secrets. I want to look down into her eyes while I’m sliding inside her and know that we’re both open to seeing how far we can go together.
When we finally pull apart, I’m breathing fast and Shane’s already flushed cheeks are cotton-candy pink and I’m fighting the urge to tell her that kissing her is the best thing to happen to me in years.
“Well, hello to you, too,” she says, blue eyes glittering. “I guess you’ve forgiven me for acting like a hockey mom at her first scrimmage? Nadia told me the girlfriends usually don’t cheer at practice and that shouting ‘great try’ is probably the lamest thing ever.”
I laugh. “It was not. It was cute.”
She wrinkles her nose. “I don’t know about that, but it was a really good try. I especially liked the spinning part near the end. If hockey doesn’t work out, you can join the Ice Capades.”
“You saying you’d like to see me in some ice-dancing tights?” I hook my hands under her legs and pull her booted feet up to rest in my lap.
She stretches out with a wicked grin. “I think I would, actually. Does that make me a dirty old woman?”
“I don’t care, as long as you’re my dirty old woman,” I quip, the words out of my mouth before I can think better of them. “Sorry,” I add softly, before she has a chance to respond. “I’m not sure when to dial it back to friend mode.”
“It’s okay.” She reaches up, brushing a damp lock of hair from my forehead. “I think we should just stay in flirt mode. We’ll be less likely to make mistakes at dinner tonight if we keep things consistent.”
“Dinner sounds good.” Silently, I celebrate my good luck. If I play my cards right, it sounds like I’m going to have a good eight or nine hours of quality Shane time. “Want me to hop online and make a reservation for seven or eight?”
“We’re already booked for seven at the Rainbow Room,” she says, eyes going wide as her fingers twine together in a single fist. “Are you ready to jump out of the frying pan and into the fire?”
“I’m the Dragon. I’m all about fire,” I say, catching her excitement. “Is this part of the plan you wouldn’t tell me about last night?”
She nods. “Yes. We can always back out if you think it’s a terrible idea, but I think this is exactly what we need to change the conversation.”
She fills me in on the plan, emphasizes that a profile in GQ would be great for my professional life as well as my personal one, and concludes with a vote of confidence that in one long afternoon we can learn everything we need to know about each other to pull off being swept up in new love.
“It’s new love, after all,” she says. “I didn’t tell Denise how long we’d been dating, but I hinted it hadn’t been more than a couple of months. As long as we act like we’re completely into each other, it won’t matter if we have a few patchy places when it comes to personal histories or long term goals.”
“I agree.” I clap my hands together. “Let’s do it. Tomorrow’s a team travel day so it won’t matter if I stay out late. I just have to make sure I’m at the airport by seven in the morning.”
“I’ll have you home way before that. But are you sure?” she asks, biting her lip. “Even if Denise wants to take pictures while we dance?”
I shrug. “Sure. If you have two left feet, I can carry you around the floor. But I know what I’m doing with most of the standard ballroom stuff. You should be able to follow my lead.”
Her eyes narrow. “You can ballroom dance?”
I wink. “I’m full of surprises, princess. How about you? I’m guessing by the way you move that you won’t need to be carried.”
“You’re right. I’m an excellent dancer,” she says, the words sounding like a promise of so much more than skill on the dance floor.
I remind my cock that now isn’t the time or the place, and focus on her smile as she says, “All right, dragon. Let’s do this. Backstory first, and then we can start figuring out all the cute, article-friendly things we have in common.”
“Sounds good.” I nod, not as nervous as I probably should be.
I’m no actor, but as we start to plot and plan—me massaging Shane’s calves, her reaching out to squeeze my arm when she gets really excited—it doesn’t feel like pretend. It’s the opposite of my first NHL game, when I looked down the bench at all of these amazing athletes I’d idolized and couldn’t quite believe that I was one of them. Playing Shane’s doting boyfriend is a role that feels right, no posturing or faking-it-till-I-make-it required.
By the time we’re finished, I’m wishing we had met running in Central Park, chasing down her friend’s Chihuahua after she got off the leash, and that we had nothing to worry about tonight except where to go to dinner and whose bed to not do any sleeping in after.
“We should probably head out,” she says, glancing down at her watch nearly two hours later. The second practice team is leaving the ice, and the coffees I fetched halfway through our plotting session have gone cold. “I’ve got to shower and change, and my backside is numb from sitting in this chair.”
“I could rub it for you,” I offer innocently.
“Oh you could, could you?” she asks with a laugh. “You’d be willing to make that sacrifice?”
“I don’t want to send you out into the cold with a numb ass,” I say. “You could get frostbite and not even realize until it was too late.”
She laughs again, a husky sound that makes me want to pull her into my lap and kiss her until she makes more sexy sounds just for me. “It’s October, dragon. I don’t think I’m in danger of frostbite yet. But make me an offer in December and I might be interested in availing myself of your butt rubbing services.”
“December could work. I like December.” Our gazes meet and hold, and something passes between us, something real and intimate, especially for two people who barely know each other.
For a second, I think she’s going to tell me to slow down or back off.
Instead, her gaze drops to where her hands are wrapped around my arm, her fingers tucked between my bicep and my ribs to stay warm. “December is my favorite time of the year. I know it’s cheesy, but I can’t get enough of the city at Christmastime. Give me ice skating at Rockefeller Center, hot chocolate by the big tree, and a ticket to the Rockettes' Christmas Spectacular, and I’m a happy girl.”
“I’ll remember that,” I promise. “I enjoy keeping the people I like happy.”
“Speaking of people you like.” She clears her throat and her fingers dig a little deeper into my arm. “Or people you used to like, anyway. Keri came to visit me this morning.”
“What?” My smile vanishes so fast it sends a cramp flashing through my jaw. “You’re kidding me.”
Shane shakes her head, still not making eye contact. “Um, no. Not kidding, unfortunately. It doesn’t seem like the gossip sites have any idea who I am, so I’m not sure how she found out where I live. But she did warn me that she’s a bad person to have as an enemy. Maybe she’s a criminal mastermind in addition to being artsy.”
Cursing beneath my breath, I stand and pace away from Shane, feeling the cold for the first time since I took to the ice this morning. Having Keri harassing me is business as usual. For me. But hearing that Keri has moved on to harassing Shane pisses me the fuck off.
It’s also…scary.
“Or maybe she’s a super hacker,” Shane continues in a light voice. “Super hacking skills would come in handy for getting your private number and for figuring out who I am and where I live based on a few profile shots. Or maybe she’s a spy! I have a friend who I used to think was a spy, but it turns out—”
“This isn’t funny.” I spin back to face her, hands balled into fists at my sides. “Why didn’t you tell me about this when you first got here?”
She stands, shrugging as she tugs the sleeves of her coat down around her wrists. “I don’t know. I guess I didn’t want to start off on a creepy note. And I figured there wasn’t much either of us could do about it, anyway. It’s not like you want me going to the police, right?” She frowns. “How’s your arm feeling by the way?”
“Never better,” I lie, my jaw clenching.
“Right. But you do a great job of playing through the pain. Watching you earlier, I would never have guessed you have a stab wound.” She sighs, clearly realizing I don’t want to talk about the souvenir my ex left behind when I kicked her out the front door. “Besides, Keri didn’t say anything worth filing a police report over. She told me that you two were in true love, and assured me that after a few dates you were going to get”—she makes air quotes—“sick of fucking a Barbie doll. Then she made some threatening noises about how badass she is, but seeing that her entire body is about the size of my leg, the heebie-jeebie factor was low.”
I grunt, frown still firmly in place. “I still don’t like it. I don’t like that she got to you so easily, or so fast. And I don’t need to tell you that she’s more dangerous than she looks.”
“No, you don’t.” She pins me with a sharp look. “But I’m glad to hear you finally acknowledging the danger. That’s a good first step on the road to not getting stabbed again. And in the spirit of moving forward in a more productive fashion, I’d like to acknowledge that I might also have been wrong.”
My eyebrows lift. “About?”
“About what could be necessary to convince this woman to leave you alone.”
She steps closer, placing her palms on my chest, sending a rush of awareness and concern pulsing through me. Even now, when I’m worried for her safety, I can’t help the way my blood heats every time we touch.
“We’re going to have to make this good tonight, Jake,” she continues in a softer voice. “We need Denise and every other person in the room to believe that we’re the real thing, the kind of love-at-first-sight fairytale people want to believe in no matter how many times they’re told that love is dead. If we can nail this profile, we’ll get people talking about us, not about your ex or what might have happened in your apartment. And if the talk is loud enough, maybe Keri will realize that continuing to pursue you is a waste of her time.”
I cover her hands with mine, pressing her palms closer to my chest. “And if she doesn’t?”
“If she doesn’t…” Her lips part as her gaze drops to my mouth. “Then I’ll consider pretending to have a bun in my oven.”
“My bun,” I correct, the thought making me thicker. It’s a fictional baby, fictional sex, and I’ve never gotten a boner from fantasizing about knocking a woman up before. But something primal inside of me likes the thought of fucking a baby into this woman, of taking her again and again until there’s no doubt that she’s carrying my child.
It’s another crazy line of thinking, another wildly out of character urge, but the only thing I’m worried about is that my erection is going to rip a hole through my jeans and cause a scene in front of the women seated a few rows back. When I’m this close to Shane, it’s impossible to worry about anything except getting closer.
“Your bun,” she echoes, nodding. “But hopefully it won’t come to that.”
“Hopefully not.”
Her lips curve on one side. “I’m not sure you mean that, Falcone. I think you kind of like the idea of being my pretend baby-daddy.”
“Of course not. I’m all business, Willoughby,” I say, pulling her closer.
She harrumphs. “And I’m the Queen of England.”
“Your majesty,” I murmur as I lean down to kiss her good-bye. It’s a long, thorough, slow and sexy kiss that involves my hands on Shane’s ass and way too much tongue for safe public viewing, but I don’t care. All I care about is getting more of her, skating over the line between fantasy and reality and making Shane see that this shouldn’t be just pretend.
She should be mine.
And tonight, I intend to make one hell of a case for adding pleasure to our business arrangement.