Chapter Fourteen

Amy’s first thought upon waking the next morning was I hope he doesn’t have a girlfriend.

Not because she wanted him. Hell no. If she ever wanted another man, it wasn’t going to be any time soon. Still, no matter how good the sex had been—and it had been mindboggling, life-changing good—she would not have wanted to be a party to Emile cheating on someone.

Then why didn’t you ask? a little voice inside her demanded.

Actually, there were reasons—good and bad—she hadn’t asked. Though it was a given that a rich, excellent wolf, goaltender with a mouth and body like Emile’s would have lots of women, Amy had never seen evidence of any since she’d been living in his condo. If there was a particular woman, she would have been around before now. That wasn’t necessarily true of the harem he no doubt had. That was the good reason she hadn’t asked. As for the bad: she hadn’t been thinking—or really caring—about anything except getting him inside her to wipe away the pain and bad memories.

But it’d turned out to be so much more than that. Never had she known, or even imagined, such pleasure. She’d wanted him, wanted him badly. The memory of him standing firm and powerful, sliding her against him and setting both of their worlds on fire, made her nipples prickle. Even now, she wanted him, although her good sense told her it shouldn’t happen again. But she also knew if she’d gone to his bed to sleep there, like he’d wanted, she’d be reaching for him right now. Instead she reached between her legs and quickly soothed the ache that the thought of Emile had evoked.

Three times they’d had sex—once in the kitchen, another time on the couch, and the third (last) time on the floor, where he’d demonstrated that he was not only strong, but oh, so flexible, too. Something about goalie butterfly style. He’d been like Gumby with an erection, playing World Champion Twister—except she’d been the board and he’d bent in ways that no man without wires for bones ought to have been able to. His mouth here, a hand there, and who knew a knee could be so useful for that.

Afterward, he’d reached for her hand. “Come, chérie. Let’s go to bed.”

But she’d declined—had reminded him he had a game the next night and he needed to rest. And, by the way, she had been reading up on what a hockey player needed to do to get ready for game day. Shouldn’t he eat? She hadn’t shopped for ingredients for the fresh marinara she’d meant to make, but she could get creative. So in the end, after she’d grilled some chicken and dressed some pasta with olive oil, garlic, and cheese, it seemed best to take herself off to bed while he ate—alone.

She looked at the clock. Time to get up and make the three-egg omelette with cheese, whole grain bagel with peanut butter, fruit, and yogurt.

Just as she finished slicing the strawberries and banana together, Emile appeared dressed in workout clothes, his hair damp from the shower. He looked at her for a long moment, and she got the feeling he was considering kissing her.

That was no good. Well, not that exactly. It would be good, but it would come to no good.

“I have your breakfast.” She removed the omelette from the warming drawer and set it on the bar with the bagel, fruit, and yogurt.

“What is all this?” He looked at his food on the bar and gave her a sweet smile. “You made this for me? You must like me.”

“I’m a good personal assistant. I looked up on the Internet what you should eat for breakfast on game day. What would you like to drink?”

“Water. Always water and only water on game day. I’ll get it.” He turned and took a step toward the refrigerator, but she got there first.

“No, let me.” No good would come from him bending over. “You sit and eat.” Yes, much better that he should sit on his butt, not display it for her viewing pleasure. She set two bottles of water in front of him. “What time would you like your pre-game meal?”

“Will you eat with me?”

She hesitated. They had been eating together, and there was no reason to change. It was best to pretend it had never happened.

“If you like.”

“Oui.” He nodded. “After morning skate, there are meetings. I will be back about noon. Then I nap for two hours. Then to the rink by three.”

She nodded and slid onto the barstool beside him. “I’ll have it ready. Your blue suit is fresh from the cleaners, and I ironed your shirt.”

“Amy, you do not have to do these things.”

“I do. This is what you hired me for—to make your life easier.”

“Ah, yeah,” he said like he’d just remembered that. “Thank you then. You do make things easier.”

“I read you should take a snack to the rink.”

“True. A small snack.” He smiled around the spoon in his mouth. When he removed it there was a bit of vanilla yogurt on his mouth. It was hard not to look at it. “You have been reading a lot.”

“It comes with being organized. I read that an apple and a peanut butter and jelly or honey sandwich on whole wheat—”

His smile froze, and his eyes went dark and dead. “Non. No sandwich. No peanut butter and jelly. Ever.”

What on earth? Was he allergic? She glanced at the bagel. It had peanut butter, and he’d already eaten more than half. She got the feeling she’d said something very, very wrong.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know . . . ”

His face relaxed, and he shook his head. “Non.” He put his hand on her arm. “Nothing to be sorry for. You researched the best things for game day. You made me this beautiful breakfast. I am grateful. For my snack I like a Clif Bar and a protein shake.” He smiled. “But the apple? A good idea, and I thank you for it.”

What was that about? Or maybe it hadn’t meant anything. Maybe it was just game day weirdness.

• • •

There were a half dozen guys milling around when Emile entered the locker room. Baise-moi, merde, and all the rest of it. He had hoped the other early arrivers would be late. He’d overslept by a half hour. Not since he’d played juniors, when his billet mom sometimes had to literally shake him awake, had he slept so hard. He should have set an alarm, but that was something he had never had to do in his adult life. He simply told himself the night before when he needed to wake, and it happened. But had he told himself last night? Maybe not. He’d been distracted—and tired.

“Hey, F. K.,” Mikhail Orlov called from across the room. “You’d better not mess up our mojo by not being the first one here. We are not losing our first game of the season.”

“No such thing as mojo.” He stepped up to his stall and began to undress. “And we are not losing. You just put that puck in the right net and let me worry about my net.”

Packi appeared at his elbow. “Here’s your breakfast.” He handed Emile two protein cereal bars, a can of peaches, and a bottle of water.

“Merci.” Emile laid the items on the shelf and reached for his compression pants. “I ate breakfast already.” How could he not have? Amy had read up on what was a good game day breakfast and made it so nice with matching dishes and a placemat that he didn’t know he had.

“Yeah?” Packi leaned on the stall next to Emile’s. “It’s not like you to mix it up on game day.”

“It’s no big deal what I eat. Or when I eat.” Except for that pregame snack peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He’d not meant to react so strongly, but Amy had taken him by surprise—again. Only unlike last night, today’s surprise hadn’t been pleasant. “Packi, my friend, did you get the sweater for me?”

“Hanging between your practice jersey and game jersey.”

Emile moved his black sweater aside. Yes. Two identical purple game sweaters, except he’d be wearing a new one tonight, and Amy would have the one that had been worn. It would be huge on her, but that was the idea. She’d have an authentic sweater with his name and number to wear to the game tonight.

“Again, thank you, Packi. Did you arrange things with the ticket office?”

“Not yet. But I will, if you still want me to. I hope you’ve changed your mind about that.”

“Why should I change my mind?”

“It’s not where she should sit, and you know it. That section is for wives, girlfriends, and family. She is none of those things. You’ve known her one week.”

“There are no rules about it, so why shouldn’t she sit there? She has had a very bad week. It’s a comfortable place to sit, with a good view and nice food and drinks provided.”

“It’s tradition and you know it.”

“I rate tradition and superstition the same. Good sense is best.”

“And you think this is good sense? It’s not as if the rest of Bridgestone Arena is a hellhole with tree stumps for seats. I would not waste my time telling you all this again except for the good of the young lady. The wives and girlfriends don’t like outsiders. You know how they reacted when Voleck let Krystal sit with them. They will never accept her, even though she’s married to him now.”

“They will not accept Krystal because she was a puck bunny and slept with half the team. Amy has slept with no one.”

Packi opened his mouth to speak but stopped short and narrowed his eyes. “She slept with you.”

“No,” Emile said emphatically. “She did not.” And it was true. She had refused to go to his bed to sleep—probably a good thing, considering he’d wanted her again and he’d overslept as it was. But it had still bothered him.

But Packi was onto him. “Okay. So, you didn’t sleep.”

Best to change the subject. “If you do not want to make the arrangement, I understand and respect that. I will call Charisma in the ticket office. She likes me.”

“You are being belligerently obtuse and stubborn. You know I don’t mind making the call. You just don’t want to listen to me.” Packi began to walk away.

“Where are you going?”

“To call Charisma.”

“Her name is—”

Packi waved him off without turning around. “I know her name. You’ve said it often enough. I’ll see you after you skate."

Emile sat down, raised one leg, and began to ease on his compression pants.

Bryant Taylor—Swifty—approached his own stall and began to strip. Maybe he hadn’t heard.

“So, you’re screwing that girl.” He’d heard.

For some reason, Bryant’s wording didn’t set right with Emile, though he couldn’t fault Bryant. The two of them were best friends, and they had said that and worse many times about the puck bunnies that drifted through their beds. But Amy wasn’t a puck bunny, and he didn’t like that kind of talk about her. But to take issue with Swifty would be an admission, and he didn’t want to admit that he’d slept with her. It was private.

“Packi doesn’t know anything.”

Swifty laughed. “Since when? I admit he may not know everything, but he knows you’ve got a hickey.”

Impossible. Emile’s hand flew to his neck. “I do not. I haven’t had one of those since I was a teenager.”

The big defenseman removed the last of his clothes. “You’ve got one now—on the inside of your thigh.”

Emile finished jerking up his pants and put his leg down. Damn. That would have been when they were on the floor. She’d given the insides of his thighs lots of attention while she’d worked up the courage to do what followed—what he’d been doing to her. He pushed the thought away. Wouldn’t do to think of that now. Compression pants left nothing to the imagination.

“If you’re not careful, your ‘personal assistant’ is going to be a permanent fixture.”

Maybe that would happen if he were careful . . . and very lucky. Where had that come from? But would it be so bad? He must think on this. He’d known her a short time, but what did time matter?

“Can she speak French? You always say you won’t marry someone who can’t speak French.”

He did say that.

“Put some clothes on, Bryant. We’ve all seen your cock more that we want.” Emile finished dressing. “I’m going to stretch.”