Chapter Sixteen

A win was always good, but the only thing better than a season-opening win was a championship win.

The reporter interviewing him in the tunnel, Kelton Reeves, was one of his favorites, though Gabriella said they were all his favorites because he liked to be on TV. That wasn’t completely true. He hated them all after a loss, but loved them all after a win. Tonight was a night of love.

“You must be feeling pretty good after the 3-0 shutout in the Sound season opener,” Kelton asked.

“Oui. Is a happy moment for the team and the fans.”

“And a happy one for you as well. You were on fire tonight. What do you attribute your outstanding performance to?”

“Always the leadership of Coach Colton and our captain, Nickolai Glazov. Tonight, the excellent defense deserves much credit.” Emile had learned early on to never take personal credit. “Taylor, Champagne, Voleck—they make a goaltender’s job easy.”

“You’re modest. What about your personal performance?”

“I don’t know. Sometimes things just go better than others.”

But he did know. He’d played better because Amy had been there watching him.

She’d been shy today, and after last night, he understood why, but he was really hoping to get her in his bed tonight. In the kitchen, on the couch, and on the floor had been more than incredible, but he was hoping for even better tonight. He was too pumped to sleep, and he wanted sex like he’d never wanted it before. Or was it that he wanted sex with Amy?

Interesting.

Emile grabbed a Gatorade and went to the stationary bike for his cooldown. He pedaled and pondered. In the best of all worlds, she’d sleep with him and they could have a marathon night with naps in between.

Swifty saddled up on the bike beside him. “You didn’t suck tonight.”

“Neither did you. But you stink.”

“We all stink.” And that was the truth. Johanna had always said there was no smell like hockey smell.

“What do you say we unstink ourselves and go to the Big Skate? I could use a burger and a beer.”

“Not tonight,” Emile said. “But tomorrow night after the game for sure.” He would ask Amy to come.

“Here comes your nursemaid, F. K.,” Swifty said.

Packi was headed toward them, towel in hand. Emile laughed. “You’re just jealous because I’m the special one right now.”

“Totally,” Swifty said. “But it won’t last.”

Packi said, “Great game. Both of you. Emile, Vinnie is ready for your massage.”

Emile briefly considered foregoing the massage, but knew if he did, he’d be a stiff as the tin man left out in the rain.

Packi tossed Emile a towel. “How did Amy like her seat?”

“I haven’t talked to her yet, but it was great. No reason it wouldn’t have been.”

“Hmm. See you tomorrow.”

“Sounds like he knows something you don’t,” Swifty said.

“There’s nothing to know.” Emile climbed off the bike and wiped down with the towel. “I’m going to get this done and get out of here.”

Usually after showering and dressing, Emile hung around as long as an hour signing autographs and posing for pictures, but not tonight. He did just enough so he wouldn’t look like Thor, who never signed autographs and was proud of it. Then he begged off, saying it had been a long night—though it hadn’t been. Not yet, but he could hope.

He couldn’t wait to get home.

Once in the car, Emile was always tempted to loosen his tie, but he never did. It had been drilled into him from a young age that that there were certain things hockey players did and did not do, and dress correctly on game day was a big do. As an older youth player, that meant dress pants, shirt, shoes, and a tie for arriving at and departing from the rink. But from juniors on, it had to be a full-blown suit. Ridiculous as it was, Emile could never shake the fear that if he loosened his tie when there was even a minute chance that he might be seen, Andre would know and find a way to break out of prison and beat the hell out of him.

But he did loosen it once the Star View Towers elevator passed the thirteenth floor.

He opened the condo door and called, “Amy?” but was met with silence and the light of one dim lamp.

What the hell? Where was his hero’s welcome? His celebration? Hadn’t she seen him go into full side splits and throw himself on the puck belly-first? Hadn’t she been impressed when the puck had sailed over his shoulder and he’d come up from the butterfly position in a fraction of a second and caught it in his glove?

Maybe she was hiding, waiting to surprise him—maybe naked in the kitchen. That would be sweet. But no. There was a note written in big letters on a legal-size piece of paper taped to the refrigerator. “FOOD IN WARMING DRAWER,” it said.

He opened the drawer. There it was, and it was a thing of beauty—penne with alfredo sauce and what looked like blackened salmon. She must have noticed that he had ordered blackened salmon the night they went out to eat with Gabriella.

But where was she? It would be too good to be true if she were waiting for him in his bed, but sometimes too good to be true happened.

He went to his room.

Baise-moi, merde, and all the rest of it! No Amy, but what was this? At first, he thought it was a pile of purple ribbons, like for a little girl’s hair. Then he took a closer look and realized to his horror the sweater he’d given her was on his bed, and it had been cut into narrow strips—hundreds of them! Why would she do this thing?

He grabbed a handful of the carnage and stomped down the hall toward her room. He didn’t care if she was asleep, but she wasn’t—not unless she slept with the lights on.

But he beat on the door with his fist as if he needed to wake a vampire from midday sleep. The way he was feeling, no polite little knock would do.

“Amy! Are you in there?”

To his surprise, she immediately threw open the door, looking every bit as mad as he felt.

“What is the meaning of this?” He waved the purple strips in the air. “You destroyed my sweater.”

“Yeah, how about that?” She leaned on the doorframe and crossed her arms over her breasts. She was wearing a nightgown—Gabriella’s no doubt. Pink with little flowers and wide straps on the shoulders. The only thing provocative about it was that it was a nightgown.

But this was no time to be distracted. “Why? I gave this to you.” He held up the remnants again.

“Are you aware that you look like a cheerleader shaking a pom-pom?”

He looked at the mass of purple in his hand. “Bah! I could have won the Stanley Cup in this sweater.”

“Did you?”

He hadn’t. He’d donated that one to Open Hearts and Arms to be auctioned. But she didn’t know that.

“Would it have mattered?”

“Not one bit.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You don’t understand?” She uncrossed her arms from her chest and put her hands on her hips. “You arranged for me to sit in the wives and girlfriends section! Without so much as one bit of warning! You knew I was apprehensive about wearing your jersey, afraid it would send the wrong message. But you sent me right in there to sit with all those women who had a right to be there.”

Merde! Packi had been right, but Emile wasn’t giving in. “You had a right to be there. I said so. What I say matters. Sometimes.”

“I am not your wife. And I’m not your girlfriend! Did you even stop to consider how embarrassing that might be for me?”

He had not thought of her as his girlfriend. Had he? But what if he had? After last night, it wasn’t a completely illogical assumption.

“Many would not be embarrassed to be my girlfriend. Many would have been happy to see me stop the puck with my crotch.”

“You’re changing the subject. We aren’t talking about your crotch. We are talking about that WAG suite and how I had no business there.”

“It’s not always only wives and girlfriends in the suite.”

“True enough. There are also the offspring of players, of which I am not one.”

“And sisters. When Gabriella is there, that’s where she sits. Same for when Paul and Johanna come to see me play, and the parents of my teammates.”

“Emile, even the Bridgestone staff calls it the WAG suite. Don’t you stand there shaking your purple pom-pom and tell me you didn’t know that.”

He threw his sweater ribbons against the wall. “It is not the official name. It is called the Player VIP Suite.”

“You’re missing the point entirely, and you’re doing it on purpose.”

“You worry about embarrassment overmuch. There is no reason to be embarrassed.”

“Easy for you to say. You weren’t there.”

His gut sank. What was it Packi had said? They don’t like outsiders. “But the women? They were nice to you?”

“I didn’t stay long enough to find out. When I figured out what was going on, I left.”

“You left? You didn’t see the game? You didn’t see me get the shutout?”

“That’s right, Excellent Wolf.” And damn it all to hell, she smiled, and not a happy smile either. It was mean. Smug.

Emile wanted to slam his fist against the wall, but he’d need his hand tomorrow. Instead, he slammed the disappointment deep inside him.

“Well. That’s too bad. You missed a great game. You missed it because you were afraid of being embarrassed. Those women would have been nice to you. They like me.”

“Which is why they wouldn’t have been nice to me.”

“Sharon and Noel—they are my friends. They are nice women. Sharon even welcomes me to her home for holidays when I cannot go to North Dakota. You have no reason to think they would not have welcomed you. This makes no sense to me.”

“Then let me explain it to you. Let’s take Noel. I met her a week ago—”

“Eight days.”

“All right. Eight days. I was engaged at the time—”

“Except you weren’t. No ring.”

“Okay. I thought I was engaged, ring or not, because I thought I was going to marry Cameron. I referred to him as my fiancé. Then I tried to buy a three-thousand-dollar quilt from her, and my cards wouldn’t work. I told her I would return for the quilt when Cameron came back for me and everything was straightened out. Only he never came back, and for all I know, that quilt is still sitting wrapped up waiting for me. I’m sure she thought I was lying or delusional or both.”

“You’re making it sound worse than it was.” It would be best if she never knew he’d considered the delusional possibility.

“I’m making it sound exactly like it had to look to Noel. Then here I come into the WAG suite—wearing your jersey—the girl with no money who was engaged to someone else a week ago.”

“Eight days. And you were not engaged. Snow was engaged—and not to you. If you think you were engaged, you are delusional!”

She raised her hands and growled like a furious animal. “You are not listening to me! You’re the most stubborn man who ever lived.”

“Calmez-vous. Drame! Drame! Drame! Tout sur rien. Je déteste drame!”

“Give me strength!” She put her hands to her head and closed her eyes. “Would you please stop speaking that devil’s spawn language to me? You know I can’t understand you! It’s rude.”

Rude! He’d never been rude a minute in his life. He was charming! It had said so just last week in Sports Illustrated. Sports Illustrated did not lie!

“Vous pensez que vous ne pouvez pas me comprendre? Vous êtes la reine de la confusion!”

Her face went from red to white. “I swear, if you don’t stop, I’ll—”

“You’ll what? Destroy my sweater? Leave the game and refuse to see me play?”

“You just love yourself so much, don’t you, Mr. French Kiss?”

He gave her his best smile—the one he used in the chocolate commercials. “Ah, you would like a French kiss, would you?”

He’d meant it as taunt, of course, another way to win this argument. But all of a sudden, with the thought of his tongue in her mouth, winning didn’t matter anymore. His balls tightened and his cock sprang to life.

When he looked into her face, her eyes, he thought he saw his own feelings reflected there. Her purple eyes were dark velvet, and her mouth parted the tiniest bit. He let his eyes drop just in time to see her nipples rise and show against the fabric of her chaste little gown. Doux Jésus, he wanted her.

She took a deep, shaky breath, further evidence that she was feeling what he felt, but he couldn’t be sure. In the net, his instinct was nearly perfect. He could tell what an opposing forward would do by the rise of his shoulder and dart of his eyes. He never lost track of the puck’s location.

But his instincts outside the net? Not good, in general, especially with women, and non-existent where Amy was concerned.

Funny, it had never mattered before. He’d always just plowed on, bumbling as he went. Sometimes it worked out, sometimes not. But this time it mattered. He’d made so many mistakes with her, he needed to be sure.

He put his fingertips to his mouth, kissed them, and slowly brought them to her lips. And waited. The look she gave him was one of conflict and—he was pretty sure—of desire.

At last, she sighed a sweet little sigh and brought her own fingers to her lips and brought them to his mouth.

That was all the encouragement he needed. He closed his eyes and relished the feeling for just a moment before drawing her into his arms and laying her head back so he could look into her lovely, lovely face. “Tu as de beaux yeux.” He stroked the corner of first one of her eyes and then the other and said, “Beautiful,” just so he could be sure she understood.

“Merci,” she said in slow south Georgia French. It was one of the most endearing moments of his life.

“Now, about that French kiss,” he said.

Her mouth was open and eager when he bent his face to hers. Their tongues tangled together, slow, sweet, and wet. She made a little sound low in her throat that spoke of satisfaction and need all at the same time. His cock pounded, and he longed to rub it between her thighs and caress her breasts, but he wanted her to feel good and kissed first.

Finally, it was she who broke the kiss. She placed a hand on his cheek, and his heart skipped a beat. There was nothing sexual about the gesture, but it excited him all the same, though not so much in his cock as in his heart. He couldn’t think how to describe her touch. Sweet? Tender? Caring? Yes, all of that.

Her voice was raspy when she spoke. “I can’t not want you.”

“I’m right here.” He let his hand graze her breast as he picked her up. “I’m taking you to my bed.”

“Mine is closer.”

“Oui, but the condoms are in my room.” And that was true—his only condoms. For the first time since he was fifteen, he had not replaced the condom in his wallet—hadn’t even thought about it. And he knew why.

He had no intention of having sex anywhere except this condo with this woman in his arms.