ANDRE

Three Days Left...

I made a mistake.

What kind of mistake, you ask?

Well, the kind where I let the most beautiful woman I know into my bed for four nights in a row. The kind of mistake where I wake up early, just so that I have time to cook her eggs and bacon each morning. The kind of mistake where I text her throughout the day because I want to see how she’s doing.

I stare down at my phone, ignoring the guys around me in the locker room. We’re padding up, ready to pull our shit together so we can hammer it out against the Boston Bruins. A city with two pro-teams is practically unheard of, and the NHL only acquiesced to the decision made by the Blades when the board rationalized some years back that two major hockey leagues would result in more income for the repairs to the arena. Nowadays, the Blades are as much of a city pastime as the Red Sox or the Bruins.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen a rink this active before! Zoe’s text reads. Have I said thank you for the tickets yet?

Hunching my shoulders so that Zoe’s words are for me alone, I type out: You did. But I do accept gratitude in other ways. Sex, kisses, massages. Pick your flavor.

I can practically hear her laughing on the other side of the screen. Is this where I tell you that your Manhood is exactly what I need right now?

I laugh out loud at that, and the sound attracts the attention of my teammates.

“You good?” Harrison asks as he takes it upon himself to sit next to me on the bench. “You’re laughing like a weirdo when no one is around.”

I flick my phone off. “Just talking a bit.”

“With Zoe Mackenzie?”

According to the Rules That Be, I shouldn’t have even kissed her. But I can’t regret it at all because she’s like a drug. I need her smiles and her laughter and everything else that is unanimously Zoe Mackenzie. “Just discussing some logistical PR stuff. That’s all.”

“Like having sex with her?”

My stomach caves. “No.”

Duke pats my shoulder. “You’re delusional. The girl wants you. Go after somebody for once. Do the whole chasing thing that usually makes your dick shrivel up.”

He’s right. I never do the chasing. I’d like to say that it’s in my DNA, but that’d be a lie. Once upon a time, I did the chasing. Haven’t for a while, though. Until Zoe, who I’m wooing. Jesus, even the word sounds ridiculous.

Right now, she’s sitting up in the nosebleeds, the same way that she always did back in Detroit. It’s her favorite place, although I could have easily put her somewhere closer to the ice. Somewhere closer to me.

Even so, the idea that she’s here, that she’s up in the nosebleeds waiting for me to take to the ice is like a high I forgot I needed to survive. To Duke, though, I mutter, “It’s not like that with us.”

“Lies, dude. Lie to me, if you want, because I don’t really care one way or the other. But I hope you aren’t lying to her right now.”

My gut clenches.

How the fuck does he know that the guilt is piling in? Because as happy as I am, I’m not telling her everything.

Fifteen minutes later, we’re on the ice and I’m not ashamed to admit that I use hockey like a stress reliever. As much as I talk about giving it up and moving to the Caribbean, I know I’d be bored with that life.

For nearly a decade, hockey has been my identity.

At least, it was until it wasn’t.

For three years, I was someone else. Something else.

The puck drops and I hesitate, my instincts lagging as the past threatens to pull me under.

“And he’s lost it!” shouts the announcer into the arena microphone. “Jee-wiz, I can’t believe Beaumont lost that huge opportunity.”

The announcer’s words are like a drill to my head.

Get your ass back in the gear.

For the rest of the period, I give everything that I have to the game. Adrenaline pumps through my body, and I soak it in. It’s that rush that puts me in place to receive the puck from McDermott. It’s that rush that allows me to angle my trajectory path to the net, seeing an opportunity between shoulder pads and ice skates.

The puck hits the five-hole and the crowd goes wild. My teammates swarm me, lifting me up, even though I’m one heavy bastard, as they thump their gloved fists against my back for a job well done.

My gaze hits the stands, climbing the rows in search of her face.

I don’t see her, but I imagine her up there near the top, decked out in my jersey (I bought her my current one), jeans, and her ever-present stilettos.

It’s the image that I carry with me as I finish the game. The announcers off-handedly comment on my lack of trips to the sin bin. For once, the nickname isn’t mentioned, and I’m beyond grateful.

The guys and I towel off in the locker room after slick showers, and I force my way through an interview with the media, so that Walter Collins will get off Zoe’s case about revitalizing my reputation. She’s doing more than her fair share of work, more than I even realized until recently.

I need to shape up, if for no other reason than I want to make her life easier.

“You wanna go to The Box?”

I glance up at Marshall Hunt, who’s got his towel slung around his neck and not much else on. “Nah, I’m good; thanks though.”

Zoe and I have a date with food, and as much as I like the guys, they can’t win out over her.

“Something tells me that your decline has a lot to do with the hot brunette waiting outside the locker room,” Hunt muses, a smile pulling at his pretty-boy features. “I don’t blame you.”

This time, I don’t even bother with pretending that Zoe and I aren’t currently sleeping together. I offer my teammate a secretive grin, then hook my duffel bag over my shoulder. “Have a good time tonight,” I tell him.

“You too, Beaumont!”

I ignore his cackling and head straight for home base. As luck would have it, she’s exactly where Hunt said she’d be. And, Jesus, she looks amazing in my jersey. The navy blue and silver material is a tad long, so she’s tucked part of the hem into the waistband of her skintight jeans. Naturally, stilettos accompany the look. Her hair is down, wavy and full, and I don’t bother to stop myself—I drop the duffel on the ground, sink my hands into her soft hair, and angle her lips for a deep kiss.

Her hand goes to my heart. “You played amazing tonight,” she murmurs, pulling back from me. “That assist with McDermott? So well-timed.”

Her enthusiasm makes me laugh. “Can you think of it now? Two years ago, you didn’t even know what an assist was.”

“Give me a little more credit than that, please.”

“I’m sorry, baby, you’re right. I saw the Hockey for Dummies book you carried around. You were a quick study.”

She doesn’t react to the endearment, and I suppose that’s a good thing. Two weeks ago, she would have nailed me in the balls for daring to utter it. Now, she only hums in delight, slipping her hand into mine as we wind our way down the hallway of doom toward the parking garage.

As she launches into a story about Tia, her half-sister, finally gearing up the courage to ask her crush out, I can’t help but think she’s hinting that she wants more with me. I don’t do relationships. Ever. But lately, that’s what I want with Zoe.

To come home to her each night. To slip my arm around her waist as we settle in the bed. To kiss her in the morning when her hair is a mess and her cheek has pillow imprints all over it.

Fuck me, but I want that. I want all of that and more.

“Date me.”

The words are out before I can stop them, and she halts so abruptly that I lose hold of her hand. Her beautiful brown eyes are wide with shock, her mouth pursed into an O.

“What?”

Jesus. I’m screwing this up.

With a glance over my shoulder to check if anyone has followed us, I rake my fingers through my hair, and repeat, “Date me.”

“I heard it the first time.”

“And?”

“I guess I’m just a little shocked, that’s all,” she answers pertly. “Not to mention the fact that Mr. Collins will have my head if he finds out.”

I tug at my earlobe. I would never ask Zoe to quit her job. The woman works way too hard just to give it up now. Which means . . . “I’ll find a new PR agency.”

This time, her brows fly up high on her forehead. “What?”

Warming to the thought, I nod my head. “Yeah, it’s perfect, actually. I mean, I won’t leave yet—you still have your trial run, and I’d never jeopardize that. But after, when they begin assigning you new clients, I’ll go elsewhere. That way, your work ethic isn’t being compromised—”

“Andre, do you even know how many times you’ve compromised me in the last few days?”

Her tone is wry, and I give it right back. My hands find her hips, as I gently push her back against the garage wall. I lean into her, giving her everything. “I’m all for compromising, baby. You up for another run?”

She gives a startled laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”

I lower my head to her neck. Now that the idea of us dating has been firmly planted, I can’t give it up. Everything else . . . I’ll tell her that in time, when it’s right. I shove those thoughts away and nip at her earlobe. “You know you want to say yes, Zo. Think of it now—late night trips to the grocery store to buy you your favorite potato chips. Days spent binging on Game of Thrones. Me in your bed . . . ” I thrust my hips gently against her, so she knows how hard I am.

Her quiet hiss is like music to my ears, especially when she digs her fingers into my hips to keep me in place. “You push a hard bargain, Beaumont.”

My thumb brushes over her cheek. “I’m a man who knows what he wants.”

I watch her eyes fall shut. “King Sin Bin is becoming respectable, Andre. I almost don’t know what to think of that.”

I kiss her. I stamp my mouth down on hers, and absorb her squeak of surprise. Her fingers dive into my hair, tugging me closer, as if we aren’t already one. Hell, I missed her this past year. I rock my cock against her belly, and grin wildly when she arches her back and begs for more.

This. This is what I’ve been needing.

Zoe.

“Careful,” she whispers against my neck, “if you don’t stop, you might just fall.”

I know what she’s talking about. “Don’t mind if I do.”

And then I put my mouth back where it belongs, on hers.

Mine.