Chapter 3
Alex sat back in his seat, grunting when he rested too much weight on his arm. Thank God the team had left, because otherwise they’d be pointing to that as a reason why their captain should be off the ice. Smug bastards were all we’re managing without you. Gooly had even said that Alex taking one for the team was unifying. Like Gooly even knew what that meant; he’d probably read it somewhere.
Then Loki had made an Avengers reference, something about Coulson dying, and Alex had been lost. Loki was all about the action hero movies. Alex was pretty much all about the hockey one hundred and ten percent of the time.
He couldn’t deny the simple fact that the Dragons had played their hearts out in the last five games; four decisive wins without him, and only one loss in overtime. He was damn proud of everyone who’d stepped up.
Which in turn had led to some pretty interesting headlines online and in the local press. In some reports, he was a hero, and the team was playing for him because he’d risked his life. In others, some questioned why, if Dragons were finding success without him being there, they actually needed him.
With the way he was feeling that morning, a long way past feeling sorry for himself, he focused on all the negative parts. He hated being called a hero, didn’t want the attention that came with it, and just wanted normal: back on the ice and back home.
He’d tried to go home yesterday, but there had been photographers and even a freaking news van right outside his ornate wrought-iron gates. What was up with that? He hadn’t done anything that any other self-respecting person wouldn’t have. If Ryan had got to the car first, he would have gone in after the kid and her dad.
And as for the hockey, he had to ignore the press, who were already talking about the Dragons trading him, and listen instead to the team who, to a man, had reassured him they were winning for him.
None of that mattered when you were being equally praised and ridiculed in the press. He shut his iPad, not sure he wanted to read any more articles about him or his team. Channel-surfing was another exercise in futility. The only game being shown was last week’s Canucks/Oilers game, and he’d already watched it twice. Once at normal speed, the second time just fast-forwarding to the parts he wanted to study. The Dragons’ Canadian away games weren’t until February, but the Canucks were due at the Sweetings Arena in a couple of weeks. He was nothing if not prepared, and had a whole pile of notes on plays and strategy.
He flipped open his phone and group-texted notes on the Canucks’ defense.
Then he texted more, this time about their goalie, and the way Loki needed to stay close to him in front of the net.
And another mentioning the fact that he wanted to talk about the Dragons’ power play against the team.
He got four immediate answers.
Ryan simply said, “We know.” But he was a defenseman, and he’d talked at length today in their heated meeting about how the defensive coach was guiding the team the wrong way. Ryan wanted more from their penalty kill, and Alex tended to agree with him, but the D-coach was fixed in one direction. None of that boded well for team happiness.
Drago sent thirteen kisses. Alex counted them. What that meant he didn’t know, but it made him smile. Idiot goalie.
Gooly sent something in Russian, lots of symbols and exclamation points. He was sure it was constructive and resolved to Google translate it later.
The last was from the rookie, Arkin. He sent a well-constructed text, with punctuation and everything, expressing his hope that Alex was feeling okay and reassuring his captain that he’d made detailed notes from the texts for later discussion.
Well, at least one of his team was taking him seriously.
When Loki’s response came through, much later, and it was the emoticon of a broken arm, followed by a snowflake and an X, Alex turned off his phone. The X wasn’t a kiss from Loki, more like a huge “no” next to the snowflake, which was probably the closest his idiot winger could get to an icon meaning ice. He closed his eyes and rested his head back on the sofa.
I miss the room. I miss the guys. I’m having a bad day.
Something clattered to his left, and he jolted upright with an unmanly yelp.
“Shit, sorry,” Kat said. “Were you asleep?”
“No, it’s cool,” he lied, and focused in on the woman behind her. Jo, or Josie, or something like that. He knew she worked alongside Kat as a trainee firefighter. She’d been at the house yesterday, her arms full of books and her long dark hair caught up in a messy ponytail. Not that he’d been staring or anything, but there was something familiar about her, about the way she looked at him, with compassion and then irritation, when he smiled at her. She was all sexy curves, and a dimpled smile, and her lips looked so damn soft.
“Hey, Jo,” he said, because some small part of him wanted to see a smile or some of that cute irritation. He didn’t care which.
“Hey,” she said, and picked up a couple of books from the floor. Clearly the ones that had been dropped to cause the noise. She opened a large bag, stuffing them in there. He caught the titles—well parts of them; the words “firefighter” and “exam”—and the use of flames around the edge.
“You taking tests on fire?” he asked, a little stupidly.
She looked at him like he was an idiot. “I’m a probie, we take tests.”
“Probie?”
“A firefighter in my first year of probation, so, yeah, probie.”
So she was a rookie at the firehouse, much as Arkin was on the team. Passing tests—written as well in her case, game situations for Arkin—was all about the journey to being the best you could be.
Hell, what am I on? Did someone slip me meds again? I’m waxing fucking lyrical.
“Jo’s here studying,” Kat explained.
“Oh, right. When is the exam?” he asked.
Kat disappeared back upstairs, mumbling something about signed pucks and kids, then it was just him and Jo left.
“A couple of weeks,” she answered, and he had to recall what he’d asked. Oh right, the exam.
That was it. No elaboration, no excitement or nerves, or other words that might extend the conversation. He stood up, stretched tall, wincing at the pain in his arm, and ambled over to the kitchen counter, taking up residence on one of the stools, his foot on the rung. Like that, he got a closer look at Jo. Her hair was so dark it was almost black, and it had waves, but he didn’t know enough about women’s hair to know if she’d curled it or if it was natural. Her eyes were dark; a warm velvet-brown. He’d never seen eyes that dark before. Did that make her Russian or something? Because only Gooly had eyes anywhere near that dark. That could give him something to ask her, but then he stopped himself. He imagined himself asking her if she had Russian heritage and her continuing to stare at him like he was a freaking madman.
Since when have I lost my ability to talk to a woman?
“Do you watch hockey?” he asked.
“Not really,” she answered, and wet her lips with the tip of her tongue.
Great, she’d destroyed his conversation starter, and at the same time made her lips glisten like she’d been kissed.
Two blows in one short moment, one to his ego, the other to his libido.
He focused on other things, like the fact that she was exactly the right height to be kissed; shorter than him, but not by much. He wasn’t the tallest hockey player out there, just the NHL average six-one, and she was wearing running shoes, not heels. In heels, she might match him in height.
The image of Jo in fuck-me heels, with her dark hair spread on a pillow and her brown eyes wide with need, appeared well-formed in his mind and lodged nicely right there for later inspection.
She brushed the hair away from her face, long bangs that had escaped the band, and he focused in on her eyes again.
I’m staring. I need to stop staring.
She blinked and took a side step away from him, glancing past him at the stairs where Kat had disappeared. He didn’t have to know body language to see that she looked uncomfortable. He was failing at the flirting game; rusty with disuse, probably. When was the last time he’d gone out with the boys and picked up a girl? Certainly not since last training camp in September, which was two months ago. And it wasn’t like he’d gotten laid then either. Weighing up spending his spare time evaluating prospects against random meaningless sex with a one night stand was easy.
The team was his everything.
And he always had his right hand.
Only…his fantasy had him getting hard, and abruptly he wanted to brush off his flirting skills. They probably wouldn’t see each other again if he didn’t say something, and Alex kind of liked the idea of maybe seeing her again if he could.
“Good luck,” he said, and leaned forward into her space. She looked a little edgy, way too serious, and so he decided to use the legendary Simard charm. Well, legendary in his own head, maybe. He turned on the flirting, leaning in, smiling. “Maybe after the exam, we could get a drink to celebrate.”
“We…”
“Me and you.”
She did more of that blinking, her lips thinning, and then she took another step away from him. “I might not have anything to celebrate,” she pointed out.
Her stepping back should have been a warning to him. He should have listened to his instincts, but he didn’t, and with hindsight, he probably did what he did next because he was going stir crazy in that damn house. He moved closer, shifting himself off the stool and kind of looming over her in that position. “Then we could commiserate.”
She recoiled, and internally he winced. That had been a cheesy, pathetic, god-awful pickup line, and he’d got the reaction he deserved. He pasted a smile on his face, but knowing him and his fucked-up social graces it was likely more of a grimace. Good job he was a hockey player and puck bunnies didn’t care about how smooth he was or wasn’t. Otherwise he’d never get laid.
He moved forward a little,. She kind of nearly swayed toward him, and god, her lips were damp, and she wasn’t turning away.
Just one kiss. That would help him feel better today. Just a little kiss, sweet, chaste, and they could maybe get a drink. He swallowed. She was so beautiful. Even wide-eyed with apprehension, he wanted to kiss her. Girls generally wanted to kiss him, and he was a good kisser, or at least that was what some of them had said. At least if he got a kiss, it would take the edge off the frustration of not being on the ice. And she’d get to kiss an honest to goodness NHL captain, worth millions, whom other girls wanted.
If I repeat that shit long enough I might even believe I’m worth kissing.
The compulsion to touch her wouldn’t leave him; he could imagine sliding his hands around her waist, moving them down to cup her ass and lift her, slot between her legs. He could easily hold her, even as tall as she was. He was strong, and he could hold her, and she could wrap her legs around his waist, and then he could press his cock right up against her and swallow her moans in heated kisses.
Oh shit, that fantasy was way too real.
He extended his hand to touch her, to reassure her, maybe even cradle her face; chicks loved that.
She moved back, her ass hitting the counter, but she didn’t slip to the side, just stood there staring at him.
“What are you doing?” she asked, and cast a look behind her to where Kat had vanished.
“What does it look like?” he replied, keeping his tone light, teasing. He moved even closer, right into her space, bracketing her with his hands on the counter. “Can I kiss you?”
Her eyes widened. “You can’t ask random strangers to kiss you.”
“But you’re not a stranger,” he said. “You’re friends with Ryan’s fiancée. So now that’s sorted, can I kiss you?”
She didn’t say no, her tongue darting out to her lips again, and he was lost. He dipped his head, and he didn’t know if she moved toward him, but the kiss was a gentle press of lips and it was so fucking sweet. He inhaled the scent of her—soap, shampoo—and wanted to deepen the kiss, and when he lifted a hand to cradle her face, she made a low whimper that sent iron to his cock. In a smooth movement, he lifted her onto the counter, and that was when it all went horribly wrong.
What happened next could at best be described as a comedy of errors, and at worst as a fucking mess. Maybe he’d moved too fast, but she wrenched free and slid off the counter, and as he moved forward, she twisted and, through no fault of anyone’s, her knee made contact with his balls.
He looked at her, right at her, straight into her wide, dark eyes, saw her hand over her mouth, and as he bent at the waist, his eyes watering, his breath stolen, he saw her feet move and could do nothing about her leaving.
The pain. The door slamming.
“Jesus, Alex, what happened? Do I need to call 9-1-1?”
Kat was there, seeing him bent over, clutching his balls, and thank god Kat hadn’t just witnessed what he’d done. He held out a hand and wheezed, “I’m fine.” He managed to get to the sofa and tried not to be sick.
He’d fucked up, he’d explain in a minute, when the pain went, and when he wasn’t worried he’d never father any kids. He’d deserved what had just happened; he’d been clumsy and stupid and misread everything. Kat patted his arm, but that wouldn’t last long when he explained. She’d laugh at him, and then she’d tell Ryan, and the whole team, and that would lead to Loki creating some kind of knee-to-the-balls practical joke.
Only, when he did explain, Kat’s expression went from worried to pissed, and when she punched him in the chest, he only had one thought.
What the hell was wrong with him that people kept wanting to hit him?
“She’s not some puck bunny you can fuck around with!” Kat was near shouting. “She’s a good girl, not a one-night fuck. What is it with you idiots and girls?”
He hadn’t heard that much cursing from Kat since whenever, and when the pain subsided, he found her in the kitchen, irritably washing potatoes, as much as you could wash vegetables angrily.
“I’m not an idiot,” he started.
Kat quelled him with a pointed glare.
“Not normally,” he amended.
Kat’s opinion meant something to him. She was Loki’s sister and Ryan’s fiancé; his two best friends. She was going to be part of his life forever, she’d opened her home to him, and he’d somehow given her the wrong impression of him. He was angry-Alex, miserable-Alex, and now he was puck-bunny-using, stupid-and-thoughtless-Alex.
“You’re an idiot,” she repeated.
“I don’t do that kind of thing,” he began, but she didn’t let him finish.
“What? Scare my friends?”
“We kissed. I was teasing her—”
“You think that’s sexy?”
“I thought so.”
“Men,” she snapped, and made to leave the kitchen.
He stopped her with a touch to her arm. “Wait, I don’t want you thinking I’m the bad guy here. I’m one of the nice ones; you know that, right?”
She stared at him and raised an eyebrow in comment.
What? She didn’t believe him?
“You know me. Jeez… Hell, you can ask Ryan,” he added lamely.
What was he doing? Trying to explain his ethics, his morals, to Kat in an attempt to get back in her good books?
I’m losing it.
She deflated immediately. “I don’t think you’re a bad guy,” she admitted. “Just Jo is…Jo. She’s not had an easy year.”
That seemed to be all Alex was getting from the conversation when Ryan came in through the door, bringing the snow and cold and muttering curses at the fact that his face was frozen. He swept Kat up in his arms in a tight hug, and she laughed and wrapped her hands around his neck. The kiss wasn’t X-rated, but the fact that Ryan lifted her and carried her up the stairs with nothing more than a wink at Alex and a “bye” had Alex pulling on the biggest, thickest coat he could find and lacing his boots, taking himself out for a walk around the neighborhood.
He wasn’t going to cramp Ryan’s style or make them feel uncomfortable. He wasn’t that kind of guy.
He wasn’t a bad person. He didn’t scare women. He didn’t use them. Well, not anymore, anyway. He couldn’t be blamed for his excesses after he’d received his first NHL contract; he’d been nineteen and horny.
So he walked the streets, moody and feeling guilt and lust and generally being pissed off at everything. The pain, the media, the accident. He kicked at snow, ignored the cold like every self-respecting Canadian could. The snow they had here was nothing compared to a west-Canadian winter, and the iciness in his lungs was just what he needed to find his center. Guilt subsided, being pissed off vanished, and he was just left with a heavy feeling in his heart.
He wished he’d come home from a good practice and been swept up in kissing a woman he loved.
Hell, at the moment he’d just take the good practice.
His walk took him close to his own place, a large fenced property that backed onto the same lake as Ryan’s did. He’d bought it the first year of his contract with the Dragons. He’d had a shiny new four-year contract paying out five point two million a year, and he’d been sick of apartment living. He’d bought the place with an eye to the future, a solid investment and a place for a wife and kids and a dog or two. But for any of that he’d need to actually date; put his romantic life in front of his work life.
After the Stanley Cup. After he proved that a new team could get that far.
I’m only twenty-nine—plenty of time for forever.
The place he had here, six bedrooms, two kitchens, the second for what purpose he wasn’t sure, five bathrooms, a game room, a pool to one side, a den, a media room, another two rooms that stood empty at the moment, was his home.
He couldn’t go home, and it was a fucking ass of a thing.
Cautiously, he checked to see if any of the press was still there, but it was blessedly free of anyone with cameras and microphones. Maybe there was other news now; some Kardashian debacle that had taken their attention away from him. Or maybe the press releases about him recuperating back home near his parents in Whistler were actually working.
He punched in the code and let himself in through the side gate, through the back door past the pool house, into his kitchen, locking the door behind him.
Some of his clothes were at Ryan’s place, mostly team jerseys and sweats, as well as his iPhone charger. But he had his wallet, his keys, and he was home, and there had to be another charger in his place. Either that or he could call in an order and have one delivered.
Then people would know you were here.
He fired off a quick text to Ryan, saying that his place was media free and he was moving home. The battery level showed eighty-nine percent. He’d just eke it out if he couldn’t find another charger. There was no immediate answer, but he wasn’t expecting one. His friend was likely busy.
Again, the envy hit, and he stared glumly over the lake to the mountains beyond.
Then he realized that somehow, in the last few days, he had regressed to being a moody teenager, and abruptly he was sick of feeling sorry for himself. He stripped as he walked, a trail of cold weather gear on the floor, and when he was down to jersey shorts and a T-shirt, he pushed open the door to the custom-built gym that was the first thing he’d converted in the house.
Time to exercise away the gut-burning need that tracked him everywhere.
He played game film, picking the Canucks again, and set a steady walk on the running machine. Only when he was at a solid running speed did he finally feel the stress leave him.
He was right to think that hard work solved every problem. He just had to work hard on getting better, getting back on the ice, and then tracking down Jo and apologizing to her.
He should get her number, but that would lead to a generic I’m sorry text. That wasn’t right. Flowers, or maybe she wasn’t the flowers type. Something to do with her exams, maybe? A notebook, a good one, leather, with a pen—a Mont Blanc? Was that a good pen? He’d heard of them; they were expensive, right? Girls liked expensive things. She wouldn’t be offended by that, right? That was kind of thoughtful of him, he decided, like he’d really considered her feelings and done something nice that was also expensive.
Satisfied that he could make it right, his mind went to dark brown eyes, and the sweep of nearly black hair, and the generous curves of the woman who had taken him down with a knee to the balls. He recalled the interest in her eyes, then the confusion, and remembered the way she’d worried at her lower lip with her teeth. She was pretty, strikingly so, and there was absolute strength alongside vulnerability. He even felt the stirrings of need at the memory, an urge to kiss her, but his equipment failed to rise to the occasion.
“Sorry, boys,” he apologized, then realized he was talking to his junk. Next thing he’d be doing was giving his cock a name. “Sorry, little Simba,” he said, and snorted a laugh to the empty room.
Then he laughed some more, because, fuck, his head really was screwed.