The restaurant host led Stevie and I through the soberly lit main dining room. My hands hadn’t left Stevie’s body since I’d walked in on her getting out of the shower. I loved touching her, having her heat my skin. Maybe it was the fact I hadn’t eaten since breakfast, played hard during practice, and fucked the afternoon away, but I was feeling pretty damn high as heads turned watching us retreat to the private room in the back where my team was sitting.
“They’re staring…” she whispered.
“I know.” My laugh was low and graveled as I dipped my head. “They’re staring at you though.”
She met my gaze with big, amber-colored eyes. Stevie looked phenomenal in dark blue, curve-hugging jeans, and a black sweater. The fabric hung low on her left shoulder, exposing smooth porcelain skin. I knew exactly what it was like to taste that skin, how silky she felt against my lips. I wanted to leave a trail of hot kisses along the line of her neck, slip my hand under her sweater, and feel her soft stomach below my fingertips. The blood in my veins sang and pulsed toward my groin. I released her hand only to wrap my arm around her waist, needing to be that much closer to her, and whispered, “You look fucking hot tonight, I don’t think I’m gonna make it through this dinner.”
She laughed quietly, her delicate chin tipping forward, long chocolate strands of her hair fell with the movement and shielded her face. She pushed the pieces behind her ear and said with a confident smile, “I’m thinking you almost passed out in the shower, you need carbs more than you need me.”
She might’ve been on to something, but I shrugged. “I did not almost pass out.” She gave me incredulous eyes, the distinct blue burst flaring as my lips spread into a smirk. “I slipped. It was worth it, though, that angle…”
She slapped my chest, and I heard Bryson’s deep laugh over the raucous sounds of my teammates as we entered the back room.
“Finally!” he bellowed.
Some of the guys lifted their eyes, giving me a knowing smile or a nod of the chin. It didn’t take them long to avert their attention to the sexy woman on my arm. A few of them furrowed their brows, but the majority of them gave her smiles. Their eager stares lingered over her body more than I would’ve liked, but it was my favorite assistant coach who greeted us, showing me and Stevie to our seats.
“You brought a guest?” Meyers asked, his smile reaching his eyes.
“I did.” I held out my hand and he shook it with a firm grip. “Mitch, this is my girlfriend, Stevie. Stevie, this pain in the ass is in charge of our defense.”
Meyers laughed and shook Stevie’s hand. “Amongst other things, but no shop talk tonight…. It’s nice to meet you.” He angled his head to the right, indicating the only other woman in the room. “That’s my wife, Carrie, she’ll be happy to have a comrade-in-arms for once.”
Mitch’s wife had been diagnosed with breast cancer a couple of years ago. Once they’d given her the all-clear, and she’d gone into remission, the woman was at every game, road or not. They never had children, and she’d sort of become our road mother in a lot of ways. She was there for me when all the shit went down with Mia, and it shouldn’t be my favorite thing about her, but she hated Mia maybe more than I did. She’d told me, “Women who cheat, especially on their hardworking men, deserve a special place in Hades.”
Stevie’s smile was sweet as she said with a laugh, “Glad to get the chance to meet her, all these men, I’m a little intimidated.”
“Don’t be, half of these idiots are already salivating over you, they’re lambs to be slaughtered,” Mitch joked as he led us deeper into the room.
Four long tables hosted the majority of my teammates and were covered with drinks and appetizers. After a quick scan of the room, I noticed not everyone was here, but this didn’t surprise me, a lot of the guys preferred peace and quiet before a game. Bryson, who usually preferred the exact opposite, shot me a smart-ass smile from where he sat between Maddox and Rasmussen at the farthest table to the right. The same table Mitch’s wife Carrie occupied, and the only table with empty seats. I was proud of my team, my friends. But Bryson could be a dick if he wanted. He was protective of the team, of his friends. Of me. And because I’ve played alongside him for so long, I saw that edge, the way his eyes played at friendly, but in a faceoff, he’d unravel your game with one glare.
Carrie stood and offered Stevie her signature broad, honest smile introducing herself immediately as Mitch pulled out her chair. Stevie sat down to the left of Carrie, and as I pulled out my own chair, Mitch’s mouth split into another smile.
“She’s...” Amazing, I wanted to say for him, but didn’t because I was sitting across from my line mates and they eyed me like a hawk waiting for me to give them a reason to embarrass the hell out of me. “Nice,” Mitch finally said, his eyes tracking a line to where Stevie was now engrossed in conversation with his wife.
I nodded as I took my seat, watching Stevie’s cheeks light up in shades of pink. She laughed at something Carrie had said, and knowing Carrie, it must have been something dirty. You couldn’t hang out with a bunch of hockey players all the damn time and not have us influence you in some ways.
“Mark,” Maddox said by way of greeting, lifting his water glass to his mouth.
“What took you so long?” Bryson asked, knowing damn well what took us so long.
I ignored Rasmussen’s snort, and Bryson’s dumb fucking smirk and turned my attention to the now silent woman sitting next to me. I reached for her hand under the table, and when she laced her fingers through mine, I exhaled a long, tension-soaked breath. I gave Stevie a crooked grin and started the introductions. She’d already met Bryson at the bar the other night, and when Stevie leveled Rasmussen with her sexy smile, I watched, somewhat shocked, as his bravado fell away. For the first time since arriving in Tampa, Jasper Rasmussen looked his age. Barely over nineteen, the kid talked mad shit, but Stevie apparently had his number.
“Jesus Christ, Jazz, did you just come in your pants?” Bryson asked and I pinched the bridge of my nose.
Coach coughed and Carrie laughed so hard I thought wine would come out of her nose. The room was packed with adults, adults with the maturity level of a raunchy high schooler. It was the giggle that escaped Stevie’s lips, the sound like fingers kneading away the knots in my shoulder muscles that had me chuckling as well. Her eyes were open and bright, taking everything in. The rust-colored light of the room made the smooth surface of her face glow. She looked fucking beautiful. I couldn’t stop myself from leaning in and kissing her on the cheek, in front of every asshole in this room, I whispered with a smile on my lips a mile wide, “I apologize for nothing.”
She turned her head an inch and smiled back at me. “Good, because I won’t need one.” Stevie scanned the room, her gaze falling to Bryson. “It takes a lot to offend me.”
“Thank fuck,” Bryson barked, lifting his beer. His smile was genuine when he said, “Welcome to the team.”
All the guys sitting at my table pounded their fists on the wood like they would’ve pounded their blades to the boards for a goal. I thought the attention would’ve made Stevie shrink, but she sat up straighter, her smile popping into a dimple. She lifted her water glass, reached across the table, and tapped the rim of her glass into Bryson’s. I chuckled as I caught Karlsson shake his head with a laugh. “Welcome to the team” was classic Jensen, Captain Showmanship. Bryson’s amused eyes met mine, and though it had receded some, a protective shadow hovered. He was giving her a chance. And for him, that was a big step.
The conversations around the table resumed again, and I settled back into my seat as I overheard Carrie whispering to Stevie about the perils of surrounding yourself with hockey players. Stevie let go of my hand, resting her palm on my thigh above my knee. Her fingertips skated figure eights against the denim as she chatted up the assistant coach’s wife like she’d known her forever. Stevie fit, seamless, at my side and with my team. The cynic in me argued about too soon, and slow down, and stop thinking with your dick. Valid points or not, I felt better than I had in months. I draped my arm across the back of her chair, letting my fingertips graze her neck every once in a while as I talked plays and strategies with my line mates, loving how she leaned into the touch every time.
After the servers took our order, I’d won Stevie’s attention back with a soft kiss to her cheek, and I whispered for about the hundredth time today, “I’m glad you’re here.”
She pressed her lips together, a shy smile forming as she said, “So it seems.”
L.A. had shown up to their house ready to win, and win wasn’t even the best word to describe what happened on the ice tonight. Demolish, destroy, they fucking owned our asses. We were shit against the boards, spending more time behind our own blue line than we had all damn season. The few quality scoring chances we’d had were smothered and saved by their impressive display at net minding. After the second period, L.A. had managed three goals while we managed to stay scoreless.
Maddox had paced the locker room during that last intermission, trying hard to keep his cool as he told us we had to be more aggressive on the forecheck, push harder on the boards, get to the net. He’d tried to encourage us, ensuring us we still had twenty minutes of hockey to play, and we were fucking capable of earning back the win. But after the first face-off of the third period, all hell broke loose. Rasmussen allowed himself to get goaded into a fight when one of L.A.’s D-men pancaked him to the plexi. He’d taken the first swing, gotten a minor penalty for roughing, and not more than two minutes into the period, they scored again. Coach’s advice had gone in one ear and gotten lost somewhere on the other side. L.A. outmatched us, played a better mental game. Our game? It fell apart. Irritation—desperation—ate its way from our forward line back to the net. They’d shut us out, and we had no one to blame but ourselves.
“What a fucking nightmare,” Karlsson groaned and chucked his helmet into the cubby next to mine. He whipped his jersey over his head and threw it violently down onto the floor.
I leaned down to untie my laces, ignoring his tantrum. I’d like to say he’d done the best that he could, but none of us had. Blood dripped down my face from the half-inch-long gash marring my left cheekbone. I’d taken a high stick to the face, and of course, the ref hadn’t noticed when it happened. Every damn penalty we pulled though…
“Bullshit.” I heard someone mutter but kept my eyes trained to the floor as I removed my skates.
I shuffled through my bag looking for my phone. I needed to send my obligatory, “I’ll call you later, we lost” text to my sister, and let Stevie know I would head out soon, but the battery had died. Realizing my charger was at the hotel, I zipped up my bag with more force than was necessary as I heard the coaching staff grumbling to one another. Coach would save his speeches for tomorrow, like always, once we were back home. He was a huge proponent of putting a loss behind you as quick as possible, move on, and learn from your mistakes. Maddox had a great mental game, only losing his shit on rare occasions. He and Bryson were a lot alike in that aspect.
“Take this.” Bryson handed me a towel. “You’re bleeding.”
He sank down onto the bench next to me and I stared at the towel. “I’d like to blame your girl for this…” I shot him a warning glare and he laughed. “Calm down, asshole. I was gonna say, I’d like to, but we lost this shit all on our own. If anything, you played your best game tonight.”
I ran my hand through my sweat-soaked hair and leaned back against the wall. I was still wearing my pads, exhausted, I closed my eyes and sucked in a deep breath. I hadn’t thought about Stevie since L.A. scored their first goal. I’d effectively compartmentalized like I always did. And without sounding like an arrogant prick, what Bryson said was true. I had played my best game tonight. I was all over the place, picking up slack when I could, but…
“It doesn’t matter when you lose the points, though, does it?” I asked.
Bryson punched my shoulder and I opened my eyes. “It doesn’t, but we won two out of three on this trip, and maybe Maddox was on to something at practice this morning with those suggested line changes. I should’ve listened. I like you as a line mate, we’re fucking epic, man, but maybe if he split us up, gave us our own lines like he wanted to try, we’d get more depth.”
“You think?”
“Shit, I don’t know. Maybe it’ll mess everything up, but I think we should at least give it a try. We’ll never make it to the playoffs if we can’t find a consistency that works.”
I wiped the towel across my face and winced as the rough, dry, fabric pulled across the cut. My head pounded, and all I wanted to do was shower and fall asleep next to Stevie’s naked body. Our next game wasn’t until Tuesday, instead of our normal late-night flight home, we were taking off at the ass crack of dawn.
“That looks like it needs stitches,” he said as he stood and removed his shirt.
“I’ll see the trainer.” I shrugged my shoulders. I’d had worse.
I pressed the fabric firmly against my cheek trying to dull the sting, feeling more aggravated than anything by the delay the small injury would cause. If I had my way, I’d be in the cab riding back to the hotel instead of hanging in a smelly-as-fuck locker room with a bunch of pissed-off dudes.
“Good game tonight, Melo,” Bryson said, his tone loaded with sarcasm. I lifted my tired eyes to his. “You deserve a conciliatory blow job.”
I choked on my laugh as I threw my bloody towel at his feet. “Christ,” was all I could mutter as I stood. Every muscle in my body twisted in the wrong direction, begging for hot water.
“What?” He smirked. “That’s what I’m gonna do. I think blow jobs are pretty much a cure-all for everything.”
“I thought you said pussy was a cure-all for everything.”
Bryson’s brows pinched together as his smirk lifted into a smile. “Well, yeah… that, too.”
I shook my head even though the thought of being buried inside Stevie had me thinking I could skip the stitches.
Turned out I couldn’t skip the stitches. I walked into my hotel room around midnight with four stitches sewn into my cheek, every muscle and bone in my body ached as I let my duffle fall to the floor right by the front door. I moved through the suite with silent steps as I followed the path of light creeping from the bedroom door. The only sound I heard as I carefully pushed it open were even, soft breaths. Stevie was sprawled across the bed wearing absolutely nothing. A groan caught in my throat as I approached her. Slipping off my suit jacket I admired the velvet surfaces of her skin and how the sheet had tangled itself exposing her full tits. The light from the bathroom was on, illuminating the dusky pink of her nipples. My mouth went dry, and I loosened my tie, tonight’s game officially forgotten.
I stripped down, leaving a pile of clothes on the floor, and crawled onto the bed. I pressed her back to my chest, my dick—hard—pushed against her ass. A breathy moan, a quiet hmm, and she wiggled against me.
“It’s late,” I whispered, pressing kisses below her ear.
She rolled her head to the side and gazed up at me with sleepy eyes. “I texted you.”
“My phone died.” I kissed her mouth and she arched her back.
A muted growl formed in my throat and I bit her upper lip. She wrapped her arm around the back of my neck, her fingers running up the nape and twisting my hair as she opened her kiss. Her tongue tasted like mint and it swept and moved in languid strokes. I cupped her breast, and I smiled against her mouth when she shivered.
I lowered my hand to her belly, pressing her hips back into mine. She broke our kiss, breathing heavy, and covered my hand with hers. She guided it between her legs and, holy fuck, she was wet and warm, and exactly where I wanted to be. She was slick against my fingertips as I teased her clit. A long, needy breath passed her lips when I slipped my fingers out from between her legs.
I palmed her knee, sliding my hand down a few inches. Not a word was said as she bent her knee, feeling my touch, knowing what I wanted, she lifted her leg. Her back to my chest, I reached down between us, aligning myself with her body. The muscles in my stomach contracted as I slid inside her. She was hot against my skin, her arousal pouring over me, dragging me in deeper and, without thinking, my body sought what it needed.
I dropped my lips to her neck, my teeth taking small purchases of her flesh as she ground herself against my every thrust, tight grunts of praise shuddered past my lips as I fucked her, lost myself inside her. My right arm was wrapped under her, around her, holding her in place. My left hand and its fingers occupied again with the sweet sensitive flesh between her legs. She exploded around me, her climax coaxing mine. It started at the base of my spine. My jaw clenched, my forehead falling onto her shoulder as I fought it, trying to hold on. Her body was too good, and I didn’t want to stop. I slowed each thrust until she begged me to fuck her, to move faster, to go harder, until I could no longer take my self-imposed torture.
“Fuck, I’m gonna come,” I growled into the crook of her neck as my hips lost their rhythm, as my mind cleared, and all I could feel was the heat of my release as I let go inside her.
We were both catching our breath, sweat beading on my brow as I kissed her shoulder. Being skin-to-skin with Stevie in every way was heaven. Yesterday, after she’d told me she had an IUD, we both decided condoms were no longer necessary. Feeling Stevie come, without any barriers, I was fucking hooked.
I leaned back, reluctantly breaking away from her body. She rolled to her other side, facing me. We kissed slow and deep, and when I felt myself getting hard again, I nipped her lip and chuckled.
I took her hand in mine and lowered it to my burgeoning erection. “See what you do to me.”
She stroked me once and buried her face in my chest.
She lifted her hand to my heart as she tipped her head, bringing her eyes to mine. She gasped and raised her brows. “Oh my God, what happened to your face?”
Stevie raised her trembling fingers as if to touch my stitches and then thought better of it, letting them fall below the gash.
“It’s nothing,” I assured her and kissed the tips of her fingers.
“Mark, that’s not nothing.” She elevated her weight onto her elbow and my eyes trailed down to the sweeping slopes of her breasts. She playfully pushed my chest. “Can you concentrate for a second and tell me what happened?”
“Hockey happened.” She rolled her eyes and I smiled. “The game was shit, their guys were rougher than we were, we lost, and I got stitches… overall, these last twenty minutes, highlight of my night.”
“Getting laid being the highlight of your night over a horrible loss isn’t really a compliment.”
I placed another kiss, unable to help myself, between her furrowed brows. Tiny creases around her eyes formed as she smiled. Instead of aging her, the laugh lines made her look younger.
“Horrible loss? We’ve had worse.”
“Will it get easier watching you lose?” she asked, tracing her nails along the ridges of my stomach and back up to my chest.
My lips found hers as I tried to persuade her away from this line of conversation. Her fingers fisted in my hair and I guided her down onto the mattress.
“Don’t want to talk about it, huh?”
I shook my head with a flippant smile as I let her thighs box in my hips. “Talk about what?”
She narrowed her eyes, her mouth tipping into a smirk, her hands gliding down my ribcage and over the solid curve of my ass. “The game.”
My lips surrounded the tight peak of her nipple, my tongue tasting the tip. The silk of her skin grazed my taste buds and my mouth watered. I watched her lids fall and hood her eyes as I asked, “What game?”