Mister Hockey (Hellions Angels #1)(3)

“Nothing.” She wiped a hand over her mouth, erasing the mysterious smirk. “So . . . what’s it going to be? Will you heed the urgent call of a damsel in distress? Just remember that if the answer is no, then the topic of my next podcast is going to be about hockey captains who devastate local fans by refusing to support worthwhile community events.”

He threw up his hands in mock annoyance. “I’d have said yes. No need to stoop to Tony Soprano threats.” For all her smart talk, he enjoyed Neve’s company. He didn’t have a sister, but if he did, he’d wish for one like her.

“Nice to find out that your good-guy attitude isn’t an act.” The tension lines bracketing her mouth vanished as she gave him an honest grin. “You’d be surprised how often celebrity athletes suck donkey balls.” She shoved the phone back to her ear. “Breezy? Crisis averted. The cavalry’s coming.”

“Your order is coming out in just a minute.” The waitress bustled to the table and leaned in close. A clump of mascara dangled off the edge of her lashes. “Want anything else in the meantime? More fresh squeezed orange juice . . . my phone number?”

“Oy! That’s enough of that.” Neve stuffed her phone back down her shirt. “We need that breakfast sandwich and bagel to go.” She began packing her things in quick efficient movements as the waitress retreated. “Follow me over?”

“I know the way.” His condo wasn’t far from the Rosedale library. “Speer Boulevard, hop off on Tenth?” He rose and grabbed his Gore-Tex jacket. “What’s the plan?”

“You’ll say a few words, something short.” Neve shrugged as she stood and strode toward the front door, accepting the brown bags from the waitress and passing him one before paying the bill. “You know the drill. ‘School is cool’ and ‘Reading is for winners’ feel-good stuff. Wing it. Oh!” She raised a finger. “Breezy did mention that the speaker has to share their favorite picture book. You are literate, right?” She winked.

“Remember how I played defense for Stanford?” He opened and held the door. “I also happened to major in Finance.” It took effort to keep the edge from his voice. Stereotypes were self-fulfilling prophecies and he had spent years working his ass off not to be another “dumb jock” cruising by on a subpar GPA. In truth, reading wasn’t his favorite, but at least numbers always made sense.

“Finance, huh?” Neve missed his stiffness as she scooted past. “Every time I talk about banking I get withdrawal symptoms.” She snorted at her corny joke. “But in all seriousness, thanks for the Good Samaritan gesture. That was cool, and Breezy’s going to appreciate it more than you could imagine.” Again came that hint of a private smile gone as soon as it started. “Wow, get a load of this rain. We need a snorkel and fins to cross the parking lot.”

“Tell me.” He tugged up his hood. “This sister with the funny name, is she anything like you?” God help Denver if there was another mouthy Chihuahua on the loose.

“Breezy? Not in the least.” Neve opened her umbrella with a flourish. “But she’s my best friend. Let her down and I’ll drop-kick you faster than you can say Bobby Orr.”





Chapter Two




“Let’s try it again. From the top.” Breezy Angel sucked in, straining for the costume zipper, putting herself at risk of serious rib crackage. Who was she kidding; these loosey-goosey abs hadn’t seen a decent crunch in years. They could barely flex, let alone possess the strength to break bone. Sweat prickled the nape of her neck while stars skimmed the edge of her vision. “Oof. Come on, come on,” she huffed, grimacing.

She reached and almost . . . almost . . . almost . . . her fingers grazed the zipper.

Success.

She gripped the millimeter of metal and tugged. Stubborn little sucker refused to budge. Frowning, she tried again.

Same result.

At fifteen years old, the library’s Super Reader costume had seen better days. But last summer it fit fine.

“Ugh.” The bathroom scale had been an asshole since the Rory breakup. During last week’s move to her new—and first—home of her very own, she’d exiled the spiteful hunk of metal to the garage as punishment, but it hadn’t lied. Fifteen extra pounds padded her hips and butt, a result of an ongoing ménage a trois with Ben and Jerry.

Zzzzzzzerp! The zipper gave way.

“Sweet Sugar Babies!” Her voice echoed off the women’s room tile as she clutched her pancaked breasts. Her nipples inverted and her naval squashed her spine, but hey, she’d stuffed herself inside—victorious, more or less.

Now to survive the next hour without laughing, sitting or breathing.

Not that she’d ever been a slender, willowy sort of gal. Her body tended to softness and a good cheese plate was better than size six jeans. She owned her juicy ass and had an allergy to any talk about how a “real” woman had a) curves b) no curves or c) hard-won muscles.

Nope. Sorry. All a so-called real woman needed to own the title was a heartbeat.

Boom. Done. End of story.

But even still, she wanted to feel good in her skin . . . and right now, she didn’t. She hadn’t in too long.

Picking up the Jed West coffee mug from the edge of the sink—a recent twenty-ninth birthday gift from her big sister—she drained the bitter dark roast before glancing at his photo printed on the side.