Mister Hockey (Hellions Angels #1)(32)
“Hey, been a while since I’ve had a pretty woman to hold.” He gathered her closer, breathed in her coconut oil scent. “Had to make do.”
Her face went expressionless as she absorbed his statement. “See, I don’t get it. You could score with most of the available women in this town. Any other guy would cash in on that sort of sexual gold mine. Get laid every night of the week. Twice on Saturday. The puck bunnies alone must be hopping after you all the time.”
“It feels wrong going after a fan.” He gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Too easy, like I’m taking advantage and besides, I prefer a challenge.”
“Hey.” She nibbled the corner of her lower lip, as if debating something. “About that . . . you know how I mentioned that my family are hockey fans?”
“Yeah.” He tucked the blankets in further around them. “But I’m not sleeping with your family.” He didn’t want to talk about fans. Or hockey. Just them. Just be in this moment.
“Right, ha ha, funny guy.” She squeezed his hand. “It’s just that . . . I’d never want you to think that I was using you.”
“You don’t want to use me?” He raised the back of her hand to his mouth, the tip of his tongue licking between two of her fingers, a small, intimate gesture she felt all the way between her legs. “Gotta say, that’s the worst news I’ve heard all morning. And here I was going to be a nice guy and feed you Belgian waffles in bed.”
“Feeding me?” Her brow furrowed as she glanced around the room. “But you haven’t—”
He stopped her with a finger to her lips. “Yet.”
She nipped him. “Ready to fire up your fancy mixer?”
“Better believe it.” He snuggled her closer, his gaze losing focus as he stared at her mouth. “Hope you’re hungry.”
“I am, but food always tastes best when you’re ravenous, right?” She hiked the sheet over their heads, the distracted look on her face fading. “Help me work up that appetite.”
And after forty-five sweaty minutes, after a round of old-fashioned missionary that felt anything but, they collapsed, sated and glowing. Her belly audibly rumbled against his abs. Her eyes went wide. “Oops.”
“Back in a flash, Vixen.” He kissed her quick, grabbed the sweats next to his bed and yanked them on before striding out of the room with a whistle.
The grin didn’t leave his face until he dropped a dollop of butter into the waffle iron, listening to the hiss and splutter. He chopped strawberries into thin slices, walked to the fridge and grabbed the carton of heavy whipping cream. The muffled sound of humming floated out from his bedroom. He grinned to himself. He hadn’t known what to call the out-of-sorts, aimless feeling that had gripped him of late, but he knew the name now.
Loneliness.
He beat the cream, adding a few tablespoons of sugar. This could be the start of something big. When he first saw Breezy stumble out of the library bathroom in that ridiculous superhero suit, he had no idea that he was about to encounter the most intriguing woman he’d met . . . maybe ever.
He cocked his head. What the hell was she singing? Madonna? “Like a Virgin” Madonna? Her voice cracked hitting a high note. He chuckled as the waffles sizzled in the press. Christ. What she lacked in skills, she made up for in enthusiasm. Hell, he felt like singing too. His head felt clear. His fucking dick too. The pipes cleared out.
His phone buzzed on the counter—a Hellions news alert from The Post. He glanced at the headline, the article conjecturing over the chances of a lockout next season. Negotiations were breaking down at the highest levels. His heart sank when he spied the byline.
Neve Angel.
He liked Breezy’s sister, enjoyed her company when they sat down for interviews or she sauntered through his locker room taking zero shit. But that was all work.
This was his life.
His stomach muscles flexed in an uneasy twitch. If things continued the way they were going, Breezy would eventually find out about Travis. It wasn’t that he was ashamed of his brother’s traumatic brain injury, more that he considered himself the fierce guardian of his family’s privacy. He’d gone years without having anything from his private life shared, a damn near miracle.
Once Breezy knew, Neve would too.
It wasn’t by any means a deal breaker, but still . . . something to consider.
Not to mention his own private fears. The fact the game he loved might not be worth sacrificing his future health.
He had nothing more to prove in the sport, not to critics. Not even to his fucking father. He’d persevered until he’d won everything there was to win. But now he had a neurology appointment set for a few days from today.
And if and when he made a decision about next season, he didn’t want that moment to happen in the vicinity of the noisiest journalist in Denver.
Breezy switched gears. No more Madonna. Now she was belting out the chorus from a vaguely familiar musical.
His phone buzzed with a text. Coach.
Tor Gunnar: Beers and air hockey this afternoon?
He and Tor had been getting friendlier over the past season. They had enough in common. Two single guys. Didn’t poke into each other’s private lives. Talked strategy. Kept it easy.
It was cool, except he didn’t want easy right now.
Jed West: Busy