Mister Hockey (Hellions Angels #1)(42)

And all the while he stared directly into her beautiful face. He could barely blink, let alone look away. Swear to God, he had a window into her very soul.

Everything he gave she took and returned tenfold. The air was thick with steam and a charged electric energy. Water splashed onto the tile. Her whimpers were soft, punctuated by short sharp gasps. He’d never wanted anything so bad in his whole goddamn life.

“Breezy.” He growled her name, a two-syllable command. “Breezy, you come now.” And she fell apart on cue, the silky heat of orgasm rippling over the length of his cock. Because she finished, he was there too. With a possessive moan, she gripped his ass, holding him down as he lost himself in a single intense rush.

After, they didn’t speak, they didn’t move a single muscle, just held each other quiet in the water.

At last he stirred, but even then they didn’t speak. He wasn’t sure what to say. Because this felt so big and life-changing that words didn’t seem up for the task. They drained the water from the tub and toweled off wordlessly. Breezy picked up the bottle of wine and took a long pull right from the bottle.

“Sorry.” She dabbed her mouth. “I really needed that.”

“Me too.” It was time. He had to tell her what was going on with him. What he’d been putting off. “So, we got to talk.”

That got her undivided attention. She lowered the bottle, dabbing her bottom lip. “What’s going on?”

“I went to the doctor today. Neurologist. I’ve been having intermittent blurry vision since taking a big hit in game seven and . . .”

There. He’d done it. Poured out the shit he’d been holding in. Also mentioned Travis, what had happened to him with football and his recent transfer to a long-term care facility.

“My symptoms have gotten better,” he said in conclusion. “But the idea of another season? The risk doesn’t seem worth it. Not when I look at my brother and everything he’s lost.”

“You have so much talent.” She wrapped him in a hug. “You’ll figure out the right path.”

“You’d like me even without the C on my jersey?” He kept a light, joking tone, but a part of him was dead serious.

“I’d like you in a paper bag, Jed West.” And when she kissed him, he knew she meant it.





Chapter Sixteen




For the next forty-eight hours, Breezy and Jed cocooned away from the world. They made love at his place, ordered takeout and finally drove to her cottage so she could change clothes before having an eighties movie marathon under a giant blanket fort in her living room.

Breezy had trolled her shelves, considering a few books for Jed, titles ranging from John Steinbeck to Stephen King, but dismissed them all out of hand. “None of these are right,” she said, finishing up a late lunch of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. “I feel like you need something more—”

A loud knock sounded on the front door.

They exchanged puzzled glances.

“I’m not expecting anyone.” Breezy furrowed her brow. “What are the odds that is a magically delivered pizza?” Grabbing a pink fuzzy bathrobe she’d ditched under the coffee table, she knotted the ties together, making sure the neck was pulled closed. No point flashing her mystery caller.

“While you figure that out, I’m going to go make us more coffee.” He crawled out and padded to the kitchen.

“Sounds good. I really need one of those No Soliciting signs.”

The short, balding guy on her front step wasn’t carrying a pizza. She’d never seen him before in her life.

Maybe his car had broken down?

“You Breezy Angel?” he asked, whipping out a handkerchief to dab it on his balding head. It was hot out here today. The gap between storms had left the air thick and uncharacteristically humid.

“Murphy Hallman, from the Associated Press. I have a few questions.”

Her hand flew to the neck of her bathrobe. Good, no escaped boobs. “Is this about the library branch merger because I don’t have any comments. Well actually I do, but nothing fit to print.”

“Library merger?” The reporter frowned. “No, I’m here about Jed West. Can you make any comments on reports that he plans to retire from the game due to a head injury?”

“Jed? West?” Her voice came out high and tight. How did this reporter know she knew him?

“Shut the door.” Jed’s icy command came from the hall, freezing her whole body.

“Wait a second.” The reporter swiveled his head. “Is he in there?” He raised his voice. “Westy, can you give a comment on—”

Jed emerged from the hall, grim-faced, and slammed the front door in the reporter’s face.

“What the fuck is going on?” He stared ahead, unseeing.

She wasn’t sure if the question was directed at her, or himself, or the guy on the opposite side. He glanced down to her. “How did he know I was here?”

She shrugged. “I was wondering the same thing.”

It took her a second to realize that he was making a careful study of her face.

“I’m serious,” she said, bristling. “It’s not like I’m posting status updates about you on Facebook. If you don’t believe me you’re welcome to take a look. I think my last post was some random Buzzfeed article on the 100 Books to Read On A Desert Island.”