Sure Shot (Brooklyn #4)(25)

We’re both leaning forward in our seats at the shift change. Huizing goes over the wall with a rookie and a recent trade from Tampa. “Whoa!” I gasp as the rookie tries and fails to get the puck back.

Everyone on the ice is skating like his life depends on it. They’ve got that new-season energy. Bart Palacio comes back out and steals the puck on a lucky poke check, runs it down the ice without Trane’s help, and shoots it through the five-hole for a goal.

“Fuck!” Tank shouts.

“Jesus Christ!” I notice we’re both standing. “Wait, who are you rooting for?”

“Not Dallas,” he snarls. Then he picks up his beer and drains it.

As the commentators cluck over Palacio’s goal, I walk like a zombie into my tiny kitchen and get Tank another beer. And while I’m doing some mental math on Boston’s chances, I also grab a pint of ice cream out of the freezer and two spoons.

“Do you think Boston is gonna give their backup goalie a few more starts this season?” I ask, handing him a beer and a spoon and sitting down on the sofa.

“They better,” he says, waiting while I dig in first. “The Atlantic division is rugged this year. They’ll need some relief as the season goes on.” He pops a bite of Ben & Jerry’s into his mouth and passes me the carton just as the next faceoff begins.

It’s a tense period. I’m not sure I even blink as the two teams battle it out. Somehow our ice cream is kicked, and we’re both polishing off our drinks when Boston finally puts another one in the net with ninety seconds on the clock.

“YAAAAAAS!” we both scream at the TV.

I flop back against the sofa as they cut to a media break. I look at Tank, whose face is as flushed as mine probably is. There are beer bottles on the floor, and there’s a chocolate smudge on my wrist.

“Wow,” he says. “We just…”

“Yeah.” I start to laugh, because I’d completely forgotten the reason he’d come upstairs in the first place. “No wonder I don’t go out on more dates. What is wrong with us?”

“Nothing.” He shakes his head. “We’re pretty much perfect. The real question is—what the fuck is wrong with everyone else?”

“Seriously. What the fuck, people?”

“What the ever-loving fuck?” he repeats. Our eyes lock, and something in his gaze startles me. It’s a mix of humor and warmth. But there’s also heat and hunger. That’s a potent cocktail, and so much more than I expected to find tonight.

Uh-oh. My inner Cinderella twirls around, giddy. She’s got it bad for the grumpy hockey player with the shapely, scruffy jaw and the bad reputation.

And then Tank pounces, pushing me down on the sofa. It’s bossy and a little bit rude, and I don’t understand why I like it so much. Tension coils inside me as I’m manhandled into place.

But he makes me wait for his kiss. First he rakes me with a hungry gaze, taking in the cleavage revealed by the silly blouse I’d worn for a date I’d forgotten the moment it was over. He makes a sexy, hungry noise, before finally dipping down to take my mouth in a demanding kiss.

I’m putty in his hands. I made this bad decision over an hour ago when I let him follow me home. One more time, I tell myself as I drink in his kiss, coasting my palms up the hard planes of his back. One more reminder of how good it can be. Then I’ll go back to dating available men.





Eleven





That Really is the TV





Tank





Bess is smart. That’s why she’s looking at me with a mixture of heat and trepidation. And I know exactly why she forgot to tell me that she’s living in Brooklyn now.

She knows I’m a hot mess. And getting involved so soon after my divorce is a dumbass thing to do.

But I’m doing it anyway. I push Bess down on the couch and kiss the confusion right off of her sweet face. Her mouth is cool against my greedy one, but it’s not unwelcoming. When I trace the seam of her lips with my tongue, she opens for me.

I up the ante and run a shameless hand up her bare leg. And I’m a little rough when I invade her panties and give her ass a dirty squeeze.

Bess makes a shocked sound against my tongue, but then her arms snake around my neck and she pulls me in closer. Nine years might as well be nine minutes. My body remembers how it is between us. I’m the one who’s supposed to push her boundaries. And she’s the one who takes it all and asks for more.

I sink into another slow, twisting kiss, rocking my erection against the cradle of her hips. There’s no mistaking my intentions. There’s no point in hiding how I feel about her.

Maybe I wasn’t looking for this. I thought I was too raw and angry to be anyone’s good time. But here’s Bess with her big blue eyes and her questing hands sliding under my shirt, asking for more skin. More heat.

For the first time in days, I know I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. The ugly noise of my life quiets as I sit back and yank my shirt over my head. “Need you, Bess,” I rasp.

And then I spend the next hour showing her just how much.





When I begin to wake the next morning, I find that I’m buck-ass naked and wrapped around her. She feels perfect against my bare skin. I push my nose into her wavy hair and doze a little longer.