Misadventures of a Rookie (Misadventures #11)
Toni Aleo
Chapter One
Gus
I’d seen her before.
I’d seen her a bunch of times, actually, since I joined the Malibu Suns a year ago.
But for some reason, this was like seeing her—or better yet, her ass—for the very first time.
Her ass looked like it was from another universe.
As she bent over the ice, her tight gold leggings stretched across her spectacular globes. Craving the chance to slide my fingers along those seductive curves, I could feel my hands shake in my gloves. As I took in her flat stomach and full tits, my cock screamed in the cup I was wearing. I didn’t even know her, but I wanted every single inch of her.
When she lifted her head and her eyes met mine, she scrunched her face in an expression of disgust… Distaste? I was pretty sure she knew what I was thinking about, and she didn’t look like she liked it one bit. Scooping ice shavings with her shovel, she glared with deep-blue eyes and tossed her blazing red hair over a shoulder. I wanted to look away, but I couldn’t. I felt like she was challenging me with her body language, and I was never one to back down from a challenge.
And fuck, it felt tight in my girdle.
I watched her lift her ice-heavy shovel and smack it forcefully against the trash bin. She was probably imagining my head, but all I could focus on was the way her tits strained against that tight little top she and the other ice girls wore. Her stomach muscles were on display, and she was either clenching them or her belly was naturally tight and smooth. This woman… She was what had me gasping for breath, not the thirty-two minutes of ice time I had already played against one of the toughest teams in the American Hockey League.
No, the gorgeous redhead had me gasping in ways I never had before—on or off the ice.
I was a damn good hockey player, the third pick in the first round of the draft. I would’ve gone first if I had been a little younger and had scored a few more goals—but forty-six points for a defenseman was pretty damn good.
Every pro player wanted to play for the National Hockey League’s Twin Cities Tornadoes. They were rebuilding after a horrible year and lots of injuries, so there was opportunity for a player to grow with the team. When they drafted me, I thought I’d made it. I expected to go right in and start playing and training with the Tornadoes, but the owner and general manager had other plans, so they sent me to their farm team first—the Malibu Suns. They said I didn’t have enough experience for the big leagues. While I didn’t agree at all, my mom always told me, “Keep your head down and work hard, and you’ll go places.” So I’d been doing just that, even if it felt like I was wasting away in the AHL.
Watching this redheaded beauty was definitely not a waste of time—though I’d have enjoyed the view a lot more if she hadn’t been glaring at me like she could smell my gloves.
“Man, Persson. Did you sleep with her?”
I chuckled, my eyes still on those golden leggings as I shook my head. “Sure didn’t. But she doesn’t seem to be a fan.”
“Bus, I think she killed you six times with those eye daggers of hers.” My linemate and closest bud, Max Miller, whistled beside me. “Why the hell are you giving her that look?”
I curved my lips in a grin. “’Cause I’m pretty sure she hates it.”
“You’re a masochist.”
“I am,” I joked.
She rolled her eyes, twisted her lips in a scowl of disdain, and skated away.
“Man, she’s a she-devil.” I grinned, pretty sure I had come out ahead in our silent sparring match.
“With that flaming red hair?” Max grabbed a sport bottle. “Yeah, she probably is.”
“I wonder if the carpet matches the drapes.” I smirked. I didn’t mean to cause my bud to choke on the water he was trying to drink. It was a serious question.
Max laughed when he got over coughing. “Asshole.”
“Sorry.” I said it, but I wasn’t. I seriously did want to know if the carpet matched the drapes. I watched her skate toward the opening in the boards to get off the ice. “Maybe there is no carpet. Those leggings are tight as fuck.”
“They don’t leave much to the imagination.”
“Sure don’t,” I agreed as I ran my tongue along my lips. “But I don’t think my imagination could come close to the real deal.”
Max laughed. “Your imagination might be the only thing that will keep you warm, Bus. ’Cause that girl? She doesn’t want anything from you.”
“Yet,” I added confidently as I rolled my shoulders, looking out at the ice. “She just has to get to know me.”
When our defensive pairing was called, we cut the conversation and went over the boards with ease. Jumping into the developing play, we skated into the opposition’s zone as our forwards rushed the goal. Justine was screening the goalie while Minski and Raddi passed the puck back and forth between each other and back to the points, where Max and I were set up. When the crowd started to get restless, screaming for someone to shoot, Minski shot but missed the goal wide. Thankfully, their defenseman missed the puck, and it slid up the boards and right onto my stick. I circled a bit in my position, watching all the players trying to block me. Finally, I sent the puck to Max. He tried to work it to Raddi, but he was blocked, so once more it came back to me. I took that as a sign that I just needed to shoot. So I did. Hard. I put my whole body into the shot, and when Justine jumped and spread his legs, I knew it was in.