One Baby Daddy (Dating by Numbers #3)(33)

“None of them watch hockey.”

“Whh-what?” I peel away and look down at her. “They don’t watch hockey? What kind of men are we talking about here? They live in the northeast for Christ’s sake. Hockey is life up here.”

Adalyn shakes her head. “Football is life.”

Pressing my lips together in disgust, I shake my head. “Fucking football. Hockey is so much better.”

“Yeah? How so?”

“Really? You want me to list off all the reasons why it’s better?”

“I do. I’m kind of liking that you’re going into a tizzy, so I want to hear all the reasons.”

“Okay. First, I am not and do not get in a tizzy.” I sit a little taller and disengage myself from her warm body. Ticking off the reasons on my fingers, I say, “Well, one, it’s a longer season. Football is like two games long, and hockey is about seven months long.”

“Sixteen games. Football is sixteen games.”

As if I’ve been slapped, I scoot back on the couch. “Uh, excuse me . . . are you a football fan too?”

“Of course,” she answers not even sugarcoating it for me. “I’ve never been to a professional hockey game before and forget about watching it on TV. You can never see where the puck goes.”

What?

WHAT?

Shaking my head, blinking fervently, trying to comprehend what she’s telling me, I say, “You’ve never been to a professional hockey game? You’ve got to be kidding me. But . . . but hockey is . . . God!” I stand from the couch and start pacing her small deck. “You’re going to a game.” I point at her, one hand on my hip. “You’re fucking going, and you’re going to enjoy it, damn it!” Now pointing to her house, I say, “Get up, we’re going to review some game tape. That’s your punishment. We are spending the rest of the night going over hockey highlights on YouTube.”

Laughing, she shakes her head. “We are so not doing that.”

“Uh, yeah we are. Come on, stand your pretty little ass up and march it over to your computer. We are reviewing every last hockey highlight tonight, and if we’re lucky, I might let you watch a blooper reel here and there.”

I pull on her hand to guide her up, but she stays put and pats the bench next to her. “Sit before you have a heart attack.”

“Fine.” I sit next to her while pulling my phone from my back pocket. Ignoring the multiple text messages and missed calls I’ve received since I’ve been here, I enter hockey highlights into the browser on my phone and start looking for some good material.

Palming my phone, she snags it from my grasp and puts it behind her back. “We are not watching hockey highlights.”

“To hell we’re not.” I reach for my phone, but she has it tucked completely behind her, not exposing an inch.

She wants to do this the hard way? I have no problem getting handsy, especially when my sport is on the line.

Snagging her ankles, I yank her down the length of the couch, the hem of her dress rolling to just below her panty line. No time for distractions, I’m on a mission. Moving over her, one of my knees tucked between her legs, my hands straddling her slender shoulders, I try to dig around for my phone behind her.

Giggling and pressing hard into the couch, making it hard to find my phone, she blocks me. Her hair—fanned out on the cushion, her smile—beautiful and addicting, her laugh—a seductive sound igniting a heat of warmth to erupt over my skin. God, she’s so gorgeous.

Even if she speaks blasphemy.

“Where is it?” I ask. “Give me my phone and no one gets hurt.”

“Never.” Like the vixen she is, she circles my waist with her legs, pulling my hips onto hers. At the same time, she links her hands behind my neck, trapping me.

Fucking fooled, that’s what I am.

“What do you think you’re doing? I’m mad at you.”

She shakes her head. “No, you’re not.” Her fingers play with the short strands on the back of my head, a comforting touch. “Now tell me what the other reasons are why hockey is better than football.”

Damn this woman. Just when I’m trying to pretend to be mad at her, she distracts me. Sighing, I lean back, taking her with me so I’m sitting upright and she’s straddling my lap, her knees now pressed against the seat cushion. To keep her where I want her, I place my hands firmly on her hips, plastering her heated center to my lap.

She feels so fucking good.

Her thumbs rub a little patch of skin on my neck, soothing my tension to zero. Slouching, I enjoy the view in front of me, of this beautifully addicting woman, as I explain exactly why my sport is so much better.

“Besides the long season and numerous games, plus the badass trophy at the end, hockey takes more precision, more focus. Not only are we being tackled—using a football term for you—but we’re doing it on skates while trying to control a small three-inch puck with a stick.”

“What else?” She shifts on my lap causing a light groan to rumble from my chest.

“Uh, we have fights, all-out brawls, and they’re not stopped right away like in football.”

“Mm-hmm.” Her hands fall to my pecs where her palms rest, her fingers playing with the patch of skin exposed from my button-down shirt. Unabashedly, she undoes two more buttons, and pulls my shirt open, exposing more of my chest.