Hat Trick (Blades Hockey Book 3) Page 6

  “You.” That one word steals the breath from my body and I blink back the sudden sting of tears. He continues, both with his thumb caressing my mouth as well as with his words. “You’ve never hidden the fact that you give your body to others. I’d be a hypocrite to judge you for that, but I want more than just your body. I want your heart, and that’s not something I’m willing to share.”

  “And if I give it to you? My heart?”

  His lips turn up in a naughty grin. “I’ll score a hat trick, Gwen. I’ll let you make of that what you will.”

  A hat trick . . . the hockey term plays on repeat in my head. When a player scores three times in one game.

  As if waiting for all the puzzle pieces to slide into place, he laughs when my eyes go wide at the sexual undertone of his voice and then he plants his hands on his knees to stand. Looking down at me, he holds out one hand, palm up in a silent offer of truce. “Show me the ice sculptures?”

  I eye his proffered hand, then slip my palm snuggly against his.

  Game on.

  8

  Hunt

  “That sculpture is supposed to have hard nipples, Marshall.”

  I make a show of glancing up at the frozen mermaid in front of us, jerking my head to the nipples in question as I nudge Gwen in the side. “She’s turned on, Gwen. Leave the poor girl alone to her horniness. This is a judgment-free zone.”

  The throaty groan Gwen releases is all kinds of sexy. “It’s made out of ice.” She waves a gloved hand at the boardwalk of ice sculptures against the backdrop of the twinkling harbor. “They’re all made out of ice. Get your mind out of the gutter.”

  Around Gwen, my mind is permanently in the gutter.

  I lean down, allowing my breath to whisper across the shell of her ear. “You think she’s dreaming about Eric right now?”

  Goosebumps erupt over her flesh, and I swallow a chuckle.

  “Eric?” she echoes.

  “Yeah. Prince Eric—Little Mermaid’s boyfriend. Ringin’ any bells?”

  Chin tipping back, she glances up at me with a roll of her eyes. “I can’t believe you just turned a Disney movie into an R-rated porno.”

  “A porno?” My hand flies to my chest, and I go all out trying to uphold the mock-affronted glare. “Gwen, we haven’t even hit PG-13. Don’t challenge me.”

  “I’m not—” Her pursed lips break into a wicked grin, and she dances away from me, her boots tromping in the snow. “All right, let’s do it.”

  My teeth rattle as my jaw clamps shut. “Let’s do what?”

  Her blue eyes flit side to side, taking in the children screaming bloody murder as parents stalk down their offspring. Couples stroll through the night, faces tipped back as though expecting snowflakes from the otherwise dry night.

  Everyone is way too consumed with their own lives to overhear us, but Gwen nevertheless starts back my way again, swinging her hips and stripping off her right glove.

  The glove is clutched in her left hand, and, when she’s within reach, she surprises me by hooking a bare finger into the neck of my sweatshirt and tugging me down to her level. Gwen isn’t short but I’m taller. Broader. It goes against every instinct in my body not to drag her into my arms and finally learn what it’s like to kiss Gwen James.

  But then I’d be going against my own rules, and there’s no way I’m doing that.

  If she wants me, then Miss James is going to have to show me the old-fashioned way. I expect to be properly courted.

  Courted, really? Did the cold officially cut off your dingleberries?

  With her breath warming my face, Gwen declares, “I challenge you to find something raunchy about every sculpture.”

  What I want to do is demonstrate how every thought I have of her is raunchy. Obviously, that’s not a go—yet.

  Wrapping a hand around her wrist, I rub her chilled skin between my two palms. “I’m in. All in. But you have to do the challenge with me. Each time you can’t think of something, that’s another date I collect from you.”

  Her blue eyes warm even as she ducks her head. “Going for a hat trick, Marshall?”

  “Always,” I vow. Releasing her hand, and therefore severing our connection, I stuff my hands into my sweatshirt pocket as I stroll down the pebbled path. Over my shoulder, I toss back, “Don’t worry, Gwenny. Each time you best me, you’ll earn a kiss.”

  “Breaking your cardinal rule already?” she teases, sashaying to catch up with me. Her scarf comes undone around her neck. To my surprise, she leaves it as is, as though content to just be instead of constantly pulling herself together.

  I like it.

  More than I should.

  “I’m not breaking anything.” With a palm to her lower back, I direct her to the next sculpture. “I’m not kissing you yet. But you can start your tally now, if you want.”

  “Oh, I want. Now stop talking so I can find the sexiest damn thing about this block of ice. One butt-whooping is about to be underway.”

  Laughter reverberates in my chest. “Yes, ma’am.”

  I don’t miss her grimace. “Please don’t call me that. It reminds me that I’m—”

  “Old?” I offer, finally letting my hand drop from her back. “Ready for your social security to kick in?”

  She flashes me a surly glance but I see straight through the icy veneer.

  I face the sculpture, a God-knows-what slab of frozen liquid that I think might be a Christmas tree but looks a lot like Jabba the Hutt from Star Wars. It’s woefully lopsided, and I’m careful to keep my attention on the ice when I respond. “I think you like that I’m younger than you.”

  With sharp motions, she jerks her glove back on. “I think you’re delusional.”

  I rock back on my heels, and I can feel a grin threatening to break free. “You gotta be how old by now, Gwen? Thirty-five, at least? Which would make you, what? A decade older than me?”

  Her side-eye would be withering to a lesser man but I stand strong. One redhead won’t do me in, no matter how gorgeous she is. “So, if you had a kid, would that make you a MILF?”

  It’s that comment that does it.

  She turns to me with gloved hands raised, miming strangling me. A moment later, she’s bent over, hands on her thighs, feminine laughter slipping from her lush mouth. In between gusts of joy, she grinds out, “You’re ridiculous, Marshall. Utterly ridiculous. And you know I’m twenty-eight, you jerk.”

  I match her stance, planting my palms on my thighs as I slide up next to her so that we’re shoulder-to-shoulder. “I should probably take the time to point out that our Christmas tree sculpture looks like it’s into some BDSM.”

  Thumbing a tear from her eye, Gwen stands tall, hip popping out, arms crossing over her chest. “Those are supposed to be holiday lights, Marshall.”

  “You sure?” I point out the frozen etchings crisscrossing over the shaved ice tree. “Looks like chains to me.”

  “Garland, maybe?”

  “Chains, Gwen. Like the kind the media likes to think I have in my basement.”

  With another quick glance at the BDSM tree, she skirts around another couple and heads for the next sculpture. In two strides, I’m at her side, just as she asks, “How did that rumor even start?”

  The old-fashioned way—with a lick of truth to it. Not the complete truth, mind you, just a sliver.

  I rub the back of my neck, debating the best way to tell the story. “It all started when I first got on with the Blades, back when I was on the farm team. We had this . . . I don’t even know what you’d call it.”

  Her brows arch with curiosity. “A sex shop?”

  I chuckle. “No, not a sex shop—cutouts. We had cardboard cutouts of every player who’d been recruited by the Blades but hadn’t been called up yet. They usually stayed at the rink, but one night a couple of the guys got wasted and they stole a few.”

  “Yours included?”

  I nod, slowly. “Yeah, mine included. Well, bastards that they are, the idiots brought th
em down into my buddy’s basement. He dimmed the lights, got some candles, chained all that cardboard up to the wall like something out of Fifty Shades of Grey. Pretty sure rose petals were an addition. I don’t even know how many photos they snapped, but before the end of the night, those pictures were hitting every tabloid site on the internet.”

  Her smile is slow and tempting. “And, voila,” she murmurs, “a sex fiend was born.”

  “Exactly.” I meet her gaze without a hint of shame. “You disappointed I have no plans to lock you up in my lair, Gwen?”

  “Considering that you have no plans to lock me up at all, I think it’s safe to say that I’m not any more disappointed now than I was an hour ago.”

  Fuck, I love her dry wit. It hooked me years ago and has the same powerful effect on me now. I desperately want to take her hand and pull her in close to see if she’s got just as much attitude between the sheets as she does out of it.

  But the point of the challenge I issued her isn’t just to cut us off from sex. I meant what I said about wanting her heart. It’d be all too easy to take her home tonight and strip off her clothes. She’d let me, I know that. And we’d both thoroughly enjoy what would happen next.

  The thing is, it’s easy for her to accept our mutual attraction. Lust, however inconvenient at times, isn’t rocket science. It’s human nature to look at someone and find attributes about their body that turns you on.

  It’s a lot harder to do that with emotions—and, emotionally, that’s where Gwen’s walls have always existed. The second time I witnessed her cry was at her father’s funeral. As I’d pulled her into my arms, I’d recognized that a woman who could feel so strongly about a man she barely knew had the capability for unshakable love.

  If she let herself fall.

  You mean, if she let herself fall for you.

  I meet her gaze, wanting to say so much but not even knowing where to start.

  She saves me the trouble by burrowing her hands into her coat pockets and smiling up at the black sky. Softly, so softly I almost miss the words, she whispers, “I needed this. Thank you.”

  Vulnerable Gwen is not a side of her that I see often. Like a string pulled tight, I waver a moment before stepping close. Not too close, but close enough that I can see her breath curling into the cold air.

  Don’t give in, man. Don’t touch her.

  I mimic her pose, shoving my hands into my sweatshirt again. “What did you need?”

  Her lips quirk up at my husky tone, and when she dips her chin again, her red hair slips forward over her shoulders like strands of silk. “A chance to be me.” She shrugs, offering me a hesitant smile. “It doesn’t happen . . . well, ever, really. My fault, of course. I have a bad habit of not letting anyone close, including you.”

  My heart squeezes. I know how much it cost her to admit that, to show the softer side she rarely allows anyone to see. “Come to my game tomorrow night.”

  I don’t know if she’s more surprised by the invitation or if I am.

  “I—” Clearing her throat delicately, Gwen says, “I thought I’m the one pursuing you?”

  Yes. No. Fuck it, I don’t even care. “Then say you’d like to come to my game tomorrow. I might be nice and know someone with tickets.”

  She laughs at that, her teeth flashing white in the darkness. “You do know that I could easily snag tickets if I wanted them, right? I wouldn’t have to pull any strings.”

  I cock my brow, challenging her. “But would it be as romantic as me leaving you tickets for the Family-and-Friends section?”

  Gloved hands go to her hips, and she tilts her head to the side, as though considering my offer. Then, “Will I have the chance to take you out after the game? To continue my wooing?”

  Wrong as it may be, given the fact that we’re surrounded by kids under the age of ten, my cock hardens at her words. “You can woo me whenever you want, Gwen.”

  “Great!” She squeezes my arm, once, and then steps back. “I have plans to up my kiss tally. Be prepared to do something crazy tomorrow evening.”

  “Does it involve chains?”

  She rolls her pretty blue eyes. “Only in your dreams, Marshall.”

  But she’s smiling as she says it, and for once, I think Gwen James and I are on the same page. Finally.

  9

  Gwen

  The following night, TD Garden is utterly wild as the Blades hit the ice against the Pittsburgh Penguins. And when I say wild, I really do mean bat-shit crazy to the nth degree.

  Even seated in the Family-and-Friends section, along with Charlie and Zoe, the arena is boisterous and unruly. Towels stamped with the Blades’ blue and silver colors are thrown down onto the ice. I’ve seen at least two people wearing faux penguin heads. And, not to be overly dramatic, but I’ve been called a “goddamn Blades sucker” at least three times now.

  Full confessional: I love it.

  I haven’t always been a hockey enthusiast. In fact, it’s safe to say that while growing up with Adaline, I fully believed hockey players scored touchdowns. It was all tomato-tomahto to me. A goal is a goal, right?

  Working for Golden Lights Media for the last few years changed all that. My PR firm single-handedly represents most of the players for both the Blades and the Boston Bruins, the city’s other pro-hockey team. Learning the sport’s terminology ensured I didn’t look like an idiot in front of high-paying clients. Somewhere along the way, I also learned to fully appreciate the game itself.

  Which is why I feel no shame at all in screaming like a lunatic when Andre Beaumont illegally cross-checks an opposing player into the boards. “What are you doing?” I shout, cupping my hands around my mouth. “Get your head out of your ass, Andre! Seriously!”

  He might go by the nickname, King Sin Bin, but that doesn’t mean the Blades can withstand Beaumont taking another turn in the penalty box. We’re already trailing behind by two, and from the way things are shaping up, it doesn’t look like we’ll be pulling ahead tonight.

  Not that Marshall hasn’t tried. The man has already scored twice: once by jockeying the puck around the net before sailing it into the corner pocket; the other time when Lady Luck shined down upon him as the puck hit the pipes and then rebounded into the net behind the goalie’s right shoulder.

  Maybe I shouldn’t admit to it but seeing Marshall in his element is damn sexy. Whenever the camera zooms in on him, I alternate between staring at his sweaty face, loving the determined look in his eyes, and also scoping out the way he handles his stick.

  Foreshadowing, if you will. I have a feeling he’s packing below the belt in the best way possible.

  Someone taps me on my shoulder, and I turn to find Zoe staring at me with a shit-eating grin on her face.

  Ahem.

  I jerk my thumb over my shoulder. “Sorry about that . . . Just, you know, got carried away.”

  She maintains her silence.

  I hold open my arms. “I love you?”

  Charlie leans around Zoe, a cheese-covered nacho halfway to her mouth. “If Zoe doesn’t love you back for dissing her man, I’ll love you for her.”

  Have you ever heard of a heart sighing? My mom used to tell me that when I was a kid, generally in reference to her husbands. But for me, it’s the support from my two friends—even if I did totally just “diss” Zoe’s fiancé. In my defense, it was a crappy move that gave the Penguins an upper hand with a power play.

  “Oh, I’ll love her,” Zoe shouts over the din of the crowd, “but not until she comes forward and confesses. I want to know what’s going on with her and Hunt.”

  My cheeks warm, and I immediately reach forward to snatch a nacho from Charlie’s seemingly endless supply. “It’s good,” I mutter, popping the chip into my mouth and rearranging my Blades ball cap on my head. “You know.”

  “We don’t know.” Zoe bumps her hip with mine. “Spill, girl. This is more fun than binge-watching Vanderpump Rules for an entire night.”

  “Now that’s a lie,” Charlie s
ays. Her gaze tracks the players, and I know she’s dying to be down near the ice, as close to the game as possible. For the sake of friendship, however, she promised to leave both her audio recorder and notebook at home.

  One glance at Charlie’s antsy sway back and forth, especially with every slapshot that flies at the Blades’ net (and therefore at her boyfriend), and it’s clear she’s itching to write tonight’s game into an epic article for The Boston Globe.

  “Did you kiss?” Zoe asks, going in for the kill without preamble.

  “No.” I bite my lip, trying to decide if it’s best to come out with the truth—that Marshall has no plans to fulfill the promise in his heated gaze until he knows that he can trust me. Letting out a sigh, I slip my fingers into the butt pockets of my jeans and avert my gaze to the ice, where Marshall has just won the puck in the face-off. “He wants to know that I’m not going to, I don’t know, screw him over.”

  “Before he kisses you?”

  Though I keep my eyes locked on Marshall, I nod at Zoe’s question. “As we all know, my track record isn’t full of unicorns and rainbows. I don’t blame him for wanting to be sure I’m all in.”

  “And you do? Want to be all in, that is?”

  How can I explain that last night, despite the fact that we’d done nothing but stroll together along the harbor, was one of the best nights that I’ve had in a good, long while? Forget that. How can I explain that I’ve been so shortsighted all these years?

  “He’s a good guy,” I finally say, though the words are woefully inadequate to explain how I’m feeling. Which is probably sixty-percent excited and forty-percent what-the-hell-am-I-doing?

  The latter exists only because I’ve never been in this position before.

  I’ve never allowed myself to consider the prospect of more with anyone, least of all not with a hotshot athlete like Marshall.

  “C’mon,” Charlie says, holding out another chip coated with cheese, “open up and I’ll give you a nacho. Yes, it’s bribery. I’m fully aware.”