The Playmaker

by Cathryn Fox

  My stupid heart jumps at his second compliment of the night. He’d been at the rink a few times when I was practicing or competing, but I never thought he paid me much attention. I figured he was there to check out the girls in their skimpy performance outfits.

  “Thanks,” is all I say, not wanting to talk about it. Think about it. Remember it. The past is the past, and I need to focus on the writing now, and paying the bills. “We’d better hurry. We don’t want to miss the start of the game.”

  He looks at me for a moment and then nods, and we both exit the vehicle. He meets me at the front of the car, and we walk into the brightly lit store together. He leans into me and nudges me with his shoulder. His scent reaches my nostrils, and as I breathe in his clean, soapy smell, every goddamn nerve in my traitorous body comes alive.

  Shit. Shit. Shit. I do not want this. Becoming attracted to Cocky Cole is the last thing I need.

  “So, this is a grocery store?” he says.

  I laugh, anything to hide the storm going on inside my body. “Yes, Cole. This is a grocery store.” I grab a cart. “Want a ride?” I tease.

  “If I didn’t have a concussion, I’d be all over that idea.”

  “I somehow don’t doubt that.” I guide him to the fresh vegetables section, and as I reach for the lettuce to make us a salad, a hush comes over the crowd.

  I glance around, take in the quiet mass gathering around the produce.

  “What’s going on?” I ask Cole, but then I see the way people are pointing, staring, whispering to each other. A little boy of around seven is gawking at Cole, his eyes the size of the apples in his mother’s cart.

  Ah, I get it. Cole is the infamous Playmaker, and everyone is star struck. I don’t know why I never stopped to think about that before. I look at him, see him through the eyes of the crowd. Truthfully, he’s charismatic, larger than life. It’s no wonder he has women handing over their panties.

  A child in a cast makes a move toward him, and at first Cole stiffens. The mother grabs her son to stop him from approaching without permission, and as Cole takes in the family, a fast change comes over him. He takes his glasses off and drops to one knee. “Hey kid,” he says, his Playmaker grin in place. “What happened?”

  “I broke my arm. I just got this.” He holds his cast up, like it’s a badge of honor.

  “Want me to sign it, then we can get a picture together?” Cole hands me his phone. “Would you mind?”

  I take the phone, and the wallpaper is that of Cason and Cole. I pull up the camera app and try not to think about how much I miss my brother.

  “Mommy, can I?” the boy asks this time, his voice bursting with excitement.

  “Of course,” his mom says, but from the way she’s eyeing Cole, I get the sense that she’s as infatuated as her son. I can see why, but there’s a part of me that doesn’t like the way she’s looking at him, like he’s nothing more than a piece of meat.

  Feeling a little protective of my brother’s best friend, I step closer, under the guise of getting set up to take a picture, and partially block the woman’s view.

  The boy comes bouncing over, his body practically vibrating with excitement. Cole tosses his arm around him and nudges his chin. “You play hockey?” he asks.

  “Yeah, but I’m not as good as my brother.”

  “Do you want to be?” The kid nods fast. “So you love it?”

  “I do.”

  “Good. Work hard and stay focused. But only do it if you really love it, okay? Do it for yourself.”

  The kid nods, and when Cole stops talking, I say, “Say cheese.”

  They both smile, and I snap a few pictures while the kid’s mom does the same with her phone. After Cole signs his cast, the boy runs back to his mom.

  “I’ll put that up on Facebook,” Cole says, and the boy is totally losing his mind over that, talking about how Caleb is going to be so jealous. I can only assume Caleb is his hockey-playing older brother.

  A few more people make their way over, and even though we’re in a hurry, Cole makes time for them. His smile is wide and his stories are animated as they ask him questions. I shake my head. He’s in total Playmaker mode, enjoying the interaction with his fans.

  “So that winning play you made in Pittsburgh. That was awesome,” a man in his mid-forties says. “When you got that breakaway and put the biscuit in the basket, it was a beautiful thing, man.”

  “Thanks. It was a great play, and I couldn’t have done it without Cason. He’s my wingman. The whole team actually made that play happen.”

  The commotion gains the attention of men, women and kids alike, and they all make their way to the produce section. They all want to ask questions, touch him, and get their pictures taken. I step back a bit, a little overwhelmed, and I’m not even the one in the spotlight. I’m not sure I could handle that kind of attention.

  Cole, however, handles it like the pro he is, taking credit when it’s due, then praising the plays made by his teammates. I have to say, I kind of admire him for it.

  When the crowd dies down, and he’s alone for a second—unaware of my eyes still on him—he takes in a deep, shaky breath, and his Adam’s apple bobs as if going down for the third count. He swallows uneasily and briefly pinches his eyes shut.

  What the hell? My heart trips up at the deep sadness on his face, and a heaviness fills my chest. The orange in my hand slips and falls into the cart.

  The sound does something to him—makes him aware I’m still there. He turns and, when he sees me watching him, quickly snaps out of it. With his big, contagious smile back in place, not a trace of that discomfort to be found, he walks over to me.

  “Sorry about that.”

  “You okay?” I ask.

  His hand brushes mine, sending shivers down my spine. He shrugs easily. “Yeah, great, why?”

  “I…uh…well, you know, concussion and all. I’ve been there, remember?” I say, although I don’t think what I just saw had anything to do with his concussion at all. “That must have taken a lot out of you.”

  “I’m fine.” He snags an orange, examines it, and drops it into the cart with the other one.

  He seems fine now, but what the hell was that? Could it have been his concussion or something else? If something else, what?

  “You really made that kid’s day.”

  He nods. “I’m glad. Hey, can we get some Captain Crispies? I haven’t had them since forever.”

  I laugh at his childlike enthusiasm. “You can get whatever you want, Cole. These are your groceries. Although Captain Crispies aren’t very good for you.”

  “I’ll eat a banana to make up for it.” He grabs a bunch of bananas and adds them to the cart. He nudges me with his shoulder again—a gesture I’m growing accustomed to—and my body reacts to his closeness. “Actually, I put the banana in the cereal. A real time-saver,” he teases.

  Needing a measure of distance, I turn toward the grapes. “How old are you, anyway?” I mock.

  He reaches around me and chooses a bag of plump grapes. “Old enough.”

  His breath is warm against my ear. Goose bumps prickle my neck. To hide my traitorous body’s reaction, I roll my eyes at him. “Come on, let’s get those steaks and your cereal.”

  As we go down the aisles, Cole pulls food from the shelves and tosses everything in the cart, his attention solely on shopping. No more subtle touches, no veiled sexual innuendos. I’m both relieved and confused. Had I read too much into his actions?

  By the time we reach the cash register, the cart is overflowing with groceries.

  Nighttime falls over the city as we head back to his car and load the bags into the trunk. “You won’t have to order takeout for weeks,” I say.

  “Yeah, but I’m going to have to hire someone to cook for me.”

  “Well, since you’re helping me out, I can teach you how to cook. It’s not that hard.”

  “Okay, but don’t think for a minute that crosses out any of my other conditions.” As soo
n as the words leave his lips, his gaze drops to my mouth.

  My throat dries, and without thinking, I swipe my tongue over my bottom lip. His eyes darken, and my pulse jumps in my throat. Uh, maybe he was serious about the kissing after all, and maybe I kind of like that idea.

  Oh, Nina, this is so bad.

  “We, ah, should get back before the game starts,” I say.

  “Okay,” he says, but doesn’t make a move to go. I grasp the trunk lid to close it, and he reaches over me, his big body pressing against mine as he slams it shut.

  We both get back into the car and my damn body is on hyperdrive, my mind racing a million miles an hour as I retrace the route back to his place. From my peripheral vision, I catch the way he’s looking at me, the way his breathing has changed slightly. Fidgety under his scrutiny, the heat I see in his eyes, I try to think of something to say, but can’t seem to formulate a coherent sentence. I pull into his driveway and we’re both silent as we unload the bags, dropping them on his kitchen counter.

  “There’s only one left. I’ll get it,” I say, and dash out the door, needing a reprieve from the hot looks he’s casting my way.

  When I come back in, he’s in the living room, the remote in his hand. “Come on, the game is about to start.”

  “Can we watch it on the TV in the kitchen? I want to get the steaks on the grill and make our salad.”

  “Sure.”

  I head to the kitchen and glance around for the remote. When I can’t find it, I turn, about to ask where he keeps it, but shut my mouth when I run smack dab into a hard wall of muscle, aka, Cole Cannon.

  “Whoa,” he says, and slides his arm around me. He splays his big hands over the small of my back, the heat from his fingers dancing over my skin.

  “I…uh, didn’t realize you were there. Sorry about that.” I try to extricate myself from his arms but he keeps me pressed up against him. His strong heart beats against my palm as I put my hand on his chest.

  “Don’t be.” He dips his head, and his hair falls forward, shading his eyes as they move over my face. “I was thinking.”

  “About what?” I ask, my voice coming out a little higher than I would have liked it to. But how the hell can I talk normal when I’m meshed up against his body like this—thinking about hate fucking?

  “About kissing.”

  4

  Cole

  I want to kiss her. I want to kiss her so fucking bad, but her eyes are wide, her lids flashing rapidly, panic jumping all over her face. She’s practically shivering with anxiety, every muscle twitching.

  Jesus, if she still hates me and doesn’t want me to kiss her, no fucking way am I going to force her—no matter how desperate I am for a taste.

  For the last twenty-four hours, since she first stepped foot on my doorstep, all I’ve been able to think about are her lips, how they’d taste and feel on my mouth, my body.

  She’s so goddamn beautiful, and when she showed up here tonight, in her Daisy Duke jean shorts and tank top that gave me a glimpse of her gorgeous breasts, it was all I could do not to rip her clothes from her body and have my way with her. But while I’m an expert asshole, on and off the ice, this is sweet little Nina Callaghan—my Pretty BallerNina—and I’d never, ever do anything she didn’t want me to.

  I remove my hand from her back and inch away. “Hey, if you don’t want—”

  “I never said that,” she responds quickly, and flicks her tongue over her bottom lip like she’s moistening it for me.

  Motherfucker.

  I run my hand through my hair, messing it up as my heart rate doubles. I’ve lusted for women before, many of them, but with Nina it’s different. It’s a longing, many years in the building, but I don’t want to do anything to taint her sweetness.

  "Yeah?” I say.

  She gives a casual shrug of her shoulder. “I mean, it’s one of your conditions and I agreed, right?”

  “Right,” I say, and step back into her, until my thickening cock is pressing against her stomach. No sense in hiding what she does to me. Her breath changes, and her eyes widen when she feels me, but she doesn’t back away. I take that as a good sign and press on. “But do you want to kiss me, Nina?”

  I need to know it. I need to hear her say it. I’m not sure why. She’s agreed to the kiss and that should be enough, but there’s a part of me—the real me that no one knows—that needs to be wanted by her. Since I’ve always shut down my feelings, this foreign emotion scares the living fuck out of me. I should walk away, end this right now. I don’t want to feel. Nothing good can come from it, on or off the ice.

  She exhales, and her warm, minty breath washes over my face. “We don’t even like each—”

  “We don’t need to like each other to kiss.” I cup her face to stop her. “But that’s not what I’m asking.”

  A moment of hesitation, then she answers me with an upturned face, her lips parting slightly, her actions letting me know she wants this too. I brush my thumb along her cheek, and suck in a fast, fueling breath.

  If I do this, if I kiss my best friend’s kid sister, there’s no going back—and if Cason finds out, I’m a fucking goner. Stupid bro code.

  But I’m already a goner.

  As Nina stands before me, her cheeks a pretty shade of pink, her mouth opened slightly, welcoming me to kiss her, not even the toughest defensemen on the Seattle Shooters could keep me away.

  I lower my head slowly, wanting to draw the moment out, fearing I’ll never get the opportunity again, and press my lips to hers.

  As soon as I do, she makes a soft, sexy bedroom noise, and it takes every ounce of restraint I have to stop myself from picking her up and carrying her to my bedroom. I angle my head, deepen the kiss as I touch her body and shape her curves. I place my hands on her hips, pull her against me, and rock into her softness. My tongue slips between parted lips and tangles with hers, and she slides her hands around my back, her breasts pressing against my chest.

  The kiss deepens and expands, and when her eyes shut, my dick whispers at me to do wicked things to her.

  But this is little Nina, which means this is so fucked up.

  I break the kiss, and inch back. She remains in front of me, her mouth still poised, waiting for mine. I breathe fast, push down the things building inside me. The heat that could destroy my world.

  Her eyes fly open, equal measures of disappointment and shock staring at me. “I…we’re done?” she asks, her innocence totally fucking me over. Man, she’s really too sweet and pure for a guy like me. Then again, the thought of her in another man’s bed burns in my gut like acid.

  “Game’s on,” I say, switching back to Cocky Cannon mode. “Can’t let anything interfere with the game.”

  “Right,” she says, and turns from me, but not before I see the way she’s swallowing hard. “That’s why I’m here.”

  Fuck man, had I hurt her feelings? It wasn’t my intent but what the fuck can I do? No one gets into my head, my heart, or my home, and I’ve already broken one of those sacred rules with her.

  I grab the remote and flick the TV on. Nina half listens to me as she unpacks the groceries and starts putting them away.

  I glance at her moving around my kitchen like it’s where she belongs. “Leave them there, I’ll put them away.”

  “No, I don’t mind,” she says, her voice infused with a lightness that seems fake. “And I want to get the steaks marinating.” She glances at the TV. “So there are five players on the ice at a time?” she asks, bringing the conversation back to the real reason she’s here, and I’m glad, because I’m much more comfortable with that.

  “Six actually, if you include the goalie. We have two defensemen, a left winger, right winger and center.”

  “What do you play?” she asks as she moves about the kitchen, and I suddenly find my eyes on her ass, and not on the game.

  “Center. I quarterback the team at both ends of the ice.”

  “Is that why they call you The Playmaker?”
>
  “One of the reasons,” I say, and when she turns to me, I offer her my signature Cocky grin.

  She has a soft, thoughtful expression on her face. “Your team must be missing you.”

  “Yeah,” I say, and turn from her. It’s fucking killing me to be off the ice. I live for the game.

  “Maybe you’ll be better for the playoffs.”

  “I hope so. I’m doing everything the doctor told me to.” The first play of the game is on and the commentators are listing stats. Burns, a motherfucker who plays for the Illinois Icemen, takes off with the puck. I hate that guy. He’s the one responsible for my concussion. I scoff. All he got was a five-minute penalty and I’m out indefinitely. I hope they make it to the playoffs so I can make him pay. I’ve been obsessing over it.

  “Cole?”

  “Yeah.”

  Her eyes are narrowed, tentative. “If having me here is too much, I—”

  “No, Nina,” I say quickly. Her leaving is not an option. I want to help her. But it’s more than that. The truth is, she’s the one bright thing in all of this. “It’s fine. You’re actually cooking for me so that’s even one up on my road to recovery.”

  She sprinkles salt and pepper on the steak. “Maybe you should hire someone to help you out around here while you’re recovering.”

  “No,” I say, my tone harsher than I meant. I wince when she flinches. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to jump down your throat.” I don’t let just anyone into my house. This place is my sanctuary and strangers aren’t welcome. “I don’t let people in here.”

  “Oh, because you’re famous. I get it.”

  “Yeah,” I agree, even though that’s not the real reason.

  She goes quiet for a moment, then says, “Well, I could help you.”

  “I never thought of that.”

  Her T-shirt shifts over her cleavage as she gives a casual shrug. “I mean, if you wanted me too.”

  Nina in my house. All day. Cooking and helping out. Moving around and bending over. I swallow the groan rising in my throat. Like my cock isn’t tortured enough already.