Gamed (Minnesota Caribou Book 4)

by Colleen Charles

  Blaine glances from me to the net. “Fast lane? Today, you’re not even on the on-ramp.”

  “Screw you, asshole. If I went any faster, I’d lift off.”

  He skates away from me, his laughter burning a hole in my gut.

  I shake the liquor-induced cobwebs from my head and buckle up. Milo’s already pissed. I can tell by the set of his jaw and the beefy arms crossed on his massive chest. And the kid sitting next to him looks like he has a date with the undertaker later. The scrawny little dude tugs on Milo’s jeans, and the big guy ruffles his hair.

  Must be one of the kids he inherited when he married his wife, Maisy. Pretzel or some shit. Only met him once at a charity event for Milo’s youth hockey program, and the kid seemed afraid of his own shadow.

  But Milo will fix that. He brings out the best in every kid he helps.

  He used to bring out the best in me.

  But my best seems to have turned into mediocre.

  *****

  After I work my ass off for the rest of the scrimmage, shower, and throw my stuff in my Caribou duffle bag, I head down the tunnel and toward the parking lot, knowing full well who will be standing outside in the glaring sun to tell me he’s disappointed in me.

  Since there’s no father to do it, he’s the next best thing. Or maybe it’s the next worst thing.

  “Hey, underachiever. I’ve seen better passes during closing time at the local VFW.”

  I hitch my gear higher up on my shoulder and fall into step beside him. “Feeling a little sluggish today. Maybe I’m coming down with something.”

  One eyebrow raises. “Yeah. You’re coming down with free agency and a shitty farm club in Topeka. Hope you like cold showers, no massage therapy, and folding chairs in the locker room.”

  I stutter to a stop. “I’ll buckle down.”

  Milo almost catapults his huge body into my back. “I’ve heard that before. Been there. Done that. Bought the t-shirt that says, I’m with stupid.”

  “This time I mean it.” I stare into Milo’s eyes but his are narrowed into slits. He fists his hands, probably trying not to pop me in the jaw. “I’m getting to the point where I’m even sick of myself.”

  “Grunt and I both told you that womanizing and drinking would tank your career. We wanted you to learn from our mistakes, not make the same damn ones. You don’t have to become a monk or anything, but you do have to put your career first. At least before your dick. If you don’t watch it, you’re going to knock up the wrong chick and then you’re toast. Done. She’ll take your scrawny ass for everything you don’t have and then some. You’ll lose those fancy digs on the hill and that pimped-out dualie you worship. And no new townhouse for Anne. God, I admire that woman.”

  Thoughts of becoming a father at twenty-five dance through my head until my stomach clenches into a tight ball.

  Not. Gonna. Happen.

  I’m always careful. I always wrap it. But then a memory intrudes like an ice pick to my brain. A woman in Fargo with a huge rack and legs for days. Her blond hair sweeps over my body, and she whispers in my ear that she has fantasies about being the mother of my children right before she takes my dick down the back of her throat. When I’m drunk, I really don’t have as much control as I think I do. Because sometimes I don’t even remember my own name, let alone whether I have a newish condom in my wallet.

  Shit.

  Am I really that bad? Have I thrown it all away on some expensive scotch and cheap pussy?

  My gaze lifts to meet his. “I’ll stop drinking.”

  He gives me a little shove in the small of my back. “Damn right, you will. You owe me your shitty career. The career that should have put you in the ESPN highlight reel every single week. You know what, Monroe? Despite being one of the best kids to come out of my program, you’re also one of the worst. You don’t lack talent. You lack ambition. Drive. Initiative. And that’s so much worse than the dudes who maybe don’t have a stellar intuition or explosive speed, because those dudes work hard. They want it with every fiber of their being. And that makes them better than you at the end of the day. Hard work beats talent when talent fails to work hard. Give me two solid weeks, Monroe. I can fix this shit. Restore your focus. Give you something to feel good about. You’ll head to camp a new man.”

  As the truth flows over me like a cocktail of regret, I stiffen my spine. “So, what do you suggest I do during this two-week prison sentence? Besides stopping the drinking and banging? I don’t want to volunteer at a charity. Whenever I do that, I get overwhelmed with fans pulling me in different directions. And you want me to lay off the women. When I volunteer, women throw themselves at me. I want to be out of sight and out of mind. Lay low, so to speak.”

  Milo claps one of his massive mitts on my shoulder and clamps down. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  Chapter Three

  Sue-Ann

  “You have a really pretty pussy.”

  I drop the Rag & Bone denim I hold in my right hand and snap my head around, ready to lay into the rude man standing in the doorway of my shop. After opening my mouth, I clamp it shut again. No words form. No thoughts form. Well, maybe some thoughts.

  Blue eyes the color of a still, summer sky. Chiseled jawline. Scruffy beard. Long legs encased in distressed denim. Trim waist. Spiky black hair. Muscles upon muscles.

  And more muscles.

  Our eyes lock, and his full lips tug upward into a cheeky smirk. After a few more bemused moments, my sass kicks in and I puff myself up to my full five-foot-three height. “Excuse me?”

  He points to the plum-colored velvet kitty bed. “Your cat. She’s all silky and stuff. It must take you a long time to comb her.”

  In a heartbeat, I deflate. Almost like I wanted this cheeky Adonis to be talking about my lady bits instead. Because I can feel them right now. Damn ovaries. They’re squeezing and clenching and calling this guy’s name before they even know what it is. They’re preparing to swoon. He’s young. Like previous decade young. As I consider my wrinkles and cellulite, I realize he’s definitely not for me.

  A sigh of regret whispers across my lips. “She is a he. That’s Catrick.”

  His gaze is hot and curious all at the same time. “Catrick?”

  The intensity of that look whispers through me. “Yeah. He’s only named after the greatest movie of all time.”

  He taps a tapered finger on his temple. “Slap Shot? I don’t remember a Catrick.”

  I put a hand on the indent of my hip and jut it out. “Dirty Dancing, silly. Patrick Swayze. One of the hunks of our generation. At least my generation.”

  He steps inside and that azure gaze sweeps my body, staying way too long on my full breasts for politeness. A blaze of heat erupts everywhere his eyes touch. “Never saw it. How dirty was it? You’ll have to help me out here. National Geographic or Porn Hub?”

  Flash.

  This guy naked and on his knees worshiping my slick heat with his full lips.

  Flash.

  This guy peeling off those tight distressed jeans so his huge cock escapes.

  Flash.

  This guy gripping my curvy hips and manhandling me onto the display table so he can sink inside me while my inner muscles flutter around him.

  I shake my head and refuse to let the fantasy take root, but my body doesn’t go along for the ride. Because it wants to ride him.

  He’s got a babyface and not enough beard growth on it to matter. Totally off-limits. Too bad because it’s been a long time for me. Years since I’ve had a man in my bed and months since I’ve even found one attractive, let alone this full-on panty-melting chemistry at a few innocent questions and heated looks. “Only the dancing was dirty. So, can I help you with something? Girlfriend got a birthday coming up?”

  Maybe he’s shopping for his mother or his sister—even his nana—but I went and asked that.

  Because you want to know his answer even though you can’t climb him like you do when you dress your favorite mannequin.

>   I shove the voice of reason into the darkest recesses of my soul because an over-the-hill girl can still dream.

  He shoves a hand through his hair. “Nah, no girlfriend. You women are too hard to buy for. And I’m not really here for a gift.”

  My voice turns gritty as my throat tightens. “No?”

  My mind races with all the possible reasons he could be standing inside Sue-Ann’s when he doesn’t want to buy something. He’s not my customer. And that sucks, because it would have been the most fun I’ve had in a very long time, using my best skills to flirt my way to a huge sale with this hot-as-hell boy toy.

  That blue gaze sweeps the perimeter. “I’m looking for Sue-Ann Johnson. The owner.”

  The statement lands like a promise. “You’re looking at her. Did I forgot to cancel my jelly of the month club?” The corners of my mouth tug upward. “You’re definitely not Publisher’s Clearing House or you’d be holding one of those huge cardboard checks. Please don’t tell me you’re with the city zoning commission? Or even worse, the IRS?”

  He laughs, and it completely transforms his face from simple panty-melting to the hallelujah chorus. “I hate taxes. I leave that stuff to my accountant.”

  This kid needs an accountant? “You’re going to have to help me out then. I have no idea why you’re here.”

  He inches closer. Too close. Not nearly close enough. “Milo Adamski sent me.”

  Could you use some help? For free? Milo’s words float through my mind until the breath stalls in my lungs. This is who he sent to work in my store? To spend time here? With me? Some muscle-bound hockey kid from his youth program? No. He’s too old for that.

  Confusion rips through me, settling into my brain. “Milo?”

  “Yeah. Said you two talked about it.” He steps forward and holds out his huge hand. I stare at it until he gives it a little shake. “I’m Max. At your service.”

  At my service? I grip his fingers in mine and try to ignore the heat. The sizzling electric connection as our skin touches for the first time.

  And the last if I have anything to say about it. All I can think about is getting rid of this kid so I can call Julia and unload. And then call Milo and tell him his assistance is no longer needed or welcome. For some warped reason, I’d just assumed he’d be sending over a teenage girl. Maybe the sister of one of his players.

  Not this… this huge man oozing sex and bad decisions from every pore with absolutely no business being inside my boutique looking like a bull in the china shop.

  “Sue-Ann, but I guess you knew that.” I flick my wrist at the sign above the door blinking in neon pink. “I think there must be some kind of mistake. Do you have any retail experience?”

  He lets go of my hand way too soon. “Not unless you count a stint at Dollar General in junior high.”

  I cringe, imagining his giant man hands all over the Hermès.

  No. Can. Do.

  “A stint?”

  His chuckle bubbles up. “I may or may not have been fired for eating a can of Pringles on the job.”

  Glancing around, I realize there’s nothing edible inside my store for stealing, unless you count the famous Sue-Ann’s tea and coffee bar, but that’s complimentary. “Please tell me it was barbecue and not plain?”

  He sets the laugh free. “You know it. Plain is not a flavor. I prefer spicy things.”

  Why does my body erupt into tingles at that innocent statement? I’m a lot of things but after I turned thirty, spicy became the stuff of girls’ night memories.

  With a sliver of sadness, I take one step closer. “Well, I’m afraid I can’t take on someone without any retail experience. Even as an intern.”

  For a heartbeat, his face falls, and I could swear I see something other than arrogance creep into his expressive eyes. But he smirks again, and I’m not sure. Probably just seeing something I want to see instead of reality.

  “You must not know Milo that well.”

  “I admit, I just met him that day I came in. But my best friend Julia knows him. And apparently, Sue-Ann’s is his wife’s favorite store.”

  His eyes narrow. “Julia Spencer?”

  “That’s her.”

  He grunts under his breath, and his tone seems choked. “Spencer’s wife.”

  How can he dislike someone he doesn’t even know? Julia is my ride or die. I value hard work, kindness, and intelligence. Grit. My bestie has all of them in spades. If she didn’t, I wouldn’t still be her friend after all these years. And Adam, a Duluth native, is a stand-up guy. I’m not sure where the attitude comes from.

  I stare at him as if he’s an enigma wrapped in denim. “Are you from Duluth?”

  “Yeah. Born and raised.”

  My heart clutches as that gaze sweeps my body again. I trace all my memories back to my childhood until old wounds start to fester. The high school boyfriend who cheated. The college boyfriend who shattered my heart when he changed his mind. “Funny we never crossed paths. Downtown Duluth is still kind of small town.”

  “We haven’t. If you and I had met, I’d remember. I don’t come downtown very often. And when I was younger… let’s just say I lived out of town. Didn’t have a car until I turned sixteen and hockey kind of consumed my life. Not much time for fun outside of the team.”

  “Well, Max. You seem like a nice guy, but I don’t have much need for a male salesperson in my women’s boutique. I’m sure Milo can find you something else to do during your time off, can’t he? Something more in line with your skillset? Maybe coaching or charity work?”

  He runs a hand along a cashmere tank top in several shades of pink. I can’t help but imagine how it would feel for that hand to run along my exposed collarbone instead of the fluffy fabric. “I’m afraid that’s not possible. I have my marching orders. And those orders insisted I march here.”

  I tug my lower lip between my teeth. Something about him screams wounded puppy amidst all the puffed-up male bravado he shows to the world. Something about him makes me want to scratch the surface and see if anything deeper lays underneath.

  Something about him softens me.

  And I cave.

  “Um… okay. I guess we could do a trial run for one week. As a test. If it doesn’t work out, no harm no foul. Would that work for you and Milo?”

  He looms closer to me and with every whisper of breath—every heartbeat—my body tingles. Just when I think he’s going to kiss me, his hand snakes out instead. “It’s a deal. Nice to officially meet you, Sue-Ann Johnson. Don’t underestimate me. I might know more about women than you give me credit for.”

  As I clasp my hand in his and ignore the raging electricity firing off sparks, I nod. His knowing too much about women—about me—is just what I’m afraid of.

  Chapter Four

  Max

  The most spectacular heart-shaped ass greets me as I slip through the front door of Sue-Ann’s for my first day of ‘work’ courtesy of Milo the Meathead. More like penance. Purgatory. But after my mouth waters at the sight of the lush mounds of flesh on top of the step ladder, I reconsider. Maybe this won’t be so bad after all. Milo insists that Sue-Ann will provide me the perfect model for adulting. And I can’t say the view isn’t spectacular.

  A little harmless flirting didn’t make it on the naughty list because my transgressions are usually much worse. According to Milo, I’m still free to flirt at will, even though he warned me off this particular woman.

  Flirting is okay but no touching.

  Kissing.

  Fucking.

  Sue-Ann, a curvy five-foot-three if I know my women, stretches her arm out toward a box at the top of a shelf. Even when she elongates her torso, she can’t reach it. She tentatively climbs another rung under my watchful eye. She shifts—almost as if she can feel the heat of my lust-filled glare—but then settles again.

  She’s got short-girl problems.

  With both arms stretched above her head, giving me visual access to perfect side boob, she nudges the box, trying
to coax it closer to her with her fingertips. Those tits would fit perfectly in my huge hands, and I can’t help but imagine her moaning as I learn all her peaks and valleys. As the unstable ladder finally reaches its limit of shaking, it starts to sway.

  With a resounding creak, the ladder slips out from under Sue-Ann as she tumbles backward, pinwheeling her arms. I pitch myself forward and catch her in mine before any part of her gorgeous body hits the floor.

  Just as her soft perfume hits my nostrils, electricity hits my groin. “Whoa, there.”

  She instinctively clings to me, and I snuggle her shaking body into my shoulder, ignoring how damn good she feels there. How damn perfectly she fits. Her arms reach out and wrap around my neck. With a tiny hitch of breath, she turns her head and gazes up at me. Those eyes. They’re the color of the Boundary Waters on a calm summer day. After a few blinks, they twinkle with amusement.

  “Sue-Ann, are you okay?” a young voice asks from the doorway to the back room. “I heard a crash.”

  “Totally fine, Emma. Thanks to Max here. Could have cracked my head open. I almost went ass over tea kettle.”

  And a damn fine ass it is.

  Too soon for my taste, my curvy bundle regains her composure and steps away from me. A tiny chill whispers against my skin where her heat used to be. Her smile of gratitude mesmerizes me, sending unexpected little lightning bolts straight to my swelling dick.

  I imagine her underneath me until my face blazes the same fire below my belt.

  Then she looks between me and Emma and blushes. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so sexy. At least not since last weekend.

  “Uh… Emma. This is Max. He’s going to be helping us out until I can hire someone permanently to replace Rhonda.”

  I step toward the gangly high school girl and hold out my hand. “Nice to meet you, Emma.”

  She stares at me as if I’ve sprouted another head. “No way.”

  My eyes narrow. “Is something wrong?”

  “You… you… you’re Max Monroe!”