Forbidden on Ice - SR Grey

by Grey, S. R.

  I’m curious as to what he has planned, so I ask, “What sort of things do you have to do for the team?”

  “It’s our first media day, so all the players have to spend the entire day at the training facility. We’ll be taping prerecorded interviews, putting together promo spots for ads and commercials, and having our pictures taken with all kinds of backgrounds for publicity campaigns that will run throughout the season.”

  “Oooh, that actually sounds super interesting,” I reply.

  “Yeah”—Blake shrugs—“it should be okay. Landen and I are going to drive in together. But, you know, next week is when the real fun begins.”

  “Do you mean training camp?”

  “I sure do.”

  Blake isn’t kidding.

  That following week, he’s totally slammed.

  And, really, so am I.

  The only bright spot is we still get to talk, text, and FaceTime pretty much every day. We don’t go to bed a single night without checking in. In fact, we often talk late into the night, sometimes falling asleep while we’re still on the phone.

  But then there’s a bright spot.

  On Saturday night, we finally have the time to go out to a nice dinner at a swanky restaurant.

  Blake looks amazing when he picks me up at my townhouse. He’s wearing a dark suit, red tie, and he has his black hair slicked back just the way I like it.

  This man, he takes my breath away.

  I have on a simple black dress, which seems to be taking Blake’s breath away. He’s not saying anything, but on the way to, and walking into, the restaurant I catch him checking me out slyly again and again.

  It only gets better from there.

  Like we haven’t missed a beat, we get caught up on everything over our lobster and wine.

  “I’m amazed that we never run out of things to discuss,” I remark at one point. “Whether on the phone or in person, it’s just never awkward with us, is it?”

  “No, it’s not,” Blake agrees as he dips a deshelled lobster claw into a small cup of drawn butter. “I wonder why that is, Noelle?”

  He raises a questioning brow, but it’s like he already knows the reason. I also have a theory, like we have something really special happening here. But I don’t say that to Blake. I want him to come to his own conclusion.

  I think he has, seeing as he’s smiling to himself knowingly.

  He’s so damn handsome when he smiles.

  Breaking me from my reverie, Blake asks, “What are you thinking about, Noelle? What’s that sly smile of yours mean?”

  Like he has room to talk!

  Teasingly, I say, “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  “I actually would,” he admits, completely serious.

  But it’s too late. The waitress decides to drop by just then, and there goes that conversation.

  The rest of dinner we keep the conversation light, making small talk about hockey for him and school for me.

  Our night is going so smoothly.

  Until, as we’re leaving, we run into a bunch of Blake’s teammates.

  Oh, no, not again!

  We don’t want anyone reporting back to Noel that we were spotted on a date, so we just pretend that we happened to be at the same place at the same time and decided to grab a quick dinner together.

  It’s a lame excuse and we know it.

  But no one questions us.

  I think some of the players are suspicious, though.

  That’s why, when they insist that we stay and have drinks with them at the bar before they get seated, Blake and I say in unison, “Sure.”

  We’re super careful, of course, not to kiss or show any sort of affection while in his teammates’ presence.

  Noel isn’t with the guys, nor does he show up—thank God!—but why take chances?

  In the days following, none of the boys report back to Noel that Blake and I were together. I think it’s because no one really knows what’s going on. Plus, all the guys are pretty cool. It’s not like they’re a bunch of tattletales or anything.

  That’s why when one of those players, Jaxon Holland, needs a favor, I’m inclined to help.

  Jaxon spent this past summer down at my brother’s beach house with my best friend, Cara, where they fell in love.

  Unfortunately, a miscommunication has broken them up.

  Now they’re trying to work things out.

  Jaxon just called me, and he has a brilliant idea of how to rekindle his relationship with Cara.

  But he needs my help.

  He knows I recently won a spa trip for the upcoming weekend, and that I was planning on taking Cara since it’s her birthday.

  My initial thought was to take Blake. But since my brother knows about the spa weekend, we’d be so busted.

  So Cara it is.

  Or Cara it was, until now.

  I make arrangements with Jaxon for him to surprise her by taking my place up at the resort.

  Chuckling, I say, “She is absolutely going to die when she sees you at the resort instead of me.”

  Worriedly, he replies, “You don’t think she’ll punch me in the junk and kick me to the curb?”

  I laugh. “No way! I think she likes your junk way too much, Jaxon.”

  That makes him happy.

  “She does, eh?” he asks, preening.

  To knock him down a few pegs for Cara’s sake, I say, “Hey, don’t be getting all cocky on me now. I didn’t say she wouldn’t kick you to the curb, I just said your manhood will likely remain intact.”

  “Thanks,” he deadpans. “That’s like good news, bad news.”

  I turn serious.

  “Jaxon,” I say, clearing my throat, “if I hear one word about you being a dick to my best friend, I swear I’ll do what she never will. I will kick you in the junk!”

  It’s true. I love Cara and will protect her to the ends of the Earth.

  Jaxon, realizing I’m not playing around, murmurs, “Ouch.”

  “Ouch is right. Just be good to her, okay?”

  He promises me that he will. And I feel like he’s sincere.

  So we work out the logistics.

  I’m to tell Cara on Friday afternoon that I’m running late at school. After she arrives at the spa, Jaxon will be there waiting for her, instead of me.

  “Aw, it’s going to be beautiful,” I say.

  “It will,” he agrees.

  We disconnect, and I sit for a minute just smiling my butt off. I love that I can play a pivotal role in Jaxon and Cara’s love story.

  But what’s even better is I now have an entirely free weekend to do whatever I want. Blake is free too, seeing as there are no preseason games or practices for the Wolves until Monday.

  What does that mean for us?

  It’s simple.

  It means we’ll finally have a chance to get back to work on our own damn love story.

  Let’s Get Away

  After a couple of crappy weeks of hardly seeing Noelle at all—and when we did spend time together, it was on the strict down low—the most wonderful thing happens. She and I have a weekend totally free of obligations.

  Hallelujah!

  Yeah, I feel like angels are rejoicing.

  I sure the fuck am.

  And I’m not wasting a single minute of this gift.

  But to hell with sneaking around!

  I want to be able to kiss Noelle out in public.

  I want to hold her hand.

  I want to grab her ass and not be looking over my shoulder to make sure her damn overprotective brother isn’t lurking. Or any of my teammates. It was great seeing them out at the restaurant on Saturday, and they were all cool as hell, but they kind of ruined the romantic vibe we had going on.

  We never even had sex that night. Noelle got tired, and I was feeling off from all the distractions.

  That sucked.

  Because damn it, I want Noelle back in my bed!

  Hanging out around here, dodging Noel and my teammates and g
etting bogged down with hockey and school, is not helping us move forward.

  I think about what we need and come up with a perfect solution—we have to leave town. Las Vegas is just too fucking small, especially when all of us hockey players tend to frequent the same places.

  With my great idea in mind, I call Noelle.

  “Hey, let’s get away,” I say as soon as she answers.

  With a smile in her voice, she replies, “You mean, like, get out of town?”

  “Yes, that’s exactly what I mean. I think we both need a break from sneaking around.”

  “Pfft,” she scoffs. “We’ve hardly even been able to do that, Blake. We keep running into people we know.”

  “Tell me about it,” I grouse. “It’s killing me. I need you back in my bed, woman.”

  “Damn, Blake,” she murmurs softly. “I want that too, more than you could ever know.”

  “Oh, I think I know,” I counter. “I feel the same way. So let’s go someplace where we can make that happen. Is your weekend still free?”

  “It is,” she replies. “My homework load isn’t too bad, either. I could easily finish up by Friday.”

  “Great.” I blow out a breath. “Then let’s do this, huh?”

  “Sounds good to me.” She hesitates, then asks, “But where should we go?”

  “Hmm…” I think about it. “Do you have a preference for anyplace special?”

  Excitedly, Noelle says, “Actually, yes. Since Cara’s been back in town, she’s been raving about how romantic Florida was for her and Jaxon. I’d love to go there.”

  “Say no more,” I reply. “Florida it is.”

  Noelle squeals. “So where should we go specifically?”

  “What about that island where Jaxon and Cara stayed? That sounded nice.”

  “Ha!” Noelle laughs. “It is nice. But it’s way too small. My brother’s house is on that island. And that means there’s a chance—a very good one, in fact—that he’d find out we’re there.”

  I shake my head. “Yeah, that wouldn’t be good.”

  “For sure. It’d kind of defeat the whole purpose of getting away, huh?”

  I laugh, and reply, “You’re not kidding.”

  After a little more thought, I finally come up with an idea. “Hey, what do you think about Key West? It’s busy enough that no one should recognize us there. Plus, I don’t think hockey is their big pastime.”

  “I doubt it,” Noelle interjects, snickering.

  I go on, “Anyway, I remember one of my old teammates from the Rangers used to go there. And he always had a blast. He told me about these really cool private cottages on a secluded beach. He said they were awesome.”

  Noelle loves it. “That sounds beyond perfect, Blake. It sounds really romantic too.”

  “It does,” I agree. “So should I book us flights and reservations for the most secluded cottage avaiable?”

  “Yes,” Noelle replies, “definitely.”

  We disconnect, and I’m on it, booking a Friday morning flight out of Las Vegas that should put us in Key West by early evening.

  Just in time to enjoy a romantic sunset.

  We won’t have a super long time there, but what’s important is there won’t be a single prying-eyes Wolves player in sight.

  Key West

  Oh My God, Key West is gorgeous. It’s hot as hell, though. The humidity is unbelievable.

  But nothing could bother me. I’m here with Blake, and we can do whatever we want.

  We can go anywhere, hold hands, and kiss each other on the street without a worry in the world that someone we know will see us and report back to Noel.

  We are free!

  Like a real couple.

  Yay!

  I feel energized and amazing.

  From the moment we step off the plane, there’s this really fun party vibe in the air. I like it. I also like that Key West feels really laid-back.

  “This is the perfect choice,” I tell Blake while we’re still at the airport. “I can tell already that we’re going to have the best time.”

  Smiling over at me as we walk to baggage claim, he says, “It’s what we need, babe.”

  We then agree how much we love that there will be no hiding, no sneaking around. We can just be what we’ve become—a couple.

  After Blake arranges to have our bags taken to the rented cottage ahead of us, we hail a taxi so we can head into town.

  Our first stop is to grab a drink and a bite to eat at a bar called Sloppy Joe’s, which is a Key West landmark.

  As Blake and I devour peel-and-eat shrimp and down frosty mugs of beer, we’re seated on high stools at a tall wooden table, listening to a band that’s really good.

  When they take a set break, Blake tells me Sloppy Joe’s was once Ernest Hemingway’s watering hole and his hangout. Seeing as I’m an avid reader, I’m super stoked to find this out.

  “Holy crap, no way!” I exclaim, holding a half-peeled shrimp in my hand. “I had no idea. Tell me more.”

  Leaning back on his stool and crossing his arms over his broad chest, Blake fills me in. “It all started in 1933 when the original owner, a guy named Joe Russell, opened on the exact day Prohibition ended. The place wasn’t called Sloppy Joe’s at the time. That was actually Hemingway’s idea.”

  “No way. How’d that come about?” I ask, engrossed as I pop another peeled shrimp into my mouth.

  Blake takes a sip of beer and goes on, “Hemingway was a regular patron of the bar, and came up with the name Sloppy Joe’s since the place used to serve iced seafood that sat out. As you could imagine, the ice melted pretty fast in this heat, making a mess on the floor. It left the place looking, as Hemingway termed, ‘sloppy.’ Well, the owner, Joe, kind of liked that, and the name ‘Sloppy Joe’s’ started right there.”

  “Ah, I get it now. It makes sense too. That’s really fascinating, Blake.” I eye him curiously. “But tell me one thing.”

  “What’s that, babe?”

  “How does a hockey player from up north know all of this?”

  Sheepishly, he admits, “I, uh, may have looked all that info up on my phone before we flew down here.”

  I’m impressed and gush, “You did that for me?”

  I swear Blake is blushing when he says, “Yes, I did. You’re a bookish kind of girl, so I figured you’d appreciate that piece of history in particular.”

  “I do.” I nod vigorously. “I definitely do.”

  After we’re finished eating and drinking, Blake insists we stop for a quick dessert at a place called Kermit’s that’s just down the road.

  “Did you look up this Kermit’s place too?” I ask as we head out on foot.

  Taking my hand, Blake tilts back his head. “Hmm, maybe I did, or maybe I didn’t. I’ll never tell.”

  “Oh, yes you will, you tease!” Laughing, I bump his leg with my boho skirt-clad hip. “I’m guessing that you totally did.”

  “You would be right,” he confirms. “I checked out all the places for Key Lime pie and read the reviews. Hands down, Kermit’s is supposed to be the best.”

  “I guess we’ll find out soon enough, huh?”

  “I guess we will, Noelle.”

  Thinking it over, I ask, “So, how about some more history? Why is this place called Kermit’s?”

  “Ahh…” He gives me a knowing look. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

  A couple of blocks later, I sure do. Kermit’s is a brightly painted lime green building on the corner, not unlike the color of Kermit the Frog.

  “This is so adorable,” I say as we step inside.

  The interior of Kermit’s is as green as the exterior. But more importantly, there are several options and multiple variations of what looks to be delicious Key Lime pies.

  To my delight, there are samples sitting out, including Key Lime fudge.

  “Hmm, this is interesting,” I say as I take a bite.

  “It is,” Blake agrees. “Not bad.”

  We try a few
more samples of Key Lime flavored things, but Blake and I ultimately decide on frozen slices of homemade Key Lime pie that are on sticks and have been dipped in decadent chocolate.

  “Holy crap, I know already that I am going to love this,” I tell Blake as we stand at the counter, preparing to pay. “Chocolate is life, you know?”

  He laughs and agrees, “Chocolate is pretty good. But what’s even better is in this format we can still walk around while we’re eating.”

  “Ohh, that’s true,” I coo. “Our time here is so limited that I don’t want to miss a thing.”

  The lady ringing us up is so sweet. She hears our conversation and cuts open the plastic coverings on the chocolate-covered slices of pie, handing us extra napkins for the road.

  As we’re leaving, I say to Blake, “In this heat, I bet these things will melt fast. I have a feeling we’re going to need all those napkins.”

  Chuckling, Blake hands me a bunch, which I do, in fact, use up pretty quickly.

  But it’s so worth it.

  Strolling back toward Duval Street, I exclaim, “Sweet baby Jesus, is this pie ever delicious! I didn’t even know I liked Key Lime stuff.”

  Blake laughs. “Guess you learn something new every day, huh?”

  There seems to be more to his comment, especially when I catch his gaze and I see sincerity and softness in his eyes.

  “Yeah,” I reply quietly. “I guess you do.”

  Maybe Blake’s right, seeing as the one thing I’m already learning on this trip is that I want him in my life long-term.

  Yeesh, I can’t think about that right now.

  Things have been so light and easy all this night. I’m saving the heavy thinking for later.

  Once we’re strolling down Duval Street, our pie slices long gone, Blake catches me yawning.

  “Are you getting sleepy, sweetheart?” he asks.

  I shrug. “Not particularly, but…” I lean in to him. “I am ready for bed.”

  He knows what that means and hails a taxi so fast it’s not even funny.

  Once we’re in our oceanfront cottage, which is a small frame bungalow structure that’s cute as can be, I take a look around.