Twisted Wrister: A Next-Door-Neighbor Sports Romance (The Playmakers Series Hockey Romances Book 7)

by G. K. Brady

  She could barely contain a swoony sigh. I want someone who wants to give me massages … and who looks at me like that. Clearing her throat, she grinned at Beckett, whom she’d met a half-dozen times before and really liked. After he introduced the other guy, one of the college hockey players Beckett coached, Michaela thanked them profusely for being her moving crew—from the garage to the back of her truck.

  The young guy asked if she wanted his help when she reached the condo.

  “I got this,” Michaela scoffed, ignoring her toe that, after last night’s run-in with the chair, still pulsed like a red beacon on top of an emergency vehicle.

  “You sure? This sucker’s heavy.” Beckett arched a skeptical eyebrow above his glasses and flashed her a smile. In that moment, she pictured the reformed ladies’ man barely crooking his pinkie to have women falling all over him in his pre-Paige playboy days; even the glasses had a way of enhancing rather than detracting from the package.

  Smooth operators had never been Michaela’s thing, and apparently they hadn’t been Paige’s either, but he’d won her over anyway—probably with those back massages and a plethora of other sweet deeds. Now those were Michaela’s thing, but they were as hard to find as a chilled martini at a Mormon church service.

  “Thanks, but I have help when I get to the condo.” She’d tested it before and was fairly certain she and April could handle it. Slide if off the tailgate, scoot it into the lobby, into the elevator, and scoot some more down the hallway into the condo. Piece of pie. Besides, she didn’t want to put the Millers out more than she had already.

  While the men loaded the couch into the Tundra, Paige leaned in and said in a conspiratorial whisper, “Beck has a coaching buddy who recently turned single. Super nice guy. He wants to get back out there, and he likes smart women, so I thought of you. Interested in being set up on a blind date?” Her auburn eyebrows bounced with mischief.

  Hmm. Did Beckett’s “buddy” have that whole handsome jock thing going too? If so, he might be a garden-variety babe magnet not cut from the let-me-bring-you-breakfast-in-bed bolt because, hello, he was newly single.

  As if reading her mind, Paige helpfully added, “He’s older, so a little more mature. Steady.”

  Before Michaela had a chance to process further, Paige ran on. “We’re having an informal gathering, and Scott will be there. Join us, and you can see for yourself if he’s anyone you might be interested in getting to know. Very low-key, no pressure.”

  “Uh …”

  Paige winked a pale green eye. “I won’t tell him. That way you can check him out on your own terms.”

  Fiona’s voice floated through Michaela’s head. “Think opportunity! Think fun!”

  “Sure. Why not?” Michaela finally choked out. “I’d be happy to come.”

  An hour later, Scott the Single was the last thing on Michaela’s mind as she sucked in air, folded over the arm of the sofa she and April had managed to wedge in the doorframe. Her toe was shouting at her about stubborn pride and how she should have taken the college guy up on his offer to help.

  As if to reinforce the thought, April climbed over her end and panted, her silky black ponytail sliding over her shoulder. “So you had a big muscly hockey player at your disposal, and you said no?”

  “I didn’t want to have to drive him back,” Michaela mumbled into the couch’s cushy seat.

  “I could have driven him back, Miss Mick. I bet he was really built and really, really cute.” April was forever on the lookout for Prince Charming and, unlike Michaela, seemed to find a possible candidate every weekend. Oh. Because April actually went out.

  Michaela lifted her head and shook it. “Way too young for you, April.”

  April gave her a wolfish grin. “Naw, more like trainable. And a hockey player. Lots of stamina.” She fanned herself with her hand.

  “Okay, mind out of the gutter and back on the problem at hand.” Namely, maneuvering the much-heavier-than-she-remembered red beast into her apartment. 3D puzzling, figuring out how to make things fit, had never been her strong suit, but she wasn’t the sort to run from a challenge. Besides, she couldn’t just leave the couch where it was. She dropped her face back into the cushion with a grunt.

  “What are you doing, Miss Mick?”

  “Strategizing. We need to figure out how we’re going to accomplish this muscular feat with strength neither of us has.” When April didn’t come right back with a snarky remark, Michaela lifted her head … in time to hear a deep voice reverberate behind her.

  “Uh, can I help?”

  She bolted upright and turned in time to catch her 3:00 a.m. neighbor eyeing her Lycra-covered rear. Remembering how he’d ogled his date’s butt, she pegged him for an ass man. Then again, she had been offering it up, so to speak. His eyes shot up to hers, guilt plastered all over his face, and he gave her a sheepish half-smile. Damn.

  Chapter 4

  Howdy Neighbor

  God, Blake hated to destroy the visual by talking to it, but he couldn’t continue gawking at the beautifully rounded butt because it was taunting him and conjuring all kinds of dirty scenarios in his head.

  “Hey!” a woman with a long black ponytail piped up from the other side of the red couch. Distracted as he was, he hadn’t noticed her, and her sharp greeting made him snap to and consider a salute. Or was that unbridled enthusiasm on her part? Mom’s lectures about good manners aside, the woman currently assessing him was one more solid reason he couldn’t keep staring at the bite-worthy ass on display in front of him. The woman who belonged to said flawless ass hinged at the waist and swung herself into an upright position. Pivoting crisply, she nearly fell on that perfect butt of hers. Brown fluffy curls framed wide gray eyes peeping through schoolteacher, black-rimmed glasses.

  “It’s you!” she exclaimed, and not in a good way. She tugged at the hem of her neon body-hugging, long-sleeved running shirt, looking like she wanted to cover up. Instead, she managed to pull it tighter and accentuate other parts of her anatomy that were also perfect. God, he loved spandex or whatever the hell fabric was clinging to her curves. Another tug—of her sleeve this time—and he glimpsed a green vine adorned with delicate red flowers above her wrist right before she covered it.

  So Curly was into tattoos? Unexpected. Not that he’d expected anything from her. Nope, not a thing. That would have meant he’d given her a thought after their run-in, which he hadn’t. Well, none he’d openly admit to himself.

  He dipped his shoulder, letting his gym bag slide off and thud to the floor. “Yep, it’s me, and it looks like you’re having a logistics issue.”

  “Yes!” said the Asian-looking woman. “Do you think you could help us get this into her apartment?” Curly opened and closed her mouth a few times, the motion reminiscent of the largemouth bass he used to chase as a kid in Oregon.

  Curly’s gaze lifted over his shoulder and focused on something—or someone—beyond. A beat later, Blake understood when Ferguson called, “Be happy to, ladies,” from behind him.

  Soon his roommate was crowding him, zeroing in on Curly. “I’m Owen Ferguson,” he announced, as if she’d recognize the name.

  Apparently, she didn’t. She jabbed her thumb over her shoulder. “That’s April Joon, and I’m Michaela Wagner.”

  Ferguson’s slow smile—the one he used liberally on women he viewed as prey—spread over his face as he swept his gaze from Curly’s knees to her neck. “Michaela. That’s a beautiful name.”

  Blake held back his gag reflex. Michaela perched her hands on her hips, her expression utterly blank. Was she charmed by that shit? Was the girl charmed by anything? Doubtful, just as it was doubtful she had a sense of humor. Not that Blake gave a rat’s rear end.

  Michaela turned her attention on him, arched an expectant eyebrow, and let out a cute little chuckle. “And you are?”

  Huh. If he wasn’t mistaken, an unexpected sense of mischief had just made an appearance.

  Before he could answer, Ferguson pal
med his shoulder with one hand and pointed with the other. “I’m with stupid here.” Then he laughed at his own not-funny joke. It died a quick death in his throat when no one else laughed.

  “I’m Blake. Barrett. We’re your neighbors.” Yeah, he was playing right into Ferguson’s description of him: stupid.

  Michaela broke out a huge smile and extended her hand, which he took without thinking. “Blake Barrett,” she chirped, “I’m happy to meet you because, boy oh boy, do I owe you a big fat apology.”

  Stunned didn’t begin to describe his reaction. Utterly disarmed, the first thought to reach his muddled brain was, “Okay. Now I get what Fergs likes about this girl because, damn, she has a beautiful smile.” He never got to the second thought.

  “I’m, um, really sorry about the thing with … I shouldn’t have pointed the pepper spray at you. Totally uncalled for. I’ve been trying to figure out a way to apologize ever since.” She glanced down at her hand—the one he was still shaking. “May I have my hand back now? I need it to move the couch.” Her smile turned downright impish.

  Crap! He dropped her hand as though an electrical shock had just buzzed up his arm. “Sorry! Uh, no apology needed. We’ll take care of the couch. Where do you want it?”

  Ferguson guffawed in Michaela’s general direction. “Yeah, I heard you about maced him the other night. Somebody shoulda done it a long time ago.”

  “What?” April shrieked.

  Michaela’s shoulders pulled up around her ears, and a look of horror mixed with contrition overcame her features. Though he was sure the little ball-buster could take care of herself, Blake’s better-mannered side felt a pull to bail her out.

  “Nah, it was just a joke,” he tossed out. “Two tired people bumping into each other in a dark hallway at three o’clock in the morning. She had her keys in her hand, and my vision was a little bleary. Eye-to-brain disconnect.”

  She grimaced and opened her mouth, to say what, he wasn’t sure because he cut her off. “Therefore, I owe you an apology. Hey, did you know that half your brain is involved with sight? And the human eye stays the same size from the time we’re born, but our ears and nose keep growing?” He grinned at her to complete the charade.

  Ferguson tapped his arm impatiently. He’d been on the receiving end of Blake’s useless bits of trivia for years. “C’mon, meat. Let’s do this.” He brushed Michaela on his way to the other end of the couch, though there was plenty of room to maneuver around her. She jumped back and eyeballed Blake as if trying to calculate whether he’d pull the same move. No worries, Curly. I have no intention of getting that close, even if your ass and tits are perfect. Not that I noticed. Except I totally did. I’m a guy. It’s a reflex, like breathing.

  She mouthed, “Thank you,” throwing him off balance again.

  He hoisted his end of the couch with an overabundance of force before he realized Ferguson was doing squat on his end. Correction. He was executing some weird slow-mo fingers-in-his-hair move like he was a model posing for a shot. Giving April the flirt face, he paused, grabbed the back of his T-shirt, and tugged it off over his head.

  Oh, for fuck’s sake! Like that’s not an obvious ploy to show off.

  If April’s saucer-sized stare and gaping mouth were any indication, Ferguson’s antics were effective. Michaela, on the other hand, narrowed her eyes at Blake and jabbed a thumb toward Fergs. “Does he always do this?” In that instant, she netted a few points on Blake’s likability chart.

  “Pretty much all the time,” he grumbled.

  “Hey, I just showered, and I don’t want to leave any sweat stains on my fresh T-shirt,” Ferguson fake-protested.

  He and Fergs maneuvered the couch into the apartment, with Ferguson exaggerating every flex and curl of his exposed muscles, meaning Blake did most of the moving. After they got it into place, Ferguson performed a back-of-the-hand swipe over his forehead. “Phew! That was a workout.”

  “Seriously?” Blake chuffed. Guy hadn’t broken a sweat—probably because he hadn’t done any work—and he threw Blake a fuck-you look.

  Oblivious to their silent signals, Michaela said, “Thank you guys so much. I think the couch would have been stuck there for a week without your help. When I leave in six months, I’ll be sure to hire movers to deal with it.”

  “No problem,” Blake muttered as his gaze swept her condo. With only four units per floor, each one offered a corner view, and this one looked out at the northern mountains and a neighboring building. It was sparsely furnished, though the effect seemed intentional, and those furnishings it held looked sleek and really expensive. Cold. It struck him that the buttery red couch was the only item in the place that seemed to suit her, though he knew nothing about her—except she carried mace and wasn’t afraid to use it.

  Ferguson’s true objective became unmistakably clear when he flashed her a grin. “How about showing your gratitude with some paybacks?”

  Michaela folded her arms across her chest, making no effort to conceal a skeptical smirk. “Like what?”

  Fergs made no move to put his shirt back on, but she kept her eyes steady on his, unlike April, who had yet to stop drifting her fangirl gaze all over him. Fergs reached up and smoothed the back of his neck, flexing his bicep in the process. Jesus, where did the dude learn this shit? Blake had never seen him put on the ridiculous bodybuilder porn poses before. He must have been really hot for this chick, even if he seemed to be putting on the act for her friend.

  “I was thinking,” Fergs drawled. “There’s this great little bar on the corner—”

  “The Detour?” Michaela offered.

  Ferguson’s smile grew wider. “Yeah. You know it?”

  Michaela shook her head, and her dark brown curls bounced around her heart-shaped face. That’s when Blake noticed a dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose. “Not really. I’ve walked by a few times since moving here, but I’ve never been inside.”

  “We need to change that. Right now. Let’s get on down there. My treat.”

  Michaela’s eyes slid toward Blake, and her brows pulled together in a question mark. She started to speak, but Fergs cut her off. “Nah, he doesn’t drink.”

  April seemed to emerge from her trance. “I do!”

  After an awkward beat, Fergs feigned enthusiasm. “Good! The more, the merrier.”

  Michaela kept her eyes leveled on Blake. Humor sparkled in their depths. “What about you? You don’t ever go to bars? And you don’t drink … anything? Not even water?” Then she winced. “I should at least bake you some cookies after … Buying you a drink is the least I can do. Would you join us?” She blinked at him, waiting for an answer.

  How could he say no? Besides being rude, he had nothing planned—well, except calling his mom like he’d promised his sister he would after she had begged him during their conversation this morning. But he could easily put off that unpleasantness for a few more hours, even if the obligation was pressing on him like a determined defenseman. One quick drink, he told himself, and he’d head back to the condo and make the call he dreaded.

  In his peripheral vision, April directed a puzzled expression at him while Fergs glowered. That glower made up Blake’s mind for him. “Did you know that North America’s Great Lakes contain twenty percent of all the water found in the world’s freshwater lakes? But to answer your questions, I go to bars, and I drink water, among other things. Typically, it’s club soda or Coke and lime, though I’ve been known to throw back a glass of something on special occasions.”

  “Really?” Ferguson challenged. “Haven’t seen an occasion special enough for you to pull that stick out of your ass in a loooong time.”

  Ferguson was verging on jackassery, triggering a few unpleasant thoughts inside of Blake, so he pretended he hadn’t heard him.

  Michaela raised a sculpted eyebrow. He didn’t know her well enough to answer the question dancing in her eyes, namely why he didn’t drink. The question she asked, though, wasn’t the one he expected. Anothe
r assumption shot down. “Did he rope you into being his roommate to get a built-in designated driver?”

  “No,” Blake retorted, more for Ferguson’s sake than Michaela’s. “It’s because he couldn’t meet girls any other way.” Shit. That wasn’t only a lie, but it came off sounding cocky as hell. Then again, he wasn’t trying to impress anyone, so what did it matter how he came off? He executed an inner shrug.

  Apparently, it mattered to Ferguson, as the deepening scowl on his face proved. While he scooped up his T-shirt and yanked it on, Michaela slid her mouth to the side, looking thoughtfully at Blake. “Obviously, you don’t need help meeting girls.” She pressed her lips together as if stifling a laugh.

  A flush of embarrassment rose up Blake’s neck. Was that a compliment? No, she had to be yanking his chain over catching him with Sherry. As his flush practically flamed, he detected a flicker of something undecipherable in her eyes. He wasn’t adept at reading women in the first place, and women like her were as mysterious as the reasons why Hollywood kept remaking Spiderman. Michaela Wagner was an anomaly in his world, where the women he met were usually in bars and were on a mission to notch a hockey player into their proverbial bedposts.

  Rarely, like a few nights ago with Sherry, he found himself in the sack, though most times he avoided encounters altogether because—like a few nights ago with Sherry—an element of clumsiness inevitably arose that left him feeling inept.

  The four of them ambled out of the building toward the corner bar, Ferguson crowding Michaela’s side while Blake and April brought up the rear. Fergs poured on the charm, flashing Michaela one smile after another while nearly tripping over his feet in his overattentiveness. Michaela returned those smiles with brilliant ones of her own, apparently enjoying Ferguson’s interest.

  April yanked Blake back to the present when she tapped Michaela’s arm. “Hey, you never told me what happened with the speed dating the other night.”

  Michaela’s eyes fired daggers over her shoulder, and her lips formed a tight, menacing line. “Filter?” she growled.