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

by G. K. Brady

  Michaela fumbled with her phone. “No, I’ll just call a Lyft. That was my plan anyway.”

  Paige’s auburn eyebrows touched her hairline. “Even though you both live in the same building? On the same floor? Right next to each other?”

  “I’ll take her home,” Blake immediately responded, telling himself it had everything to do with being a gentleman and absolutely nothing to do with wanting to spend more time talking to Michaela … Micky. She looked more like an “M” to him. Had he earned the right to call her a nickname yet? Well, one besides “Curly,” which she hadn’t seemed to mind.

  “No, no, you don’t have to, Blake.” Michaela continued wrestling her phone out of her tiny purse. Abruptly, she stopped and looked up at him. “Oh. Calling a Lyft would just be silly, wouldn’t it?”

  He offered her a cockeyed grin. “I’m not sure I’d put it quite that way, but yeah, it makes sense for both of us to share a ride. Save the planet and all that.”

  “And bonus, you’re sober as a judge! Although I’ve met a few not-so-sober—whoops! TMI. Never mind.” Shaking her head, she tried to jam her partly liberated phone back into her purse, giving up with an exhale.

  Cuffing her upper arm—while trying to ignore the feel of silky fabric over her warm skin—he steered her out of the solarium to where Paige stood grinning madly at them.

  “Good. That’s more like it,” Paige said. She gave them a head bob to punctuate her statement. A disembodied male voice rose from somewhere in the house, asking why she wasn’t in bed. “Be right there, Beck,” she called, her eyes rising to the ceiling. “Just saying good-bye to our last guests.”

  Blake picked up the words “guests” and “pregnant wife” sprinkled liberally with cursing, and he stepped up his pace. “Paige, I’m so sorry. We’ll let ourselves out so you can get to bed. Tell Beckett I’m sorry too.”

  She shrugged a shoulder. “It’s all good. Honestly.” Gracious as ever, she led them to the front door—more like waddled—and, after giving them both their coats and an extra squeeze, ushered them out. The night was quiet, muffled by a light veil of snow sifting from the endless, inky vault above. Once they’d cleared the covered stoop, Michaela turned her face upward, opened her mouth, and stuck her tongue out. Yep, not attorney-like at all, and he stifled a laugh at her antics. The sidewalk was dusted in white, as though someone had sprinkled powdered sugar over its surface, and he felt rather than saw her leg shoot out from under her. He tightened his grip and yanked her against him before she could hit the concrete. For a stilted second, they stared at each other through clouds of exhaled steam. Her lips tipped up, and her eyes glittered like the snow crystals swirling around them.

  Ferguson. I need to tell Ferguson he has a date.

  “Thanks for saving me,” she said, breaking the spell as she tottered away from him and looked up and down the street. “Which one is your car?”

  His eyes caught on her spiky heels. Jesus, no wonder she’d nearly fallen on her ass! They were dealing with strictly heavy-tread-footwear weather here. One quick stride and he caught her up, wrapping his hand around her small bicep buried inside her wool coat sleeve. “Hold on there, Micky Mouse, before those heels of yours land you on the sidewalk.” Oh shit. Way to impress her, genius.

  Her eyes snapped to his and narrowed. “Did you say Micky? Mouse?”

  “Sorry. After hearing other people call you Micky all night, it kinda slipped out.”

  “Only special people call me Micky, and no one calls me Mouse.”

  Unable to tell if she was truly offended, he marshaled on. “So even after tonight, I don’t rate high enough in the special category to call you Micky? Without the mouse part, of course,” he quickly qualified as he fought a telltale quirk of his lips. He nudged her along, and they trundled toward his blacked-out Range Rover SVAutobiography. “That’s my car,” he indicated with a chin lift.

  She brought them to a stop a few feet from the front bumper and looked up at him. “Do you want to call me Micky?”

  He shook his head. “Not really. You strike me as more of an ‘M.’”

  Confusion drew her brows together. “‘M’? What’s that?”

  No idea. He hustled her to the passenger door and opened it, urging her inside before her fingers turned to icicles. Where were her gloves? “M is the first initial of your name.” Giving himself an inner pat on the back for the nonsense that had sparked his brain, he got her situated, leaning over her to strap her in as though she were a little kid. She lifted her arms to accommodate him, seemingly unaware that he was practically lying across her lap.

  As he pulled away, she surprised him by saying. “‘M.’ I kinda like it.”

  With a chuckle and a headshake, he closed her door and rounded the hood.

  “I like your car,” she declared when he climbed inside.

  “Thanks. Me too.”

  The drive went quickly—too quickly, if he were honest—because the population of Denver was way smarter than they were, with folks tucked in their warm homes instead of driving dark, icy streets. They talked the entire way, meandering from the topic of Range Rovers to cars in general to fast-food fare and what was really in those chicken sandwiches. Conversation with Michaela was easy, and it continually fueled his mind, making it vault from subject to subject. He was eager to find out what she thought, and the more they talked, the higher the well of possible topics filled. It seemed bottomless.

  A quiet settled over them when they entered the building and climbed aboard the elevator. Only six inches separated them, and his index finger, as if controlled by some other being, sought her soft hand and stroked lightly. Coming to his senses, he pulled away. “Your fingers are cold,” he murmured. She glanced up at him and hummed her agreement. All of him wanted to press his lips to hers, to feel their soft warmth once again, to feel that connection. Berating himself for being a lousy friend to Fergs, he dropped his gaze as he fought to keep his body in check. This had to be lust clouding his mind. Had to be.

  His gaze took a tour of the elevator’s dark interior, and he pondered whether he should take Sherry up on her offer to call. After all, he was no slouch in the kissing department, at least according to the woman currently sharing the elevator with him. However, the thought of kissing Sherry had him near hurling, and he ejected the idea from his head before it could grow legs. The only woman piquing his interest at the moment was the one beside him—an inconvenience he couldn’t afford to indulge for so many reasons … not the least of which was the guy who shared years of friendship and a condo with him.

  Moments later, Blake stood at Michaela’s door while she rummaged around in her purse for her key, his eyes wandering between the silky curls on her head and his own door. Was Ferguson home? The guy would be thrilled when Blake told him he had a date with her. Like weights on a scale, though, Blake’s excitement would be inversely balanced with his roommate’s, and it caused him to take a step back so he could preserve the modicum of loyalty he clung to.

  When Michaela slid the key home and unlocked her door, she paused a moment and looked up at him. One step and she leaned into him, pushed up on one foot, and planted a kiss on his cheek. Despite his internal warning sirens, his knees instinctively bent so he could more easily accept the innocent kiss.

  She pressed her hand against his chest for support. “Good night, Blake,” she whispered. “Thank you for turning a very dull evening into a very enjoyable one.”

  He nodded, his tongue tied in knots that kept him from returning the sentiment flashing in his brain. Instead, he gave her a lame, “Good night, M.” When he finally worked out the kinks, she’d disappeared behind her door and closed it.

  Chapter 13

  Twisted Wrister

  “What do you mean, you can’t go?” Blake gaped at his roommate, trying to focus on Denver traffic as he guided his Range Rover toward the arena. They were headed in for practice before hopping aboard a charter that would take them to Detroit for a game the following night. After
Detroit came Chicago, followed by St. Paul. Three games in five days. Exhausting and exhilarating at the same time because Blake was slated to center the top line. Right now, though, he had other priorities.

  “I can’t go,” Ferguson retorted. “I want to, but I can’t. It’s my grandma’s birthday, and my family will string me up if I don’t show. In fact, I think they’re expecting you too.”

  “What? Since when?”

  “Since Mom told me to invite you a few weeks ago.”

  “Fucking unbelievable,” Blake muttered as he shook his head. “I play wingman for you, set you up with this girl you’ve been dying to get next to, and you can’t go. And apparently, I’m headed to your grandma’s on our one night off.” He knew Ferguson’s family, just like Fergs knew his mom and sister, and if they were expecting Blake, he was obligated to go. But that wasn’t what was chafing at him like a too-small shin guard. Stopping at a red light, he swung his head toward Fergs and glared. At least his roommate had the decency to appear sheepish. “Do you want this girl or not?”

  “Of course, I want her!”

  “Yeah, you want her so bad that instead of asking her out, you’re dicking around with Tracy.” Blake puffed out an annoyed breath. Get off your ass and go after her already! Before I do.

  Now where had that thought come from? Once again, Blake found himself stuffing down some damn uncomfortable notions swirling around in his brain, leaking all over his tidy life.

  “I told you, Tracy’s an in-the-moment thing. For now, I like being around her. But it’ll fizzle when she wants to get serious, and by then I’ll be ready to ask Michaela out on a real date. Dinner, the works.”

  Un-fucking-believable.

  They drove in silence while Blake stewed in his aggravation. What the hell was he supposed to tell M? He’d as much as promised her an escort. How was she supposed to find a date at the eleventh hour? Well, shit!

  “Look,” Fergs offered, “I appreciate what you did. I really do. And I appreciate you keeping an eye on her last night so guys didn’t hit on her. But why can’t she just go stag to this … this whatever it is?” He twirled his hand in the air.

  “Her boss’s dinner party, and it isn’t a stag kind of deal, Fergs, not when everyone else coming is a couple. Making the right appearance at this thing is really important for M’s career.”

  Fergs turned in his seat and faced him. “‘M’? You’re calling her ‘M’ now?”

  Whoops. Blake went on the defensive, which irritated him further. “It’s less of a mouthful than Michaela, and only special people get to call her Micky.” Which explained absolutely nothing.

  “‘M’ sounds pretty fucking special to me. Look, instead of dinner, I’ll take her to the charity brunch fashion show event.”

  “You don’t get it. Taking her to the charity brunch doesn’t solve this problem.”

  “Maybe not, but the charity thing is the perfect way for Michaela to get to know me.” Fergs grinned. “With all the cameras and press and shit there, she’ll be way more impressed than if I just take her to dinner.”

  Blake’s head was about to explode as he pulled into the players’ parking lot and coasted into a spot beside T.J. Shanstrom’s Audi. He was so pissed off he hadn’t realized the alternate captain was inside his car and on the verge of opening his door, and as T.J. unfolded himself from the driver’s seat, he flipped Blake off. Another guy stepped out of the passenger side—Cam Blue, the new defenseman—and watched Blake and Fergs with curiosity from the sidewalk.

  Before Blake could shout out an apology to T.J., Ferguson chortled, “I’ve got it!” He whacked Blake’s shoulder a few times.

  “You’ve got what?”

  “I have a solution for the, ah, dating sitch.” Ferguson’s eyes were bright, and that stupid grin split his stupid face as he barreled on. “She likes you—it’s obvious because she lets you call her a cute nickname—so you take her. For me. You can warm her up for me taking her to the charity gig.”

  Blake’s mouth dropped open. “You’re smoking crack.”

  “No, no, listen to this. I’ll make an excuse that sounds legit so you can bow out of Grandma’s party, no big deal, which frees you up to take M.” Ferguson threw his hands in the air. “Problem solved! We’re interchangeable. She’s comfortable with you, and I trust you to keep your paws off her.”

  Of all the BS that came out of Ferguson’s mouth, why did him calling Michaela “M” piss Blake off more than anything else? And why the fuck was his friend shoving him into this impossible situation?

  Fergs gave Blake another whack. “I’d do it for you, man. All day long.”

  Oh, this had all the markings of a disaster rolling downhill fast, picking up more debris as it went, and causing even bigger disasters along the way, like fissures that spiderwebbed from an impact on ice. “No!”

  Ferguson groaned. “Shit, Bear. Come on.”

  “What if I’m interested in her? Did you ever think of that?” Regretting the words as soon as they left his big mouth, Blake muttered a silent curse.

  Now it was Ferguson’s turn to go slack-jawed. A second later, he burst into laughter. “Good one, Bear!”

  “What the fuck does that mean?”

  “It means I’ve known you a long time, my man, and you don’t know what to do with yourself when a hot little piece of ass wants in your pants—not that Michaela would ever want in your pants. That’s not what I’m saying.”

  “Then what the hell are you saying? Enlighten me. Please,” Blake growled.

  “No way do I see you going after anyone, let alone someone your best bro wants. You’re not that guy. That’s just downright sleazy.”

  Not helping. “You’re really going to ask Michaela to the gala?” Blake took pain to enunciate her full name.

  Fergs shrugged. “Yeah. Sure. Even if she is a little intimidating, but like I told you, I’m working on that.”

  T.J. rapped his knuckles on the Range Rover’s hood, making them both jump. Speaking of intimidating. “Are you assholes coming, or what?”

  The big dude was waiting for them? Blake couldn’t say whether he or Ferguson scrambled out of the vehicle faster, leaving their discussion in its leather interior. Even the new guy shook his head and smirked at them. Dickwad.

  “So? Will you do it?” Fergs prodded as they stood by their tightly packed stalls in the Detroit visitors’ locker room. They were cleaning up after a hard-fought victory against the Red Wings. “It’s the least you can do after stealing my job, asshole.” Though Fergs said it with a half-smile, there was a bite to those words Blake didn’t like.

  “Blake Barrett, game MVP,” one of their teammates screeched from across the room. This was followed by several whoops, yeahs, and one eardrum-piercing, “Tah-wisted wrister, baby!” Blake ducked his head so he could avoid the look on his best friend’s face. Blake had had a good game—an awesome game, if he’d been talking about someone besides himself—and his wrist shot had been lethal and unstoppable. Not too much flex, nor too little; just right. In the rarefied Goldilocks zone. He’d been working on it, perfecting it for years, and it seemed to finally be paying dividends ... which meant he was locked into the first-line center position as long as he kept up his play and Nelson’s success continued on the second line.

  Grimson shocked the hell out of Blake when he laid a big paw on his shoulder. “You should be proud of your play tonight. You won us a game. Bet your folks are busting at the seams.”

  “Thanks,” was all Blake could muster. He was proud of his effort and was still riding enough of a high that his body hadn’t started hurting yet. That would roar through his sleep at 2:00 a.m. or wake up with him the next morning. And yeah, his dad would definitely have been proud, but his lone remaining parent didn’t have a clue. She was completely oblivious, lost in a bottle of Smirnoff.

  Consequently, the pride that swelled his chest was all his, and God, he wanted to savor it, but when Grims left and Blake caught a glimpse of Ferguson, guilt quickly
washed over him. If Blake’s stellar play didn’t mean Fergs was locked out of the position, he could have steeped in the sweet victory. And that’s what led him to pivot on his refusal to take Ferguson’s place as Michaela’s escort to her boss’s fancy dinner.

  “I’ll do it.” He didn’t miss how Ferguson’s eyes lit up. “On one condition,” Blake qualified.

  Fergs rushed in with the eagerness of a dog about to get a slice of bacon. “Yeah, of course. Name it.”

  Blake wagged an index finger at him. “You call or text her and ask her first. She gets right of first refusal. If she’s okay with it, I’ll take her.”

  Ferguson’s face split with an idiotic grin, and he clapped Blake on the shoulder. “Absolutely! Goes without saying!”

  Blake’s shoulders eased a bit, knowing that while he’d screwed up his friend’s playing life, he’d brought some cheer to his personal one. Not to mention M wouldn’t be left high and dry for this event that meant so much to her. Now he had to reconcile himself to spending an entire evening with a woman he hadn’t been able to get out of his fricking mind since her soft lips had landed on his and who’d been haunting his dreams every night since. He’d need a boatload of liquid steel in his veins to resist the pull of those luminous gray eyes of hers.

  Ferguson’s hushed voice brought Blake back to the noise and tangy smell of the locker room. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

  “What’s that?”

  “You haven’t given me her number yet. I’ll need it to contact her.” Ferguson still sported the idiotic grin.

  “Oh yeah. Right.” How had Blake forgotten to pass along the number she’d given him at the Millers’ party? It wasn’t as if he’d done anything with it or had been hoarding it. Then again, as he picked up his phone to text it to his friend, his thumb hesitated. With a “For fuck’s sake!” bellowing inside his head, he broke through his own barrier and hit “send.” There. Out of my hands now. Now if he could only get the whole thing—and her—out of his head.