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

by G. K. Brady

  “Oh. Well, interesting, but not quite as exciting as I was picturing. So what’s his name?”

  “The blond one is Blake. I’m going on a date with his roommate, Owen.” Funny, Michaela couldn’t remember his eye color. Well, she’d discover it soon enough.

  “Oh. My. God. Girl. You’ve been busy! When you said you were ready to put yourself back on the market, you weren’t messing around!”

  Michaela’s eyes strayed toward the TV, and an unforeseen thrill raced through her. Blake sat in the box, rearranging his gear. Number twenty-one lifted his jersey, revealing a mouthwatering, muscled six-pack glistening with sweat as he wiped his forehead with the hem. April had called it. Yep, he was one of those rare players who didn’t wear an undershirt, and Michaela’s hormones cheered.

  “Mick? You there?”

  “Uh, yeah. Right here. What were we talking about?” Got a little distracted.

  “The guy you’re dating.”

  “We’re not dating. He’s simply acting as my escort to a very exciting event.” Relief swept through Michaela when Blake exited the box. Minnesota hadn’t scored on the power play, and the Blizzard still led by one goal. But soon the bad guys would pull their goalie; she wasn’t sure her frayed nerves could take it.

  “And that event would be?”

  “A dinner at the Steadmans’!” Michaela squeed.

  “Uh, yeah, Mick, that’s exciting as hell.” Fiona let out a strangled yippee that more closely resembled a deflating balloon than a cheer.

  Michaela rushed headlong into an explanation of why this particular dinner was important.

  “Good for you, Mick. It’s about time they recognized what a treasure they have in you. Now tell me about this guy you’re going to the party with. Have you seen him naked? If so, please describe all his parts in excruciating detail. I want to hear about every muscle on his body. Every muscle.”

  “Thanks for the rah-rah, Fi, and sorry to disappoint, but I have not seen him naked. Oh, wait. I have seen his naked torso. By the way, the body part your dirty mind thinks is a muscle is, in reality, an organ.” How’s that for trivia, Blake Barrett?

  “Pfft. You say organ, I say muscle. What’s the diff? It still works in wonderful and mysterious ways. Now about this torso. Nice pecs? Biceps? Any chest hair? Naughty tattoos? Ooh, and do not skimp on a single detail when it comes to his abs.”

  Michaela locked out the image of Blake’s abs seared into her brain. “God, you’re bad. Does your husband know about your interest in male torsos besides his?”

  “No, but he doesn’t look away when a fine female torso—besides mine—comes into his field of vision, so I think he and I are even on this one.”

  Michaela laughed, in no small part because the game was over, and the Blizzard had pulled out the win. Blake’s team mug shot appeared on the screen as the first star of the game, and she heard background babble about his “wicked wrist shot.” Her heart executed a quick little flip. “What were we talking about? Oh, right. Owen’s torso. About what you’d expect for a professional athlete. In short, it’s a fine torso, but he knows it and likes to show it off, which is a bit of a turnoff. To tell you the truth, if I had to pick one, I’d go with Blake.”

  “The blond?” Fiona squealed.

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “And why’s that?”

  Michaela corralled a sigh. “Because he’s got the most gorgeous green eyes I’ve ever seen, and he kisses really, really well.”

  “Wait. What? You’ve been holding out on your bestie! No fair! You’re breaking the rules, Mick.”

  “They’re more like guidelines.” Michaela fizzed with laughter. God, she missed Fiona like a boat missed its rudder.

  “When did you kiss him?”

  “A few days after I met him. He said he needed kissing lessons.”

  “Are you shitting me? That’s the oldest trick in the book!”

  “It is? I’d never heard that one before. Besides, I’m the one who offered to, ah, teach him.”

  “Oh, you wicked woman! What’s happened to you since I’ve been gone? You were so … so serious! And boring. Seriously boring. How did the ‘lessons’ go?” Fiona’s voice took on a salacious quality.

  Michaela dropped her voice to match. “So well that he graduated with honors.”

  “Do you plan on ‘teaching’ him what else he can do with his mouth?”

  “Only if he signs up for my advanced courses!”

  They howled with laughter before the conversation moved on to what Michaela was wearing to the dinner, how Fiona’s trip was going, and more excited chitchat that could have run on for hours had Fiona’s husband, James, not interrupted with the reminder they needed to be somewhere.

  “You have fun,” Fiona said as they wrapped up, “and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

  “Which means I have carte blanche to do anything my little heart desires?”

  “Exactly!”

  Michaela might be going to the dinner with the wrong guy, but she’d keep an open mind and enjoy hanging on the arm of the not-so-shabby wrong guy. And who knew? He had the potential to turn out better than his first impression.

  Blake took the seat next to Ferguson on the plane. God, he was exhausted, crushed to the marrow. So crushed he could barely keep his eyes open. Right now his thoughts were wholly on his soft bed at home … and one other small detail.

  “Did you double-check that M’s still cool with me taking her tomorrow night?”

  Ferguson shifted in his seat. “Why do you keep asking? Nothing’s changed, and it’s not like I’m constantly checking with her. We’ve been a little busy,” he grumped.

  Some of us busier than others. Ferguson, he’d heard, had been out practically every night with a different bunny. Blake couldn’t get a straight answer out of his friend, but the dark circles under his eyes and his shitty play were solid clues the rumors were true. He had little idea what had gotten into his friend, but he seemed to be finding a different gear with the ladies lately. Worse, he was verging on being a liability to the club—and he didn’t seem to give a shit. Maybe it was time for a heart-to-heart.

  As he’d been doing a lot this past week, Blake squirmed inside at the thought of Ferguson with M. It felt all wrong. She was a nice girl. Damn sexy, yeah, but also funny and sweet. The kind you took home to Mom—assuming Mom wasn’t a raging alcoholic, of course, not that Owen’s mom was. No, she was a “normal” mom, and Blake felt a familiar pang at what he’d missed during his screwed-up childhood.

  Putting the self-pity away, he refocused on his moral dilemma with M. Mac had made his point, but it wasn’t a point Blake could reconcile himself to yet. Maybe he would plant a seed when he took her to her big dinner so she’d have an inkling what she could be getting into with Fergs. Fuck, he hated to betray his best friend like that, but he felt an equally strong pull to protect Michaela—not only was that odd, but it was at odds to his friendship with Fergs. Hinting around without spilling the entire pot of beans couldn’t be labeled disloyal—could it?—and M would have enough puzzle pieces to decide whether she wanted to get involved with the guy.

  “The last thing I want to do is show up at her door when she’s expecting you,” Blake said. He’d been saying the same thing for days, and yeah, he should shut up, but the closer they got to Halloween, the more evasive Fergs became. That evasiveness sent Blake’s spidey-senses into intense tingle mode.

  “I told you, it’ll be fine,” Fergs said through clenched teeth.

  Undaunted, Blake pressed forward. “Did you ask her to the charity brunch yet?”

  “Yeah, and she said she’d love to go,” Ferguson snapped. “Goddamn, you’re worse at nagging than my mother.”

  “Sorry, dude. Just double-checking.”

  “You’ve double- and triple-checked. Now would you just shut the fuck up and let me get some sleep?” He turned his head to the side, facing away from Blake, crossed his arms over his chest, and shut his eyes. “And for fuck’s sake,
would you stop calling her ‘M’?”

  “Whatever your assholiness wants.” Shaking his head, Blake stood and scanned the plane for a different seat. Spotting space beside Quinn Hadley, who was juggling little red beanbags as usual, Blake made a beeline toward the left winger. Quinn was always cheerful and quick with a joke—probably had something to do with the fact he’d scored one of those kick-ass brunettes and was heading home to her. Blake promised himself to stay away from the touchy-feely shit he and Mac had talked about. With any luck, Quinn’s humor would keep Blake’s mind off the impending feeling of doom he could not shake: that soon he would be walking into a buzz saw blindfolded with no way of avoiding it.

  Chapter 15

  The Substitute

  Michaela hit the send button on her phone and held her breath. Moments later, as promised, Fiona’s reply chimed. You are stunning, Micky-Dub!

  Michaela released a puffed-cheek breath and typed, So the silver jacket works?

  Fiona: It’s perfect! Hides the tats with stylish elegance and—bonus!—it brings out your gorgeous eyes. You will knock them dead, girlfriend!

  Unexpected tears stung Michaela’s eyes, and she blinked them back furiously. “No time to reapply makeup, so knock it off, you ninny!” she softly told her reflection. The subtle smoky eyeliner and layers of mascara had taken nearly a half hour to perfect. She was not about to let a few happy tears ruin her hard work.

  Michaela: Thanks, Fi. Just what I needed to hear. Love you.

  Fiona: Now go show that hockey player what a real woman is. And if you really love me, you’ll send me pics if you *happen* to catch him in bare-torso mode again.

  Michaela laughed aloud, and the building reserve of tears evaporated. Taking one last look in the full-length bathroom mirror, she appraised her spruce-green dress. The body-hugging, halter-style bodice and swing skirt that brushed the tops of her knees was flattering, flirty, but classy. And Fiona was right: the simple open jacket covered the tattoos—a detail she always hid from her bosses and colleagues—but its shimmering material screamed “Grown-up!” along with the simple diamond pendant and diamond drop earrings. Just the effect she was going for.

  As she plumped her curls and slid her glasses up the bridge of her nose, the doorbell bonged. He’s prompt. Picking up her black-beaded evening bag, she flipped off the light, scooped up her coat, and headed for the front door, her black ankle-strap high heels click-clacking smartly across the wood-planked floor.

  She pulled open the door and stopped short.

  One arm casually resting against the doorjamb with his hand dangling in space, Blake Barrett practically filled the open doorway with his wide, squared-off frame. Dressed in an expensive black suit, crisp white button-down, and navy-blue silk tie, he looked like he’d just stepped out of a fashion magazine featuring men’s formal wear. His short blond hair was neatly styled, his square jaw was clean-shaven, and his clear, fern-green eyes stood out, framed by lashes so long they verged on illegal.

  A deep V creased the space between his brows. “You weren’t expecting me.” His voice—smooth and buttery, like pure sin—rolled over the statement.

  Michaela’s pulse took off at a gallop, and somewhere in the dim recesses of her mind, she registered he’d hadn’t posed a question. Mentally, she checked her mouth—to be sure it hadn’t dropped open like a sprung attic stairway—and composed herself. “No, I wasn’t.” But I’m not complaining. “What’s … what’s going on?” She stood on tiptoe to peer over his shoulder, expecting to see his roommate in the hallway, but she couldn’t see past the broad man in front of her.

  He rolled his eyes to the ceiling as if praying for patience and ran a big hand over his smooth jaw. Leveling those eyes back on her, he let out a long sigh. “So Owen didn’t tell you he couldn’t make it and that he’d asked me to fill in for him?”

  Words were beyond her grasp at the moment—whether from the shock of this new development or the mouthwatering man in front of her, she couldn’t say—and she shook her head vigorously.

  He muttered what she thought were a few colorful curses under his breath. “Shit, I am so sorry. He led me to believe … He was supposed to get a hold of you last week, right after the Millers’ party, and let you know he couldn’t make it. He must have forgotten.”

  “But apparently you could, and he strong-armed you into it.”

  His mouth tipped up in a cute smirk, sending ripples of tingly star stuff through her body. “Trust me, it didn’t take much.”

  Oh. How … nice. Her hammering heart lifted a few inches. “So you’re okay with taking me?” She fought to keep the desperate hope from her tone.

  He straightened, and though she wore four-inch heels, he towered over her. “No, I always deliver bad news dressed in formal wear.”

  I wouldn’t call this bad news. She must have looked all kinds of confused because the next words out of his mouth were, “That was a joke.” His smile bloomed, brilliant white. “I’m more than okay with taking you. The real question is are you okay with me subbing for Owen tonight?”

  She bit back the “Omigod, yes! I wanted you in the first place!” tap-dancing on the tip of her tongue, instead managing a demure, “Yes, I can live with that. Thank you.”

  His big shoulders relaxed, and her mind leapt to hoping there would be dancing tonight so she’d have an excuse to run her hands all over their hard angles.

  “I know how important this is to you, and I couldn’t leave you hanging.” He held out his hand for her coat.

  The bristled edges of her heart melted. “Thank you,” she repeated as she spun in place and let him slide her coat up her arms and onto her shoulders.

  “Shall we?” He offered his arm.

  She slid her hand into the crook of his elbow and tugged the latch behind her. The door snicked closed with a dull thud, and they strolled down the hallway.

  Her eyes shifted to Owen and Blake’s door. “So what’s he doing tonight? Or should I ask?” she whispered.

  Blake led her into the elevator and punched the button for the lobby. “His family is throwing a birthday party for his grandma, who’s turning eighty. I didn’t know that when I committed him to take you, so that’s on me.”

  “Sounds fun,” she said absently. Suddenly, this evening had become much more interesting, and she was looking forward to the dinner far more than she had a mere fifteen minutes ago.

  Now if her date could impress her bosses as much as he’d impressed her, she’d be on easy street.

  I am going to kill the bastard as soon as I get my hands on him. Break his toes, one by one, before I move on to his fingers. Blake fumed inside, gathering all his willpower around him like a force field; he had to rein in his outrage over his buddy’s callousness … just as he needed to re-examine his minimum friendship requirements if this was the quality of “friend” he was getting. How can such a selfish, lying jerkoff be my friend? Because, Blake’s conscience reminded him, he owed Ferguson a lot, that’s why. As a ten-year-old, Ferguson had fearlessly stood up to Blake’s mom when she’d been in one of her drunken rages and ready to take it out on Blake—and Ferguson had done it more than once. Not that Blake couldn’t stick up for himself, but having your bigger buddy go to war for you against your mother meant a hell of a lot. It had earned Ferguson a lifetime of loyalty in Blake’s book—or ledger, as M liked to say. Eventually, Mom backed way the hell off whenever Ferguson came to the house. The question was, though, did that same kid—the one Blake had pledged his loyalty to—still live inside Fergs?

  As Blake walked M to his Range Rover in the underground garage, he turned over the conversations between Ferguson and himself ever since Ferguson had first hatched this scheme. Blake realized Ferguson had never actually stated he’d contacted her; then again, he hadn’t denied it either. What the hell? Fergs had deceived him. Big-time. Wasn’t loyalty a two-way street? It had to be at the top of the list of requirements for friends. Friendship—hell, every relationship—was based on loyalty. It
was the foundation you built trust on.

  M’s heels clicked softly across the concrete garage floor, pulling him back to the here and now … and her. He stole a glance—one of many since she’d opened the door and about knocked him on his ass. Good thing he’d been leaning against the doorframe so he could steady himself.

  He rolled his lips between his teeth to stifle a private smile. Ferguson might be acting like a douche canoe of epic proportions, but Blake wasn’t complaining about playing escort. Which led to another prickly problem: keeping his distance, physically and mentally, wouldn’t be easy. But he had to do it.

  A sharp voice sounded inside his head. “Why?”

  Yeah, why indeed? Was Ferguson planning to hold M in reserve while he fucked his way through the northern hemisphere? That was wrong. There were lines friends didn’t cross, though, even if they disagreed. Going after a girl your buddy liked was wrong too. It wasn’t simply an uncrossable line: it was a metal barrier bolted into concrete.

  After all, Fergs had bought her flowers—even if he hadn’t given them to her—he’d asked her out, and he was taking her to the big-deal brunch. Maybe he’d stop screwing around once they got past that first date.

  Which left Blake in the awkward position of being attracted to a woman he couldn’t have.

  Your attraction is only lust talking. It’ll pass.

  As he opened the car door and helped her inside, her dress hiked up her shapely thighs, and before she could wrestle it back into place, he caught a glimpse of black lace banding the top of her stockings. He squelched a groan rumbling in his chest.

  Lust, lust, lust. That’s all. Unfortunately, said lust was practically leaking from his pores, he had so much of it pent up. He rounded the back of the SUV, telling himself he could easily scratch that itch elsewhere. He had options. Lots of options. At the moment, though, options held little appeal.

  As he slid behind the wheel, she gave him a shy smile. “Hi,” she said softly. Two tiny letters and he was nearly undone.