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

by G. K. Brady

  M gripped his arm, and he turned to her, bracing himself for a sound tongue-lashing. These were her people, and he’d given in to an inner caveman he hadn’t known lived inside him. He hadn’t been loud or violent, but he’d brought a warrior’s coarseness to a refined table, and he already regretted it. Though Steadman had been oblivious to the drama, others had gotten an eyeful. But M about knocked him on his butt—for such a small woman, she had a knack for doing that—when she leaned into him and whispered, “Some trivia about dessert. Quick!”

  Conversation close to them had completely died away when Blake had pulled his imitation of a rabid guard dog, and silence still hung heavy at their end of the table. “What, here? Now?”

  “Yes, now,” she insisted. One corner of her mouth twitched.

  She’d completely thrown him off balance—again—which was probably what she’d meant to do.

  He pulled in an extended breath and pushed it out in one long, cleansing exhale while he rummaged around in his brain for trivia facts. “Uh, let me see. Okay, here we go. Women in the seventeenth century slept with a piece of cake under their pillows so they would dream about their future husbands.”

  “Ew, I bet that was messy,” Minerva offered. Her face split with a grin that seemed to break the ice. “Then again, I bet those future husbands were messy too.” A few relieved laughs erupted around them.

  Impressed as hell at how easily M had defused the situation, he got on board and threw out another factoid. “Did you know that Beverly Hills has an ATM that dispenses cupcakes twenty-four-seven?”

  M gave him a brilliant smile. “I want to go there. And that’s two facts.”

  “Correct, Ms. Wagner. Do you need more?”

  “No, I think we’re good.” Her hand slid over his and squeezed lightly, and she mouthed, “Thank you.” For what, he had no clue; after all, he’d acted like the very Neanderthal he’s professed not to be. When conversation began buzzing around them again, Brad scraped his chair back and stormed away.

  Blake’s eyes scanned Michaela’s, looking for any sign of anger or some other emotion that might fill him with more remorse. “I’m sorry for acting like an asshole,” he whispered to her.

  Ignoring his statement, she pushed on. “Are you adding that extra trivia to my ledger, by the way?”

  “No, I’m throwing that in as a freebie. Do I beg your forgiveness now or later?”

  “No begging. Ready to get out of here?”

  Caught off guard, he blurted, “Where do you want to go?” Never did he assume she wanted to go straight home … maybe because he had not a shred of desire to take her there.

  Chapter 16

  Brooding Is Hot

  Omigod, that was so hot!

  Michaela resisted the urge to fan herself. Never have I ever had a man go all alpha for me like that! He’d practically bared dripping fangs, yet he’d pulled it off in such a way that Steadman hadn’t noticed. The independent woman in Michaela should have been as affronted by Blake’s behavior as she was by Brad’s—for entirely different reasons—but another side of her, one she wasn’t too familiar with, wanted a grunting Blake to drag her back to his cave by her hair, lose the loincloth, and make her his. And judging by the reactions of the witnesses who’d watched the whole scene, her reputation hadn’t been damaged. If anything, it had been elevated among her peers. Truth be told, she’d sweated an eensy-weensy bit about how he’d conduct himself with the partners, but she needn’t have worried. He’d been more engaging than any real date she could remember, talking just enough and encouraging them, through thoughtful questions, to talk about their favorite subject: themselves. And he’d even acted interested.

  Blake was a delightful surprise.

  Yes, she would have fences to mend with Brad come Monday morning, but he’d been a jerk and deserved what he got. Right now, though, she didn’t give a damn. Never mess with a hockey player!

  In answer to her suggestion they leave, her defender’s green eyes took on a gleam. “Where do you want to go?”

  In that moment, she wanted to launch herself at him and cover his handsome face with kisses. Somehow he got her. Without her saying a word to him, he knew she didn’t want to go home. Not yet.

  “I don’t know. It’s Halloween. People are celebrating somewhere, right?”

  “Everywhere,” he chuckled. “Let’s go have some fun.”

  After they said their starchy good-byes and were safely within the confines of his Range Rover, she exhaled and felt her shoulders drop a few inches. Had the oppressive dinner party been a glimpse into the life of a senior partner? If so, was it really the life she wanted? Doubt, like a weed in the crack of a sidewalk, began to take root.

  She side-eyed him. “Thank you for tonight.”

  “My pleasure,” he replied. “It was fun.”

  She let loose a laugh. “No, it wasn’t!”

  “No, it wasn’t,” he agreed with a lopsided grin. “But we’ll change that. What do you want to do?”

  “Take me to your favorite club.”

  Something akin to panic overtook his features. “What?”

  “I want to dance. Take me someplace you usually go.”

  “I don’t really hang out at clubs. Not in Denver. I mean, I don’t hang in clubs anywhere, except sometimes, you know, on the road,” he stammered. “With the guys.”

  And lots of pretty girls, no doubt. Why did that tug at something toothy inside her? She certainly had no claim on this man.

  He hung his head briefly, looking extremely uncomfortable, then leveled an even gaze at her. “Look, I’ll take you to a club. But let me text one of my teammates and find out the best place to go around here. You good with that?”

  “Yeah, I’m good with that.” Okay, so he wanted to find the right place to go. He wasn’t worried about running into a woman—women—he’d slept with. Maybe. Michaela wasn’t experienced at this sort of thing. The men she dated were … they didn’t attract the same level of attention Blake did. Her mind unfortunately shot to the damn redhead again. Michaela’s eyes wandered to his squared-off frame as he sat behind the wheel thumbing a text. Had Red downgraded his performance in … other areas? Maybe Michaela was just the woman to help him with that too, not that she was any expert. But if he did other things the way he kissed, she would happily help boost his confidence and wipe some more of that red ink off the ledger. But what if they ran into the redhead tonight? Or the mussed-up brunette? Michaela bit down on a nail, frustrated that her own confidence seemed to be leaking out of her, drop by drop.

  As if he’d read her mind, he gave her a pained look. “Really, I’m not that familiar with the clubbing scene. You already caught me with Sherry, so you know I’m not exactly a choir boy, but going to clubs and picking up girls isn’t something I normally do, so it’s not like I’m worried about running into anyone.”

  The elephant in the room had just been exposed, and she drew in a grateful breath.

  “For the record, I’m a big girl and we’re only neighbors, so it doesn’t really concern me. You don’t owe me a thing,” she said, sounding way more grown-up than she felt.

  “Hopefully, we’re more than neighbors,” he said quietly. “I’d like to think we’re friends too.” He stared out the window and exhaled, sounding deflated. “But you get it. The women I meet … there aren’t many I spend time with, and we don’t normally cross paths again.” He swung his eyes back to hers. “And now you know my dark, dirty secret.”

  “That’s all you’ve got? Pfft.” She offered him a dismissive wave and a half-smile.

  His green eyes shone in the dark. “Pretty much. Well, when it comes to stuff like that. Hockey doesn’t leave time for much else.”

  She let his confession—and the fact that it was obviously bothering him—sink in for a beat. It didn’t escape her attention that he seemed embarrassed and wanted her to see him in a less sleazy light. Then again, a guy who devoted himself to his profession and shied away from long-term probably lived
a fairly lonely life. Giving in to urges was a stopgap, a way to blow off some testosterone and connect for a little while, shallow as it was. She got it. Hadn’t she been guilty of the same thing from time to time? Her heart even ached for him a tiny bit, but in an unexpected dichotomy, it also lifted a few rungs. “I guess it’s similar to what I’ve been doing with the stupid dating apps and speed dating.”

  “But you’re not … it’s not like you’re on Tinder looking to hook up.” His eyes narrowed and flashed flinty and cold. “Are you?”

  What was that? A flicker of jealousy? “No. Are you?” she tossed back, feeling an odd little pull of possessiveness herself.

  “Not at all.”

  No, you don’t need Tinder. Your app is live. “Because you won’t fill out the questionnaires,” she quipped.

  He smirked. “What would I put on there? ‘Trivia nerd slash asshole seeks someone who doesn’t exist’?”

  His buzzing phone made them both jerk in their seats. Eyes scanning whatever message he was reading, a slow smile spread over his face. He looked up at her, excitement dancing in his eyes. “What would you think of joining one of my teammates and his wife? I think you met them at the Millers’ party. Quinn Hadley and Sarah Nelson? They’re headed to a new place I haven’t been before. You up for that?”

  He wanted to bring her along for a night out with a teammate and his wife? Like … a real date? Michaela vaguely remembered meeting a good-looking guy with longish, dark hair whose hand seemed to be glued to a very pretty, spunky brunette that she’d felt a kinship with. Simpatico. Or is it simpatica? Didn’t matter because something warm and tingly filled her belly, filing down her jagged edges.

  She let out a tiny breath she hadn’t realized she’d trapped in her chest. “That sounds fun.”

  He pumped his arm. “Yes!”

  She laughed out loud at his overzealous reaction. The air in the SUV’s cabin suddenly lightened and became easier to breathe.

  This would be good, Blake told himself. They’d meet up with Quinn and Sarah and have fun, use up some of this crackling energy in a place where the music was so loud they couldn’t carry on a conversation. No conversation meant no skating onto thin ice made up of the unfamiliar and uncomfortable. A prickliness had crawled under his skin tonight and traveled at will throughout his body like tiny flares. Flares ready to detonate and unleash the threat simmering just below the surface of his calm demeanor—a surface of smoke and mirrors hiding the sexual storm fomenting inside of him.

  What the fuck was wrong with him? He couldn’t remember feeling this way before, as if every nerve was raw and exposed and vulnerable yet vibrating with so much energy he thought he might burst out of his skin. What the hell was that? It had to do with her. It absolutely did. Normally when he spent time with a woman, it was beneath a veneer that dulled his insides. But this was intense, the complete opposite of what he was familiar with. Electrifying. He hated it; he loved it. He had no idea what to do with it. And then there was the Ferguson factor unfurling a black shroud over emotions Blake couldn’t corral for much longer. But he had to.

  They reached the club—a place called Vinyl—without pushing any more of each other’s buttons, good or bad. A pulsing beat spilled out onto the pavement, and Blake was surprised when they were ushered inside. Costumed people crowded every space, and they were led to a low, oval table where Quinn and Sarah were waiting. The table sat in a private top-floor balcony that overlooked the main dance floor. Sarah, dressed in all black, sported some painted-on cat whiskers and a nose for the occasion.

  As they were about to reach the table, M gushed, “Ooh, I’ve always wanted to sit at this table. It’s the best seat in the house!”

  “Wait. What? You’ve been here before?” What the hell?

  She nodded, but the conversation halted because they were at the table where Quinn stood, greeting them with a ready hand and a grin. “What do you think? Sometimes it pays to have people recognize you.”

  “Nice setup,” Blake agreed. A little off-kilter, he pulled out the empty chair to Sarah’s right for M before taking the empty chair beside Quinn himself. Sarah meowed, and M meowed back as though they’d rehearsed the exchange.

  Cute.

  “Where are your costumes?” Sarah asked.

  M took off her brainiac glasses and stashed them in her purse. “There!” They laughed and bent their heads together and stayed that way while he and Quinn talked hockey, even after the drinks arrived—martini for M, bourbon for him. Blake tuned one ear to the girls’ conversation, wishing he could hear what they were saying over the noise. He had been on a few double dates before, but this felt … different. Technically, it wasn’t a double date. Wasn’t a date at all.

  When Sarah and M looked over at him and giggled, he really wished he could hear.

  “What?” he yelled, trying to out-volume the music.

  M straightened, tilted her head to the side, and mouthed, “Dance?”

  He nodded, and she slid off the slinky silver jacket she’d worn all night. He did a double-take. Not only was he treated to a better look at the dress she was wearing and the curves it hugged, but he got an eyeful of smooth, pale shoulders and the stunning tattoo he’d been dreaming about. Graceful green vines curled around her right arm, beginning just above her wrist. Entwined with them were vibrant red flowers in various stages of opening. The vines wove a sinuous path up to a fully open red bloom capping her delicate shoulder, then dove to her upper back and disappeared beneath her dress. The intricacy of the artwork was jaw-dropping, and M’s skin was the perfect canvas to display the ink. He’d never been with anyone with an elaborate tattoo—not that he was going to be with her—but damn, it was hot! The movie screen in his mind flashed a scene where she lay beside him in bed, naked, and his fingers traced every flower, every line, followed by his lips, his tongue. Yeah, his libido could totally get behind the idea. Maybe he needed to tamp it down with another bourbon … or three.

  M waved her hand in front of his face. “Ready?”

  He lurched to his feet, grateful for the dark suit pants hiding his semi. She dragged him toward a small dance floor off to one side, and his eyes traced her tattoo the entire way.

  One fast song after another played, and he was disappointed when a slow one finally came on and she opted to take a break. Probably for the best.

  The rest of the night was spent with the four of them dancing, talking, and laughing—and drinking—and he marveled at how seamlessly M fit into his world. The unpleasantness from earlier had completely drained from him by the time 2:00 a.m. rolled around.

  Quinn tapped his chest with the back of his hand. “Hey, Sarah and I took a Lyft. Why don’t you let us drop you and Michaela off and you can pick up your ride tomorrow?”

  Feeling a touch of belligerence, Blake smirked at him. “What, you think I can’t drive?”

  “I don’t know if you can drive or not, but I’ve never seen you drink, and you were doing a good job putting way that bourbon.”

  He opened his mouth to protest, but M’s eyes landed on him, soft and searching, without a hint of judgment, before sparking with mischief. “I hope being out with me tonight isn’t driving you to drink.”

  “In a way, it is,” he laughed. She frowned. “Not the way you’re thinking. What I meant was that I’m having a good time.” And yeah, I sound like a total dipstick. Probably shouldn’t drive. No reason to push his—and her—luck by climbing behind the wheel. “Yeah, okay. We’ll ride with you.”

  “I don’t know about you all,” M said after they were settled in the Lyft, “but I haven’t closed a place down in a long time.” Quinn and Sarah, who shared the backseat with her, agreed they hadn’t either.

  Blake’s mind leapt to M going to Vinyl before. Who had she gone with? An app date? None of his damn business. Still, the question sat in his stomach like a handful of nails. Spiky and steely.

  Sarah leaned forward and tapped Blake on the shoulder, pulling him from his prickly thoug
hts. “You should bring Michaela to the charity brunch.”

  “She’s already going,” he shot back.

  “I am?” M piped up. “What’s the charity brunch?”

  While Sarah explained the event, Blake’s bourbon-soaked brain wrestled with Ferguson’s words. Didn’t he say he invited her and she accepted? Then again, he also lied about filling her in on the switch tonight.

  “So?” Sarah chirped, and he realized she was chirping at him. He swung his gaze to her. “Why not take M?” she persisted. God, the woman was pushy!

  When Blake snuck a look at Quinn, he was staring out the window, his hand covering his mouth like he was holding back a laugh. Sarah elbowed him, and he dropped the hand. “Uh, yeah, sweetheart. Sounds like a great idea. But what if Michaela’s busy?”

  “What if someone else is taking her?” Blake offered.

  “Have you two not been listening?” Sarah squawked. “She just said she’s free. She said—”

  “Sarah,” M interrupted quietly, placing a light hand on Sarah’s arm, “maybe we shouldn’t put him on the spot? He might have already invited someone.” She flicked her gaze to Blake, looking all kinds of embarrassed, looking like she wanted to rescue him from Sarah’s mission, and he felt a tug to save her instead. But how could he do that without shining an unflattering spotlight on her? He’d have to reveal that Ferguson was supposed to ask her to the brunch but hadn’t. M didn’t know Fergs had lied about that too, and Blake didn’t want to be the one to heap that humiliation onto tonight’s switcheroo. Talk about making her feel like crap. “Hey, you’re not worth the two seconds of brainpower it would take to ask if you want to go to this important thing with me.”

  His gaze skipped to M. “Has Owen called or texted you? Ever?”

  The confusion on M’s face told him all he needed to know. No, Ferguson hadn’t said a damn thing. The urge to throttle Fergs made a violent resurgence. Blake couldn’t think of anyone he’d rather have on his arm than the smart, sexy attorney in the backseat.