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

by G. K. Brady

  Silence settled like a soggy blanket over the car’s interior. At least Sarah had dropped her needling, pressing her lips between her teeth.

  About two blocks from their building, barricades blocked the way and construction lights blinked yellow. “What’s going on?” Quinn asked.

  “They shut down the street to do some overnight roadwork,” the Lyft driver replied.

  M peered at Blake. “I don’t mind walking. Is that okay with you?”

  Abso-fucking-lutely. Hopefully, the icy air would clear the colliding thoughts from his head.

  They said their good-byes, and he wrapped his hand around her upper arm to guide her down the street. She canted her head to the side. “I’m sorry about Sarah pushing back there. I had no idea she—”

  “No worries. I know you didn’t. Speaking of Sarah, I’ve been wondering.”

  Up went a questioning eyebrow.

  “When we first sat down, you two had your heads stuck together, then you looked at me and started laughing. Maybe my ego can’t take it, but what were you guys saying?”

  An adorable giggle-snort escaped her. “We were looking for a word to describe you.”

  A silent puff of relief escaped him. “And ‘handsome’ made you laugh?” he teased.

  “No. We did use that word, but it’s not the one that made us laugh. We used ‘hot’ and a few others along those lines, but they didn’t make us laugh either. Wanna know what it was?” Those mischievous gray eyes fastened on him.

  Flustered, he directed her around a crack in the sidewalk. “I think so?”

  “The word was ‘broody.’”

  “‘Broody’? What the hell is ‘broody’?”

  “Broody is … hmm, how to describe it. It’s someone who’s always caught up in thought, who’s serious. Intense.”

  “You think I’m intense?” And handsome? And hot? Distracted as hell, he pulled her up at a red light—even though there was no traffic—and glanced down at her.

  She rolled her eyes, “Oh hell yes! Look up ‘intense’ in the dictionary, and you’ll find your picture there.”

  “Is that … is it a bad thing?”

  “What? No! It’s part of your hotness factor.” She grinned at him, and her teeth shone white. “Green light.”

  “What?”

  She flicked her finger toward the other side of the street. “The light. It’s green. That means ‘go.’”

  Go. Stepping off the curb with her in tow, he chuckled in spite of himself. “Did you know that the yellow light didn’t exist until the twenties?”

  “Nope, did not know that.”

  “Did you know you can see the red light sooner than you can see the green light?”

  She frowned. “I think I suspected that.”

  “Do you know what one word I think describes you?”

  “That was sneaky!” She wagged her finger at him. “But let me think … no. I have no idea. Tell me.”

  “Sassy.” And fun and gorgeous and sexy and smart and breathtaking, his alcohol-fueled brain shouted. Shit! I need to stop thinking about her like this. He reminded himself that “sassy” was Ferguson’s word for her.

  Ferguson, the motherfucking douche canoe who was leading her on and lying to her.

  “Sassy?” she giggled. “I don’t think I’ve ever been called that before. My mom used to call her little sister, ‘sass-mouth.’”

  Sass-mouth. Yeah, I’d like to kiss the sass right out of your mouth. Suck it out. He let out an inadvertent groan.

  “Are you feeling all right?”

  No. He dragged his hand over his chin. “I’m fine. Look, about Ferguson—”

  She flapped a hand. “I don’t know what happened, but I’m guessing a puck got dropped or a play was lost in translation somewhere, and he’s not on the same page as you … or me, apparently. Let’s just let whatever it is—or whatever it was supposed to be—go. Oh, look. We’re here.”

  Thank God! He slipped out his key card and swiped it over the electronic lock to the building’s glass door.

  Almost there. All I have to do is get her to her door. I can do this. I can do this without touching her. Without kissing her. I can do this.

  On the elevator, he took pains to stand as far away from her as he could. Unfortunately, it afforded him an even better view of her. She slid off her coat, and he fought the natural urge to help her. He didn’t trust himself that close. When the coat came off, so did the silver jacket—briefly—and her tantalizing tattoo teased him before she covered it up. Her lips curving in a sexy little half-smile, she eyed him curiously. Did she have any idea what pervy thoughts were crowding his brain? Because of her? When the doors opened, he practically ran into their hallway to stand at her door.

  She unlocked it, which was his signal to take off. His duty was fulfilled. “Well, good night. I hope everything works out with your boss.” His words were so abrupt she probably thought he had a full bladder to empty.

  Tilting her head, she bit her bottom lip. “Do you want to come in for a few minutes? Join me for a nightcap?”

  “No, I’m good.”

  Her delicate brows drew together. No doubt she was trying to figure out why the hell he was acting like such an idiot; he wasn’t sure he had the answer. “Well, thank you again for playing escort tonight. I appreciate you putting up with the whole work thing.” She rolled her eyes to the ceiling and twirled her hand in the air. “And thanks for taking me out afterward. I still wish you had let me pay my way.” Before he could respond that hell no, letting her pay had never been an option, she placed her hand lightly on his chest and pushed up on her toes. She was going for his cheek, like the last time, but for some insane reason, instead of offering it to her, he turned into the kiss and brushed her lips awkwardly with his own.

  “Oh, whoops!” she giggled. “I didn’t mean to do that.”

  “Sorry. That was my bad.” His voice cracked, making him sound like the thirteen-year-old he was imitating.

  Her warm fingers continued pressing against his chest, and she was up on tiptoe, her mouth mere inches from his. “Are you sure you’re sorry?” she whispered in an irresistibly sultry tone, her beautiful eyes scanning his face.

  Oh. Fuck.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck!

  She smelled so damn good. Looked so damn good. His eyes strayed from her face to his own door. Ferguson wasn’t home—he said he’d be spending the night at his mom’s—but he was there in spirit, and Blake should not be making a move on M, no matter how big a nutsack Fergs was.

  Eyes ticking back to hers, Blake gently removed her hand from his chest and took a step back. She sank back, her heels hitting the floor, a hurt look etched on her face.

  Killing me here.

  Shoving his hands into his front pockets to keep them from going where they wanted to go, he cleared his throat. “M, there’s something you should know.”

  Chapter 17

  Practice Makes Perfect

  Confusion, hurt, anger. And those were only the emotions Michaela recognized. There were a boatload of others churning away in her gut, causing a swell of nausea. What an idiot she was! How could she have been so off? Because I was having a good time, and I deluded myself into reading his signals all wrong. Or his signals aren’t straight because he’s been drinking. He can’t even recognize green lights! Then again, if he was into women like the redhead, Michaela hadn’t stood a chance in the first place.

  Well, no matter what, Blake didn’t get to call her “M.” She took a few steps back so she could shake off the intoxicating citrusy-spicy man scent she’d been inhaling all night, and she folded her arms over her chest like armor protecting her heart.

  “M, I—”

  “Please don’t call me that.” Her voice dripped with icicles. She wasn’t used to rejection—hell, she wasn’t used to coming on to a man in the first place—and she wasn’t quite sure what to do with it. Its sharpness hurt. It stung. Humiliated, she wanted to lash out.

  The goody two-shoes per
ched on her shoulder told her to take the high road, but the devil girl wanted to kick him in the balls, which meant it was probably best to straddle a line somewhere between her careening thoughts.

  “I’m sorry. Michaela,” he stammered. He’d dropped his voice to a hush, and his eyes kept dashing down to his own door. Apparently, he was dying to escape. She’d make this easy on him. Gripping the edge of her door, she wound up for an epically satisfying slam, but the door stopped mid-swing. Blake had caught it with his forearm without so much as a wince. With a huff and a puff, she pushed against it in vain.

  “Look,” he said, “I know you’re pissed, and I get it. But you have to understand this isn’t about you.”

  “Oh, here we go! Please spare me the ‘it’s not about you, it’s about me’ speech.” I’ve seen what kinds of women you like, and it’s clear I don’t fit the type. “Just go away!” And leave me to lick my wounds. She gave the door one more useless shove.

  His face pinched as though he was in pain, but it wasn’t from her weak door action. “That couldn’t be farther from the truth.”

  “Then what the hell is the truth, Blake?”

  His forearm was still braced the door when he blurted, “Owen really likes you.”

  What? “Excuse me? What does that even mean, and what does it have to do with … this?” She waved her hand between them.

  “He’s been crushing on you since you first moved in, which is why I was trying so hard to set him up for tonight, but he really did have to be at his grandma’s birthday party. He asked me to take you so you wouldn’t be left without a date, and I agreed. He also told me he plans to ask you to the charity brunch.” His breathing was a little on the heavy side, as if he’d run up the stairs.

  “Wait. Did he pay you for tonight or something?”

  Horror flashed in his eyes. “Fuck no! I was happy to take his place … a little too happy, and that’s the problem.”

  Michaela paused to draw in a long, slow breath as she pushed his words through her brain’s screen, sorting the nuggets from the clods of dirt. She felt like the kid who was blindfolded, spun in circles on the playground, and suddenly had to walk toward a target: off balance, wobbly kneed, and unable to hold a straight line.

  The only thing certain in that moment was the earnest expression on Blake’s handsome face. He wanted her to believe him. Tidbits from the night floated back to her: his arm around her chair, hand on the small of her back, how he’d smiled at her, and how his eyes had tracked her every move. Signals. He’d seemed relaxed, warm, attentive. He couldn’t have faked wanting to be with her, could he?

  “What if I don’t like Owen?” she snapped.

  “You just haven’t gotten to know him yet. What you need is to spend time with him.”

  “No, what I need is a man who’s willing to step up and go after what he wants. Not someone who hides behind his friend like Cyrano De Bergerac.”

  Blake looked to the ceiling, seeming to stifle a smile. “Technically, Cyrano was the front man with the smooth words. His buddy did the hiding.”

  She gave him an epic eye-roll and made a strangled sort of scoffing noise, and the smile he’d been fighting disappeared. “Honestly, I don’t think Owen deserves you—”

  “I’m not Owen’s to deserve!”

  “—but I can’t … I will not, go after what I want.” He ran right over her without listening to a word she’d uttered. “Not as long as he has his eye on the same prize. He’s my best friend.” Worry lines creased his forehead.

  “I give up,” she muttered. Wait. Had he just called her a “prize”?

  A few silent beats passed as they held a staring standoff. “So how does that work in hockey?” she finally posed.

  “Excuse me?”

  “April told me you and Owen sort of switched spots—or lines—and it translates to a promotion for you, a demotion for him.”

  Head tipped back, he puffed out a lungful of air and leveled his gaze back at her. “That was Coach’s choice, not mine.”

  “Are you saying if it were up to you, you’d give up the juicier role to Owen without a fight merely based on the fact that he’s your best friend?”

  He barked a laugh. “Damn, you like to argue!”

  “Not really. I’m trying to make a point.”

  “I’m too tired to spar.”

  And I’m utterly exhausted trying to follow the bouncing ball. “Then go home.” She hooked a thumb toward his door.

  His chest deflating, he pulled his forearm from the door. “Okay. I’m sorry about all this. Really sorry.”

  “Good night, Blake.” She shoved the door closed. It didn’t give her the satisfaction she’d been seeking before, but at least she was alone and could review her twisted feelings and stomp around for a bit to let steam escape the pressure valve of her emotions.

  With a tired sigh, she wandered to the red couch and perched on the edge, where she slipped off her jacket. She pulled the heels from her sore feet, then rolled down the stockings and flopped back. She let go a mirthless laugh. The guy she liked liked her back but had some loyalty clause he wouldn’t break for the other guy who liked her that she didn’t like back.

  Talk about convoluted!

  She needed to call Fiona. What time was it in Europe anyway? Where exactly in Europe was Fi? Michaela fetched her phone and texted. You able to talk? I need you.

  Seconds later, her phone rang, and the emotions washed over her, bringing tears to her eyes. “Hey, Fi,” she choked.

  “Micky-Dub, what on earth is going on? Did the dinner go that badly? Did you lose out?”

  “I lost out, but not the way you think. Where are you?”

  “Floating down the Seine.”

  “Oh shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb—” Banging on her door interrupted her.

  “What was that?”

  “My front door. Hang on.”

  “Don’t open it, Micky! It could be a slasher!”

  “I’m in a secured building, Fi.” Michaela did open it … and blinked. On the other end of the phone, Fiona was screeching about finding her dead, mutilated body. “Fi, it’s not a slasher. It’s only my neighbor.”

  “Chad Michael Murray? The guy making out with some chick in your hallway? The one you almost pepper-sprayed?”

  Michaela sighed. “Yes, that one. I’ll call you later.” She ended the call and looked up. “Why are you back here, Blake?”

  “Since you won’t let me call you M anymore, can I call you Micky?” His hair was mussed, sticking out at funny angles, and his eyebrows were two angry slashes over his green eyes. The expression and the nonsensical question did not match up.

  God, this guy confused the hell out of her! Or was it the cocktails talking? For both of them? “That’s it? You’re pounding on my door at 3:00 a.m. to discuss name choices?”

  “No, that’s not it.” Moving into her foyer, he closed the door behind him. He paced a few steps, back and forth, looking all kinds of agitated. Should she be scared? No. Whatever this was, it wasn’t directed at her, and even if it was, he didn’t strike her as the kind of guy who’d lay a hand on her. She almost let out a laugh. He wouldn’t lay a hand on her even if she wanted him to.

  “I don’t understand what you’re doing here, Blake.”

  “I came to ask you to the charity brunch.”

  Her eyebrows shot to her hairline. “At 3:00 a.m.”

  “At 3:00 a.m.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “What about your precious Owen? I don’t understand the dynamic between you, and you probably don’t want to hear this, but I’m going to say it anyway: I’m not attracted to him. Physically or mentally. Are you able to get that through your thick man skull?”

  Nodding, he paused to face her, hands on his hips. “You’ve just given me permission to say what’s on my mind.” He hung his head for a beat and raked his fingers through his hair. Ah. That explains the hair.

  She tapped her foot expectantly.

 
; “Fuck Owen,” he huffed. “Let me rephrase that. Don’t fuck him. Fuck me instead. Shit! That didn’t come out right either.” A pained expression twisted his gorgeous face.

  Her mouth dropped open. She couldn’t help it. Maybe it came out wrong, but it sounded pretty damn honest. Pixels were filling in, a complete picture coming into focus. He liked her, and he was torn because his best friend did too. A thrill raced through her veins, and needy parts of her neglected for far too long cheered.

  His eyes bored into hers. “Things could get ugly between him and me, and I want you to know that before … You might want to think twice about letting me in. I wouldn’t blame you for telling me to get the fuck out.”

  “I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about, but if it has anything to do with you taking me up on that nightcap, then come in.”

  He stared at her a few beats, deliberating, his chest moving in and out. Muscles that had been bunching his jaw eased, and one corner of his mouth hitched. “Technically, I’m already in.”

  “You sure like getting technical.”

  He opened his mouth as if to say something but seemed to change his mind, returning to the smirk instead.

  She quirked an eyebrow at him. “What’s so funny?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing.”

  “That’s not ‘nothing’ written all over your face. Let me in on the joke.” Now that he’d relaxed a bit, shadows played over the angles of his chiseled face, sharpening them, and he looked even more handsome than he had before. Her knees dipped a fraction, feeling as though they were turning to jelly.

  “I was just remembering earlier, when you were mad. You’re kinda cute when you’re riled up, you know that?”

  She jabbed her finger at his face, trying for all the world to muster anger when all she wanted to do was start giggling like a preteen. “Don’t you go there. Not funny. I am not cute.”

  He threw up his hands in surrender. “I stand corrected. You’re not cute.” His voice went low and gravelly, and a predatory gleam simmered in his eyes that was different from anything she’d ever seen in him. “You’re beautiful. And the sexiest damn thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”