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

by G. K. Brady

  Ferguson chortled. “Ha! Knew it. You are jealous!”

  Blake stormed to the front door, slamming it behind him. He paused in the hallway to catch his breath. The click of a door jerked his attention to the other door. M’s head poked out, her hair a sex-tousled mass of curls he had an overwhelming urge to tangle his fingers in. Again. The look on her face was part-sleepy, part-tentative, and it strained at something in his chest. In that moment, all he wanted was to climb back into bed with her and hit “reset.” His mind began running through the possibilities—

  “Escaped in kind of a hurry, big guy. Something I said?” A frown creased her forehead, and thunderclouds rolled through her gray eyes.

  “No! Don’t even think that. You were—are—perfect. Just me trying to be a gentleman and let you get some sleep. I figured you didn’t need me pawing at you again.” God, he was an idiot. What had he been thinking when he’d left? Either he hadn’t been thinking or he’d been thinking too much. Here he could have drifted back to sleep with her in his arms instead of trying to fix what couldn’t be fixed between him and Ferguson.

  His feet—which were apparently smarter than he was—turned and paced off the few steps to her door. When he looked down at her, his pulse leapt into overdrive. Her head had been craned around the doorframe, so he hadn’t seen at first, but she only wore a towel she held to her front. The towel wasn’t covering her back worth a damn. A pretty blush pinked her cheeks. “I was in the bathroom when I thought I heard your door, and I didn’t want to miss you, so I grabbed whatever I could. So, um, you were contemplating pawing me this morning before you left?”

  Always. He fought the first smile that had cracked his lips all morning. “M,” he rasped, “with you dressed like that—or not dressed—it’s all I can contemplate. You shouldn’t be hanging out in doorways without clothes on.” His eyes darted to his door, willing Ferguson to stay put. No way was his roommate laying eyes on a naked M. No, that was for Blake alone.

  She opened her mouth to say something, but he nudged her inside before she could speak. In one swift motion, he dropped his bag, closed the door, and swept his arms around her, grabbing her bare ass and hauling her against his stiffening cock. Crashing his lips against hers, he swallowed whatever had been on the tip of her delicious tongue. Body and mouth yielding to his demand, she wound her arms around his neck, welcoming his touch, his probing tongue. The towel slid between them to the floor. He spun in place, tucking one of her legs around his hips, and had her back against the wall in a heartbeat, his pulse and breathing accelerating like a top fuel dragster off the starting line.

  When they finally pulled apart, her pretty silver eyes scanned his face. “Well, good morning. And here I thought you snuck out because you had second thoughts about last night.”

  Her words thunked him hard in the solar plexus, and he pulled in a sharp breath. What the hell had he been thinking, giving up what he wanted out of loyalty to Ferguson? Forget that shit. No more Mr. Nice Guy.

  “Never.” He pecked her lips twice. “And there’s something you need to know. The brunette the other morning you assumed was with me? She’s with Ferguson.”

  M blinked. “You mean, like right now?”

  He nodded.

  “Is she the reason he couldn’t take me last night?” She quickly shook her head. “Never mind. I don’t need to know. It doesn’t matter because I like the way it ended.”

  His heart ballooned, and he kissed her again. “I’m heading to the rink. Come with me. In fact, you can help me get my wheels. Take some of that red ink off your ledger since you’re part of the reason I left my SUV behind last night.”

  “To the rink? I was going to go into the office.”

  “To the office?” he mimicked. “Why? Wasn’t last night’s appearance at your boss’s enough for the weekend? Don’t you get a day off?” Still holding her up, he dropped his head and began trailing kisses along her shoulder to the base of her neck, where he paused to suck softly and tease with his tongue, just the way she’d shown him she liked it last night. He loved how she’d boldly taught him what did and didn’t turn her on. No other woman had ever done that, and the thought crossed his mind his technique had been flawed for years.

  Oh well. As long as he could get it right with her, that was all he cared about.

  “Mmm, I love your skin,” he murmured. The texture and the way you taste. So damn good. As if her skin had been created for his taste buds alone.

  She let the back of her head fall against the wall and hummed, “Maybe …”

  “Better make up your mind quick, or I’ll have you flat on your back again,” he mumbled against her jaw.

  “If you meant that as a threat, it’s not working. It’s more of an incentive.” She let out a throaty laugh, then gave him a heated gaze. “Why is it I’m always naked and you’re fully dressed?”

  He lifted his head and offered her a salacious smile as he dipped his gaze to her chest and squeezed her ass. Suddenly, he was feeling a whole helluva lot better than he had a mere five minutes ago. “You’re always naked and I’m not? Sounds like my fantasy come true. Is that a promise?”

  “No,” she scoffed. “And speaking of being naked, I’d prefer it if we were equally undressed at the same time because your belt is … uh—”

  “Oh shit! Sorry!” He set her back on her feet, and she plucked the towel from the floor and wrapped it around herself before he could get much of a look—not that he needed it because his dick was about to unzip his fly. “So. Are you in?”

  “Do I have time for a shower?”

  He waggled his eyebrows. “As long as you take me with you.” She turned, but he caught the towel and tugged it from her before she escaped. With a squeal, she took off for the bedroom, and he followed just close enough to get an eyeful.

  The rink wasn’t going anywhere. He’d get there sometime today. Maybe.

  Chapter 20

  I Am So Pucked

  Michaela sat in the stands of a practice rink, hugging her knees, enthralled by the gorgeous man slapping one puck after another from different angles and different areas of the ice. Watching him glide over the slick surface as he expertly maneuvered stick and puck made her heart flutter. She could do this for days and never get sick of the sight of him, all fluid grace and effortless speed.

  The worst hockey-isms ran through her dirty mind like hamsters on a wheel. Puck me. I like your big stick. Shoot from the high slot. Yep, she was growing to like this sport.

  Every time he looked up at her—like now—the determination in his knotted brows eased and he sent her a grin or a wink or a wave, making her tingle all over.

  Her phone vibrated in the back pocket of her jeans, and she answered as soon as she saw Fiona’s tongue-sticking-out goofy face on her screen.

  “Hey, Fi.”

  “Oh. My. God!” she shrieked. “You are alive! Why didn’t you call me back? I’ve been sick with worry!”

  “So sick with worry you’re just now calling me,” Michaela replied dryly. “What happened? Were you getting ready for bed when it dawned on you to follow up?”

  “Okay. So not that worried after you told me you were with Chad, although... tell me you didn’t have to whip out the pepper spray again.”

  Michaela laughed. “No, the pepper spray stayed in my purse.” I wanted him closer, not running away.

  “So where are you? It sounds like … slapping noises?”

  “I’m at the rink with Chad, er, Blake, and I’m watching him practice.”

  “Okay, Micky-Dub. Spill. Now.”

  Michaela squirmed on the cold metal bench. “There’s nothing to spill. We sort of went out last night, had fun, and he invited me to tag along today.”

  “Mick. This is Fi you’re talking to, so cut the crap. I want all the blanks filled in between going out last night, opening your door to him at 3:00 a.m., and coming to his practice.” She paused for breath, and her voice grew gleeful. “Oh God. You had sex with him, didn’t you? Oh J
esus, and I bet it was scorching hot! Can you walk? Those guys are built for endurance.”

  “Fi—”

  “You did!” Fiona squealed so loud Michaela was sure Blake could hear her over the booming echoes. Heat bloomed on Michaela’s face, and she cast her eyes the other away.

  Fiona sniggered. “So what’s he practicing right now? Wink, wink, nudge, nudge.”

  “Fi, we’re not in middle school anymore.” Still, Michaela couldn’t help the smile quirking her lips. “He’s practicing his wrist shot. He’s got a wicked wrister, and he wants to make it even better so he’s the best in the league.” Why did hockey terms sound so … dirty?

  “Ooh, so more wicked? And listen to you going all hockey on me. What’s his last name? I wanna look him up.”

  “Why?”

  “Just curious,” Fiona singsonged.

  “Fi, this is nothing serious. Just a little fun with a hot guy.”

  “Hmm … Mick, are you capable of ‘just a little fun with a hot guy’ without falling?”

  Michaela blew out a breath. “I don’t know where this is going”—or if it’s going—“but I plan to enjoy the ride as long as it lasts.” She sounded more resolute than she felt. Last night had been … She couldn’t remember feeling like that before, and it wasn’t the sex. Okay. So the sex had been spectacular, but how much of that had been because of the way he’d touched her emotionally? Made her come alive like she’d only been sleep-walking before?

  Miss Goody Two-Shoes whispered a warning that Michaela was drifting into dangerous territory, but she virtually flicked the cautious one from her shoulder and fist-bumped the devil girl.

  “And I’ll bet you’re really, ahem, enjoying the kind of ride he’s giving you. So hot sex it is, girlfriend. But still, I want his last name.”

  Fiona’s protective side was one of the many traits Michaela loved about her, even though it was annoying at times—like now. From experience, though, she knew holding out did no good. With a defeated sigh, she said, “It’s Barrett. Blake Barrett.”

  What Michaela didn’t tell her best friend was that when she’d awakened in an empty bed this morning, her heart had fallen. After reading his scrawled note, it had dropped a few more inches—especially on the heels of his one-hundred-and-eighty-degree about-face last night. One minute he’d been fleeing her, and the next he’d been breaking down her door. Regret tended to rise right along with the morning sun, and she’d figured their night of passion had been a one-and-done for him. Hadn’t he said he didn’t hook up often, or words to that effect? She hadn’t dared hope she was an exception, that she wasn’t simply the next redhead or brunette or blond who’d blipped on his radar. Yet somewhere along the line she had hoped, which was why she’d opened her front door like a fangirl when she thought she’d heard the thud of his door this morning. She’d been semi-stalking him, hadn’t she? But with one look and a few words, he’d eased the worst of her doubts, giving her heart a helium lift. And now she was all giggly and giddy and goose-bumpy. Ugh!

  “Hey, Curly!” the object of her fangirling yelled from the ice.

  She held the phone to her chest. “What?”

  He’d gathered the pucks around him and was casually leaning on his stick, smirking, looking all hot and muscly and mouthwatering. God, did he have any idea how gorgeous he was? Don’t think so. “Get your cute little ass down here.” When she scrunched up her eyebrows in question, he added, “Let’s see you hit a few pucks.”

  “I can’t even skate!” she squawked.

  “Can’t skate?” His eyes widened in mock surprise. “I know someone who’s happy to fix that, but it’ll take lots of lessons. Maybe we can work out a trade.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Right now, though, you don’t need to skate. We’re just hitting pucks. So come on.”

  Teach her to skate? Oh, this had the ring of something beyond one night … and one morning. Not that she was expecting anything permanent from him. Just enjoy the ride while it lasts, she reminded herself. “Fi, I gotta go. Blake’s going to teach me how to hit pucks.”

  “What on earth has this man done to my serious, stuffy attorney best friend? Oh. He’s returned her to her former fun self. I think I like him already. Do I get to meet him at Thanksgiving?”

  “Oh, Fi, I don’t know. Probably not. Maybe. It’s way too early for that.”

  They exchanged I-love-yous and hung up. Her stomach full of fizzies, Michaela wound her way down the stairs to the open door where Blake waited for her, stick in hand. He cocked his chin toward the phone still in her hand. “Everything okay?”

  She shoved it back in her pocket. “What? Yes, everything’s fine. Well, except I’m going to face-plant on the ice and make a total fool of myself.”

  He canted his body and held out his arm. “No, you’re not. Just hang on to me. I won’t let you fall.”

  She glanced up at him, clamping down on the thought that popped into her head. Might be too late for that. “Promise?”

  “Yeah. Promise.” The warmth in his green eyes conveyed there was more to that promise.

  He guided her to where the pucks awaited. “Before we get started, I need to ask you something.”

  She smirked. “Must be bad if you brought me out here on slippery ice where I can’t run away.”

  He let out a mild laugh. “Hopefully, you won’t want to run away.” His eyes captured hers. “You never said yes when I asked you to go to the charity brunch.”

  “Oh. I didn’t realize you were serious.”

  He winked. “Probably because it sounded as if Sarah was asking you instead of me.” After explaining his reluctance last night was due to Owen’s intention to ask her—God, it all makes sense now!—he pushed on. “So will you go? With me?”

  Bubbles popped in her tummy. “I’d like that.”

  “One more thing …” He faltered, and she cocked an eyebrow at him. “You’re not going to see that guy from the party, are you? Scott?”

  Her eyes darted to the stands before coming back to his. “I kind of already did.”

  His face dropped, and she rushed on. “What I mean is we were going to go for coffee, but our schedules didn’t match up, so we talked for a bit on the phone. After that conversation, we sort of agreed there wasn’t much clicking between us.” Though Scott had seemed interested in taking a next step, absolutely no buzz existed for Michaela—certainly nothing like the electricity that crackled whenever she was with Blake. “The other thing”—which she hadn’t told Scott—“is he’s just coming off a breakup after being married ten years, and I’m not interested in being the rebound relationship.” She tilted her head. “Make sense?”

  Blake’s shoulders seemed to relax, as did his features, and her heart flipped over. He gave her a casual nod. “Yep, totally. Now let’s shoot some pucks.”

  After handing her the too-long stick, he grasped her hips to position her, his warm hands lingering longer than necessary—not that she was complaining. “Are you a golfer?”

  “Not really. The firm encourages us to take out clients, but my biggest client doesn’t golf, and it feels downright weird when I tag along with other attorneys and their clients. Besides, it’s hard to find the time. You?”

  “Not much of one, but I enjoy getting out with the guys and seeing the views. Golf courses are like manicured parks dropped in the choicest places.” He leaned into her, his front to her back, his arms surrounding her. His hands covered hers where they gripped the stick. “The stick’s too long, but we can work with it.”

  “I think we proved that last night,” she giggle-snorted.

  He let out a snort of his own.

  She wiggled her butt against him. “Are you going to show me your twisted wrister?”

  A groan escaped him. “Not if you keep doing that. I might have to show you the dark corners of a locker room instead. Now behave and pay attention. We’re going to tap pucks in first, so you can get a feel for the motion.”

  “Ooh, there you go, talking dirty again.”
>
  “Killing me here, woman,” he growled.

  The banter continued throughout the exercise, which Michaela was convinced was an elaborate ruse for him to pull her against his body and caress her arms and hips with his big, warm hands, using covert methods that weren’t so … covert. Not that she minded. The feel of his hard planes and the heat radiating at her back were exhilarating, and she spent most of their touch-time squelching the quivers swimming at high speed through her bloodstream. If he’d asked for permission to touch without boundaries, she’d have given it to him in a heartbeat, accompanied by a “Yes, please touch!”

  Through their flirty game, she glimpsed his world and the sport he loved. Sprinkled throughout his teaching, his ridiculous trivia and relaxed humor kept her laughing, making it hard to concentrate on connecting the stick with the puck.

  Though they’d been at their excuse-for-PDA exercise for over an hour, the end came too soon when he breathed in her ear, “It’s almost time for the mites’ practice, and we need to clear out so the Zamboni can resurface the ice.” He lifted his chin toward the glass where little faces were pressed, displaying gap-toothed smiles. How had she missed them? Or the open gate where a flat-fronted Zamboni stood ready to rumble onto the rink?

  After depositing the pucks in a bag, Blake handed her his stick and helped her shuffle off the ice. Eager little kids swarmed him as soon as he stepped out of the rink with her in tow. She slipped from his grasp and stood back, fascinated by the spectacle. Her heart melted when he got down on one knee to be at the kids’ eye level, then puddled as he talked to them, smiling easily, answering their exuberant questions, asking them questions in return. A few parents thrust things at him, and he signed them all without losing sight of his miniature fans.

  He rose to his full height, head on a swivel until his gaze landed on her. A grin split his face, and his eyes lit up like polished gemstones. She hadn’t imagined this. Nor had she imagined him holding out his hand to her in front of his audience and pulling her with him as he headed toward a bench in front of a bank of lockers. She plopped down beside him, fascinated as his strong hands swiftly undid his skate laces.