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

by G. K. Brady

  Chapter 23

  Hat Trick

  Michaela checked her watch. God, she was exhausted. Her bed called to her, but at 10:00 p.m., she still had loose ends to tie up—loose ends that were the remnants from the disaster that had blown up before her shuttered eyes this morning.

  For weeks, nothing had gone right at work. Misdirected emails, computer glitches, and a variety of inexplicable oddities had plagued her and left her with egg on her face she couldn’t even explain. For instance, sending a contract meant for one client to a different client. Only April’s anal meticulousness had prevented the contract, and all its confidential details, from actually going out.

  But this morning’s disaster du jour? Neither she nor April had seen it coming, but how could they have? That question had been rolling around in her head since the debacle. Things had been tilting out of control beyond her line of sight, like two stars colliding in the universe. How would you know doom was on your doorstep until long after the actual explosion? And these weren’t errors she could blame on solar flares or other astrological anomalies.

  Her phone pinged, and her heart beat a little faster only to plummet to its regular rhythm when she saw it was April, not Blake. He’d been gone seven days, and while they communicated here and there, she missed the hell out of him. His smile. His intent look when she confided in him. His silly trivia. His deep timbre. His hands. His mouth on hers. His way of making her feel safe, which was weird after only knowing him a month.

  Maybe it was better he was on the road. Him being down the hall would have been a distraction, and she wouldn’t have been able to see him anyway—not with the ridiculous workload that had increased tenfold in the past week. At times it felt as though she was being set up for failure. Was it humanly possible to juggle all the plates they kept tossing at her? Whoever “they” were. No one seemed to know how the assignments wound up in her lap, and the other oddity was that she seemed to be the only one in the firm experiencing the inexplicable string of bad luck.

  She read April’s text: I’m calling it a night. You need to do the same, boss. You’re no good to anyone when you’re running on fumes.

  April was right, but Michaela didn’t have the luxury of indulging her need for sleep. A familiar push-pull twanged deep inside her chest. April had been her rock, and Michaela was beyond grateful. At the same time, April was being lashed by the squalls that Michaela had been riding simply by being her assistant. Guilt by association, though April insisted it was her choice to see it through.

  Another text chimed, and her heart lifted. Instead of replying, she tapped the phone icon and Fiona picked up on the first ring. “Oh good, you are awake! I was hoping I’d catch you before you turned in.”

  “Not turning in anytime soon, Fi. But you’re a lovely reason to take a break.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m at home.”

  “What’s going on, Micky-Dub? You sound … not good.”

  Michaela cocked an elbow on her desk and dropped her forehead in her palm. “I wish I knew. This morning one of the partners came roaring into my office demanding to know why I wasn’t at some deposition that’d been scheduled months ago. Problem was no one told me, and it’s not even in my wheelhouse. It was a family law case.”

  “The whoever did the scheduling screwed up, right?”

  “That’s what I thought too, but when April checked, not only was it on the schedule, but there was a stack of other deadlines I’d been assigned that I had no clue about. April spent the morning rearranging and trying to figure out how everything got so twisted, but she hasn’t been able to unravel the mess yet.”

  Fiona’s voice to a whisper. “Are you in danger of losing your job?”

  “I’m on shaky ground, but I don’t think so—not yet—but getting the Fenton account is looking more like a pipe dream. Not only does this disaster give the firm a big black eye, but I can’t help but feel guilty about these poor clients who got shafted.”

  “But it doesn’t sound like you had anything to do with it. It sounds more like gremlins in the scheduling system to me.”

  “I’m not so sure, Fi. One woman called and chewed me out, then started bawling about losing custody of her kids. It wasn’t even my case, but then April checked, and the file was in my cabinet. How did it get there? I swear, I’d never seen it before.” Michaela blew out an exasperated breath. “Maybe I’m losing my mind.”

  “Gaslight.”

  “What?”

  “The movie Gaslight, where the husband—I think it was Charles Boyer—poisons Ingrid Bergman and stages these scenes to make her think she’s lost it. Watch it. It’s a great movie.”

  “Um, okay.” Not that watching a movie is going to help me right now, Fi.

  “Not that watching the movie is going to help you right now, Mick.”

  Michaela stifled a laugh. “So Thanksgiving. You and James are still staying here, right?”

  “That’s the plan. Do we get to meet the hot hockey player?”

  “I think so. I hope so.”

  “Is everything all right on that end?”

  “Yes, I guess so. I mean, it feels like everything else in my life right now. Temporary. Just like my job, just like this apartment. It’s a blip on the racetrack of life.”

  “What makes you say it’s temporary?”

  Though her friend couldn’t see her, Michaela shook her head. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s just that it’s too new and shiny. Our relationship, if you can call it that, consists of a month of knowing each other, some phone calls and texts, and a few sessions of really hot sex.”

  “No long conversations or laughter?”

  “Oh. Lots of that too.”

  “Apparently, the sex made you forget. How hot is it?”

  Michaela fanned herself with her hand, and her parts south contracted. “So hot the sheets not only went up in flames, but all my leg hairs were singed off.”

  “Ooh, better than shaving.”

  Michaela burst out with a laugh. “Thanks for making me laugh, Fi.”

  “Always, Micky-Dub. I can’t wait to meet this guy. Hot sex or not, I am dying to find out if he’s good enough for you. If he’s not, he’s out.”

  “Do I have any say?”

  “Nope. You don’t always have the best judgment when it comes to men. I mean, c’mon. Five years with Anders? No one else would have put up with him that long.”

  “Except his wife,” Michaela huffed. The words didn’t sound as bitter as they once had.

  “Not so fast. They haven’t been married that long yet.”

  “True. Okay, you can interrogate Blake. Just leave me the option of using him as a boy toy if you decide he can’t have the job of being my soul mate, deal?”

  “He’s that good?”

  “Let’s just say he’s eager to please, and something about him brings out the teacher in me.”

  “Ooh, naughty girl!”

  “The role reversal feels pretty damn good after letting Anders run our sex life all those years.”

  “I love it! I think I’m gonna like this guy for you.”

  “Here’s a piece of trivia for you, Fi. Did you know the average man lasts less than six minutes from penetration to ejaculation?”

  “I did not know that. But I’m guessing the average man believes that time is closer to thirty minutes.”

  “Actually, the average man self-reports it as two times longer than it actually takes. The average woman, by contrast, needs thirteen minutes to orgasm.”

  “Sounds like a mismatch to me.”

  “Sounds like a damn good reason for foreplay to me,” Michaela chuckled.

  “So your hockey player … is he average?”

  “No, I’d say he was one of those optimistic types—only he can back it up.” And he can go again and again and again. Michaela suddenly felt light-headed.

  “Okay. I’ll go easy on him so I can give him the Fiona seal of approval.”

  A beep interrupted t
he conversation. “He’s calling me now, Fi. Gotta run! Love you!”

  “Love you too, Mick.”

  Michaela hit the green button. “Blake?”

  “Hey, M. Did I wake you?”

  “No, I was just finishing a call with Fiona.” Were your ears burning?

  “Oh good. I wanted to catch you while I have a few minutes to myself. What did you think of the game?”

  Oh crap. With everything else going on, she hadn’t watched it. “I didn’t catch it all. It’s … it’s really stressful when you have a friend playing.” She palmed her forehead. When he didn’t answer right away, she said, “You still there?”

  “Uh, yeah. Sorry, brain fart.” He cleared his throat. “I’m a friend?”

  A flush heated her cheeks as the incredulity in his tone registered. “Well, yeah. What would you call you?” Again, he didn’t answer, so she rushed into the silence. “You’re the guy with the jaded view of the, shall we say, long game, aren’t you?”

  He dropped his voice to a near whisper. “You might be changing my mind about that.”

  Her belly did a few flips. “Really?”

  “Yeah, really. I—shit.” Muffled noises came from the other end, as though he’d covered the mouthpiece and was talking to someone else. Then he was back. “Hey, uh, the guys are heading out, and I—”

  “Oh. You’re going out?”

  “Yeah, well, they want to celebrate my... You didn’t watch at all, did you?”

  She hung her head and shook it. “I’m sorry, Blake. Work has been a bitch, and I—”

  “You’re not still working, are you?”

  A defeated sigh whooshed out, and her shoulders folded in around her. “I am.” Tempting as it was to explain why—and unload some of her worries at the same time—she bit back the impulse. He would either try to shoulder her load, solve her troubles, or both. Which was kinda sweet, but he had something to celebrate, and she didn’t want to dampen his mood.

  “Well, you’d better finish it up because I scored a hatter tonight, and you’re going to need to take some time off to deliver on those promises. I’m bringing you a jersey. You supply the rest.”

  Ooh, he’s taking charge! She could practically hear his eyebrows waggle, and her insides puddled liked melted candle wax. “Oh, I’ll supply the rest all right.” Whatever that is. “You best be ready, big guy.” She hoped her voice carried the sultriness she was going for and not the squeak her ears picked up.

  “No, M,” he rumbled. “You be ready. I’m bringing my A-game. Bank on it. And part of what you’re supplying is the canned whipped cream. I hear Costco sells a three-pack. Might want to get a couple of those.” And then he was gone.

  Tingles of anticipation rippled through her body, zinging every finger and toe, making her feel lighter than she had since he’d left. Only three more days until she’d see him again. They promised to be the longest three days of her life.

  Blake stretched his legs under the table and slouched in his seat, making his lap a smaller target. Maybe he could disappear and the girls would leave him alone. Except Ferguson kept sending them over, telling them to “put a smile on my buddy’s face.” It had been borderline annoying before, but now it was fucking obnoxious. And he couldn’t say a damn thing because Coach LeBrun had just delivered the bad news after tonight’s game that Ferguson was a healthy scratch for the rest of the road trip. Fergs needed this celebration more than Blake did. If this party hadn’t been in his honor, Blake would have been back in his hotel room by now, visualizing everything he planned to do to M when he got home. He’d thrown a lot of bravado her way, and he intended to back it up. A smile twitched his lips.

  A meaty hand grabbed him by the nape, yanking him out of his pleasant fantasy. That hand belonged to Fergs, who slid in beside him. “’Bout fucking time you cracked a smile! Did that pink-haired hottie help you get rid of your surly attitude? I heard she can suck the chrome off a bumper.”

  “No, and I wouldn’t know. I was just thinking about something else.” Blake slugged down some of his club soda.

  Ferguson’s eyebrows bounced. “Or someone else. You’ve got it bad for this mystery woman of yours. You ever going to tell me who she is?”

  Blake stared at him for a beat, tempted to come clean, but this wasn’t the time or place. The news about M would wait. “I don’t know if it’s going anywhere, so there’s no point in revealing any names just yet.”

  A pretty brunette in a micro dress climbed onto Ferguson’s lap. “Who’s your friend, Owen?”

  Ferguson slid an arm around her waist and clamped his other hand on her bare thigh. “He’s why we’re here, but forget him, baby. He gave his balls to a woman to hold for him.”

  A salacious smile curved her overdone lips. “Lucky her. I wouldn’t mind holding his balls for a while.” Staring pointedly at Blake, she twirled a straw in her pink drink and sucked it hard enough to hollow her cheeks before making a big show of licking her lips.

  Ferguson chuckled and arched his eyebrows at Blake as if to say, “We got ourselves a live wire here.” He wiggled his finger at her in a come-here motion, and when she leaned down, he whispered something in her ear and kissed her.

  “Okay.” She giggled and slid off his lap, and he handed her a couple of twenties.

  Ferguson watched her ass sway until his view was blocked. “She’s hot. Kinda reminds me of Michaela.”

  What? Oh hell no. “She’s nothing like Michaela!” Blake pointed in the direction the girl had gone. “She’s a bitch in heat, and she’d let herself be fucked by anything resembling a dick.” His pulse pounded, and he began drumming the table.

  Ferguson looked from Blake’s tapping fingers to his face and frowned. “What the fuck is eating you? I don’t get it. You’re a first-line center on one of the best damn teams in the league, you’re on pace to put up the best numbers of your career, and you’ve got your panties in a wad because some chick thinks you’re hot shit and wants to suck your cock? Loosen up, bro! Life’s pretty fucking spectacular for you right now. Enjoy the ride.” He shook his head, tilted his beer bottle to his lips, and chugged its contents.

  Blake dragged a hand across his jaw and exhaled. “Hey, I’m sorry. You’re right. Guess I’m a little tired.”

  Before long, the skanky brunette was back with a few beers for Fergs, another club soda for Blake, and a tall blue drink for herself. Pink and blue. She’s got the baby drinks going. She slid back into Ferguson’s lap and dropped her arms around his shoulders. They went at each other’s mouths, all tongue and teeth. Ferguson slipped his hand in the V of her low-cut neckline, and she moaned.

  Jesuuuus! Blake dropped his head and pulled out his phone. Scrolled to his favorite picture of M. Yeah, gorgeous. You, me, and my hand have a date back in my hotel room as soon as I can get out of here. He caressed the image on the screen with his thumb. He felt eyes on him, and when he looked up, Ferguson had both hands inside the brunette’s dress, one squeezing her tit, and the other one up her skirt. She was grinding against his hand, and they were still sucking face, but Ferguson’s eyes were on Blake’s phone.

  Blake’s absurd thought process leapt from great multitasker to bastard. He placed the phone facedown on the table, and when he looked up again, all Ferguson’s attention seemed to be on getting the girl off. His eyes just strayed for a moment. He didn’t see it.

  Blake sipped at his drink, locking out the show to his left that was making him squirm in his seat. Sometimes he wished he did drink regularly.

  Maybe looking at M’s picture had put him in this state. To distract himself, he turned to thoughts of his best friend. When had Ferguson become so careless and cavalier? Yes, this girl wanted it, but did Ferguson’s ego trump everyday decorum? He should have taken her someplace private. When had he transformed into the second coming of Wyatt Tompkins?

  Mercifully, the brunette seemed to get what she needed, and she stood, rearranged her clothing, and sauntered away, shooting Fergs a coy look over her shoulde
r. He made a jacking-off motion above his groin, and she giggled and blew him a kiss.

  His eyes darted to Blake. “Don’t worry. She’s coming back to take care of me.”

  “Wasn’t worried,” Blake mumbled.

  “You enjoy the show?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “Some girls get off on doing it in public. I’m merely obliging a fantasy. You could join the party, you know, instead of sitting over there with a stick up your ass. I don’t mind sharing, and I’m sure she wouldn’t complain.”

  Blake’s stomach rolled over, and he made a scoffing noise. “No, thanks.”

  Ferguson leaned back in his chair. “When did you become such a prude?”

  Blake looked him square in the eye. “I haven’t changed. When did you become such an asshole?”

  Ferguson broke out a smirk Blake wanted to knock off his mug. Just then, T.J. caught his eye and motioned him over. Blake needed to get away from the stench, and he stood to join T.J. and a few other guys who were laughing at something on someone’s phone.

  T.J. pointed. “Check this out, dude. You’re all over the air. ESPN, NHL Tonight, fucking everywhere!”

  “Must be a slow news night,” Blake replied dryly. He watched the replay a few times and grinned in spite of himself. Had M at least caught the replays? God, he hoped so. Maybe he could send her a link. He reached for his phone, but it wasn’t in his back pocket. His eyes dashed to the table where Fergs still sat, alone, and he breathed a sigh of relief. He ambled back over, picked up the device, and slid it into his back pocket before casually taking a sip of his soda. The bubbles scraped his parched throat.

  Fergs flicked his eyes up to him. “You got it bad. You’re infected with it.” He huffed a mirthless laugh. “Not that I can blame you.”

  Sirens started up in Blake’s head. When he didn’t rise to the bait, Fergs continued. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’ve either designated yourself M’s personal bodyguard or you’ve got a serious hard-on for her. ’Course with as fine as she is, she gives me a hard-on too.”