“Stanley.” She nudges her nose with mine. “I’ve got a good feeling about it.”
“That’s my girl.” Yeah, I struck gold when I went into that 7-Eleven. Now, I want silver to match the Nighthawks logo, to accentuate those prestigious offices.
I turn to Nick. “We’re winning that fucking cup. You know that, right?”
“Hell, yeah.” Nick takes a swig of his beer. “It’s ours. Just you wait and see.”
The best is yet to come.
To my husband, Greg. For being my true north. I adore you.
Acknowledgments
To Sue Grimshaw and Gina Wachtel—thank you for the opportunity of a lifetime. Also, thank you Mary Metcalfe for your help, support, encouragement, and for being such a beloved friend.
BY TRACY GOODWIN
New York Nighthawks
Ice Hot
Ice Hard (coming soon)
Scandalous Secrets
Dance with Deception
Enticing Eve
The Skilled Seduction
The Wolf of Winterthorne
What an Earl Wants
Shadow Souls
Cursed
Cursed Coloring Book: A Cursed Companion
PHOTO: GOODWIN PHOTOGRAPHY
TRACY GOODWIN is USA Today bestselling and award-winning author. Throughout a career spanning a decade, she has achieved both traditional and indie publishing success. She is the author of sexy contemporary romances and sweeping historical romances. In addition, Tracy pens vivid urban fantasy paranormal romance bursting with excitement. Though the genres may be different, each story delivers her unique blend of sensuality, poignant emotion, humor, and unforgettable characters that steal readers’ hearts.
TracyGoodwin.com
Facebook.com/AuthorTracyGoodwin
Instagram: @author.tracygoodwin
Twitter: @tracy_goodwin
Read on for an excerpt from
Ice Hard
New York Nighthawks
by Tracy Goodwin
Available from Loveswept
Chapter 1
Nick
“Toast! Toast! Toast!” The chants from my friends and teammates become louder. The same word. On repeat. Until I stand front and center at the bar, beside my best friend and teammate, Christian Chase.
We’ve known each other for most of our lives. Since we were nobodies. Long before we ever went pro. Long before we won two cups together. Way before we ever knew of the brand-new expansion team called the New York Nighthawks, let alone joined the franchise—him as center and team captain, me as his unofficial enforcer, aka his right winger.
We’re still in the thick of our first season with the Nighthawks, and Chris is marrying the woman of his dreams. I don’t blame him for not wanting to wait until our off-season. Serena’s a catch, and Chris is in love like I’ve never seen him before.
“We’re back to where it all began.” I lean into Chris, raising my voice an octave above the crowd that’s hooting.
Chris laughs. “Technically, it began at a 7-Eleven, but don’t you dare mention that in your speech.”
I grab my drink from the bar behind me. We’re NHL guys. Some hold bottles of beer while others, like me, drink top-shelf bourbon. I hold my glass up. “Quiet, guys! Quiet.”
“Shut up, assholes.” Thor, our resident Marvel movie fanatic, also known as Theo Ture, stands on a chair, bellowing for the troops to get in line. This Thor doesn’t need an Asgardian hammer. His burly frame, unkempt hair, and long beard make him a force to be reckoned with. He’s also a player with mad skills who quickly moved up to our line of A-lister defensemen that causes opposing teams to cower.
“Thanks.” I offer him a smile of approval, then clap Chris on the back with my free hand. “Well, guys. Here we are. At The End Zone…where Chris first kissed Serena. That should be the title of a movie, because it sure as hell sounds romantic.”
Damon blasts the air horn I gave him, and a large banner unfurls from the ceiling, with a huge picture of Chris and Serena. Both smiling. Both happier than anyone has a right to be.
“Banner!” Thor roars. He really does Chris Hemsworth better than Chris Hemsworth. That’s what makes him so popular with the ladies. That, along with his uncanny ability to impersonate any actor. Ladies love his Robert Downey Jr. impression, too. Guess the Avengers are hot.
Lucky runs through the bar, wrapped in another banner. This one is of my best friend on a magazine cover. It’s Lucky’s prank. Like this didn’t get old the first three times he tried tying it to Chris’s SUV. That magazine cover, lined in a row, with Chris all growly mad and shirtless.
“Mother fucker.” Chris scowls. Such is his reaction every time he sees this banner.
“I knew nothing about it,” I say to Chris, who in turn glares at me. I smile. “Hey, at least it’s not attached to your Rover.” I’m a glass-half-full kind of guy. Especially when I throw a bachelor party that the host requested be tame.
The Vamp chases Lucky through the bar, yanking the banner from him, and we all grimace and moan. Lucky is butt naked, streaking through the bar. Covering my eyes with my free hand, I’m haunted by the image of a pale Lucky streaking us. An image I’ll never forget, it’s forever seared in my skull. Besides, I’m sure it will be on YouTube tomorrow. There will probably be a meme or something. It’ll be the gift that keeps on giving.
The Vampire laughs and applauds. “Hell, yeah, Lucky.”
“Hell, no, Lucky!” a woman chimes in and I see her tall frame, just as she’s shoving me aside. “Lucky won’t be lucky much longer if he doesn’t put on some damn clothes.”
“Sorry, I’ve got him.” Damon the Demon DeLaurentis chases Lucky into the men’s room.
The brunette, with a braid over each shoulder, turns to me with large, doe eyes. “Bachelor party. I get it. But read the sign at the door. ‘No shoes, no shirt…’ Your Lucky has got no underwear on, let alone the rest of it.”
“Understood.” I study the woman who has the guts to boss around burly hockey players. She’s cute, with high cheekbones, full lips, and an angular chin. Wearing minimal makeup, she’s dressed in a white blouse unbuttoned just enough to show off her black sports bra, a plaid skirt, tights, thigh-high socks, and Mary Janes. Holy fucking hot. I can’t decide if she’s going for the “Sister Christian” look or a Britney Spears vibe. She seriously rocks the sexy-schoolgirl thing, and I fight the strong urge to make a play for her at my best friend’s bachelor party. She could be my teacher anytime.
“You’re staring,” she says, eying me with a mock severity and an overemphasized facial expression. “Are you okay? Have you never seen a woman before? Should…should I call for help?”
I laugh. A full-on belly laugh. This usually doesn’t happen with women. The guys, sure. Women, not so much. We’re usually all hot and heavy to start and then have nothing to discuss, or nothing in common.
“Don’t you have a toast to finish or something?” She turns to see a fully dressed Lucky exit the men’s room. Damon mouths, “I’m sorry.”
Holding two fingers to her eyes, she points them at Lucky. In an “I’m watching you” way. It’s enough to make him blush before she heads back behind the bar.
“Okay, now that we’re all clothed, let’s get back to business.” I study the many faces that comprise our team. This loud, imperfect family of alpha males who are the Nighthawks. “Here, at this very bar, not too long ago, some of us witnessed a very public first kiss between Chris and Serena.”
Some cattle calling ensues. “Little did we know then that we were witnessing the start of something real. I mean, we’re NHL guys, right? What do we know about romance? Chris didn’t know a fucking thing. He spilled a raspberry Slurpee on Serena to get her attention.”
Chris rolls his eyes, unable to hide his smile.
“Like I wouldn’t go there? Seriously, dude, I’m your best man. I had to go there.”
The crowd is eating this up. I command a room, and this is one occasion where that comes in handy. When the whoops and shouts die down, I add, “If Chris can snag the girl of his dreams, it gives us all hope. Besides, Serena brings out the best in him.”
“He’s right about that. She does.” Chris smiles at the crowd.
“I don’t have to tell you guys that Chris and I go way back. You already know that. I do have a confession to make, though.” This holds the crowd’s attention. There are some “ohs” mixed in with wide smiles for good measure. “I never thought he’d find a woman who would put up with him or his shit.”
With a shrug, Chris laughs. So, does Gunnar Valentin, called Blondie for his luxurious blond locks. He stands in a group with the Vamp, Lucky, our streaker, whose real name is Ryan McGee, and Liam Clair, our goalie, our Mountain, our resident family man. Something tells me he’ll have competition for that title now that Chris and Serena are talking about having kids.
The crowd is with me. All of us are thrilled for our Cyclone, our team captain, our friend. No one more so than me. “You’re my best friend, you’re my family—my brother. Always have been. No one’s happier for you than I am.”
Hanging his head, Chris nods. I’m making him emotional. Hell, I’m getting emotional. Me—the NHL bad boy who’s spontaneous, and who never fails to put on a show for our fans, is overcome with emotion. “You won the lottery when you met Serena. I may be biased, but I mean it when I say that she’s damned lucky to have you by her side. Join me in wishing Chris and Serena the better-than-the-Stanley-Cup kind of happiness. The happily-ever-after kind of happiness. The always-and-forever kind of happiness.”
I raise my glass and the guys join me. Hands outstretched, with wide smiles, they shout in unison, “To Chris and Serena!”
I clink my glass with Chris’s and take a swig as Damon passes in front of us, recording my speech on his cell. I suspect he’s zooming in on Chris right now. My friend’s expression of pure, unadulterated joy is raw and honest. It’s a first. He’s never displayed this type of genuine happiness, not even when we won both of our cups.
I’m thrilled for him. I am. Yet an emptiness has settled within my chest. It isn’t the first time I’ve felt it. Oddly enough, it usually happens when I’m celebrating my best friend’s joy. At his engagement party…at his bachelor party…when we’re planning for his wedding and future. I’m not jealous. No, Chris deserves Serena. Their life together. But, I’d be lying to myself if I denied that the thought of finding the right woman and settling down hasn’t crossed my mind. It has. A lot lately.
It’s fucking ridiculous, really. I mean, who am I kidding? My best relationships crash and burn on a good day. So, why am I so desperate to jump headfirst into the deep end—so desperate that I joined Scorcher? Christ, that’s desperate. No offense to anyone else on Scorcher, but for me, it’s out of my comfort zone and the most reckless move I’ve ever made. Having taken part in my share of brawls and penalties on the ice, that’s saying a lot.
I want a date to Chris and Serena’s wedding, and while there are many women I could pick up, I’d rather take someone I…well, someone I share some bond with. It’s too special of an occasion to share with just anyone. Besides, is it too much to hope for a future with someone? Like Chris has? Like the Mountain has?
The team surrounds Chris, clapping him on the shoulders and congratulating him. I let him enjoy his moment, slipping away to the bar. I open the app to find that there’s some interest in me. No one knows it’s me—the NHL bad-boy me. I signed up under the name Nicholas Alexander. Yes, my middle name is Alexander. My parents had a warped sense of humor, naming me Nicholas Alexander George. Three first names. That caused a lot of teasing when I was a kid, and in many locker rooms.
As for my profile, I used a photo of me without my beard, wearing sunglasses, in yet another attempt at anonymity. Even though it’s only a couple of years old, no one recognizes me without my beard.
Most of my profile is true, except my outdated profile picture and occupation. My likes are hockey (I’m not hiding that), rebuilding old cars, and cooking. I left out dogs, though ever since Chris found Serena, I’m feeling lonely and have been thinking about getting a dog. I said I’m self-employed. It’s a half-truth. I do sell some of the cars I rebuild. Rebuilding the rough ones is fun for me. I collect most of them, especially the vintage cars that are in mint condition. It’s my favorite hobby.
Half-truths or not, I’m guilty of misleading Scorcherland and I feel bad about that. I have no choice, though. How else would I gauge interest, real interest in me, the guy beneath the sports star veneer, if all women see is my status and wealth? That attracts a lot of women. Not the scars on my face or my personality. And it’s grown old. Besides, I’d be honest with any woman I went out with. That’s a must. It’s not like I’m leading a double life. I just have a hard time meeting women. Since desperate times call for desperate measures, Nicholas Alexander’s Scorcher profile was created for this dating experiment only.
No one knows. I haven’t even confided in Chris about this. I’m tight-lipped because I’m embarrassed. I shouldn’t need to do this to get a worthwhile date, right? Besides, if this were ever to go public, I’d get shit from my teammates, and the opposition would use it against me on the ice. I can’t let that happen. Hell, I’m the one who monitors the opposition’s feeds and uses every weakness against them. I can’t hand them ammunition against me.
A blonde named Kristen messaged me: Hi. She’s a woman of few words. Well, technically, she’s a woman of one word. I click on her profile. She’s cute, with curls, wearing a wide smile. Kristen, 24. Likes sports, cooking cats. I do a doubletake, rereading her profile. Likes sports, cooking cats. Even more creepy the second time.
Sports I’m into, but cooking cats…that’s a definite no. Maybe Kristen needs to learn about commas or autocorrect. Or, maybe she does like cooking cats. She’s wearing a chef’s hat and there’s no cat in sight. There is a pot, with a lid covering it, on the stove behind her. There could be a cat inside. No. Just no. No cat killers, even if I am a dog person. Seriously, I’m wondering if I should call the police. Should I report her for animal abuse? Left swipe.
“Nice speech.” The bartender with the sexy braids leans against the counter. “ ‘Happily ever after.’ Never have I heard a man use that phrase in a bachelor party speech.”
I place my cell facedown on the bar and am met with large brown eyes that hold mine. “I’ve given the engagement party speech, the bachelor party speech, and will soon give the best man speech. I’m running out of material.”
“So, it’s material? You don’t really believe in that fairy-tale crap?” She studies me through narrowed eyes.
She’s a cynic. Duly noted. “I never used to, but my best friend and his fiancée convinced me otherwise.”
“If you say the tooth fairy’s real, I’ll need to card you.” She rests her chin on her palms, leaning across the bar. One of her buttons is about to burst and I’m all for it. Anticipation surges through me, making me hard for her. I concentrate on her last statement. Card me…
Pulling out my wallet, I show her my license. “I made a lot of cash from that tooth fairy. And got Matchbox cars, too. Don’t ruin it for me.”
“Those transactions were…well, questionable at best. But I’ll keep my mouth shut. Far be it from me to ruin your childhood.” She checks my ID. Passing my license back to me, she asks, “What will it be, Nick?”
I’m still nursing my bourbon, but I order a refill. Just to watch her tight body strut down to the end of the bar. This woman is tall, I’d wager five-foot-nine or ten. With a great ass. With great assets. Plural.
Placing my glass on the counter, she pours. “Nice speech. Your friend was touched. There wasn’t a dry
eye in the bar.”
“Except for yours?” I offer her the glass she just poured, holding up my other for a toast.
The bartender surveys the crowd before clinking my glass and downing a large gulp of the bourbon she just poured for me. “Sorry, but I’m a cynic. Tried and true.”
“Shame.” She has potential. Hot, in a naughty Britney Spears kind of way. Yep. I’m now leaning in that direction. “Britney?”
“Hit me baby, one more time.” She leans over the counter again. That one button has let loose, exposing her black sports bra and the silken skin peeking above it. I imagine she’s soft. The thought makes me harder. “It brings in extra tips. Guys, especially you hockey types, love old-school Britney. Who am I to disappoint?”
I’m anything but disappointed. She’s a total turn-on. Cat-cooking Kristen has nothing on this smoking-hot bartender.
“Hey, thanks for covering for me.” A guy hustles from the far end of the bar. “Britney. Again?”
“It never gets old. Maybe you should try it sometime.” She’s as tall as he is. “Besides, what do you care when I covered for you?”
“I don’t. Thanks.” He resembles her, with the same color brown hair and eyes. “Time for you to go. I can’t get in trouble.”
Turning to me, she holds out her palm. “If you’re going to tip me, now would be a good time.” Why does my mind immediately travel to sinful ways to tip her? It’s got to be her full breasts, peeking just above her bra. Or it could be the Britney schoolgirl outfit. I’m a sucker for it. What guy isn’t? Or maybe, I’m a sucker for her? I wouldn’t mind some hot-and-heavy with her.
I reach into my wallet and hand her a fifty-dollar bill. It’s the only cash I’ve got. She rolls it up and stuffs it in her bra. “Thanks, Nick. Pleasure doing business with you.” Winking at me, she twirls the end of a braid. Who needs Scorcher when I’ve got this woman making me think dirty thoughts?
Ice Hot Page 22
