by Kate Meader
She would fix her career stumble her way. Like her mission to win Tommy Gordon, she had a plan to earn her way back into the pro hockey fold. Getting a spot on Team USA would be her redemption.
Feeling empowered by all the positive thinking (and a second glass of champagne), she skirted a crowd of guests gathered near the dais at the top of the tent. Someone yelled, “Incoming!” Her amazing reflexes on alert, in a split second, she assessed the situation and snatched the puck—no, the bouquet—out of the air.
“Yes!” She called out above disappointed groans. Her reaction was more the thrill of victory at doing something semi-sports-inspired at a wedding rather than the action of catching a bouquet. Sure, she loved weddings, but she didn’t love them that much.
“Nice work,” she heard in her sister-in-law’s voice.
Isobel Chase was more like a sister to her. Once the former hockey great had hooked up with Vadim, there’d been no doubt that Mia would always have a close female friend to rely on. She hadn’t always had that growing up. Her mom was wonderful, but she was her mom, and had kept her sheltered, worried that Mia’s father would try to get custody and move her to Russia. Then the worry continued when Mia became sick at fifteen. Even though she’d rebounded from all that, she’d missed out on forming some of those more long-term female friendships, the ones that kept a girl anchored.
“Right? Maybe I’m in the wrong sport. You think the NFL or MLB are looking for people?”
Isobel chuckled. “Stick to what you’re good at. Only … it looks like making friends and influencing people isn’t one of them.”
Mia checked over her shoulder. A crew of unhappy-looking women were sending her looks that weren’t exactly pleasant.
She gave a tentative smile. “I could throw it again?”
One of the disappointed stepped forward, an absolute stunner with a big blond up-do and amazing green eyes. Those eyes were now looking at Mia like she was something on the sole of this woman’s very high designer shoe. “You weren’t even here intentionally,” she bit out.
“I wouldn’t say that. I’m at this wedding intentionally. I’m on this earth intentionally. I live a very intentional life.”
The woman who looked like she might have been intending her entire life around catching this bouquet was unimpressed.
“Here.” Mia held it out. She didn’t even want it. “You have it.”
“You can’t do that.” The woman was getting agitated now, but in a weird way. Like she was trying to scream while her mouth was sewn shut.
“It’s just a bunch of flowers.” Lovely pink and orange ones, but Mia didn’t know anything about flowers so couldn’t comment more than that. This woman looked like she knew about flowers. She looked like she had very specific ideas about flowers, such as where she’d like to deposit this particular bunch.
Anxious to extract herself before this escalated further, Mia offered it again to the woman, who took it—finally!—and glared at a point over Mia’s shoulder.
“She ruined it!” The woman spoke to someone else, someone who would likely offer more sympathy to her situation. Mia wasn’t even sure why this was a situation.
Mia turned, her skin prickling with awareness.
Callum Foreman. Cal, to his friends, including her brother. Vadim and Cal were tight.
She didn’t know him well. Until recently he had played on Vad’s old team in Montreal, the Quebec Royals. Amiable, nice guy Cal, according to just about everyone, though Mia didn’t see it.
Sure, she recognized the roughhewn attractiveness, like he’d been carved out of something. Not a classical marble like Tommy Gordon, but granite, perhaps. A coarser, more weathered stone. With his sable brown, close-shorn hair, square jaw, once-broken nose, and a couple of thin white scars above his left eye, he had the look of a street fighter.
He dated a lot. She knew that much. But not so much that he would ever be called a manwhore. Something nicer and more old-fashioned, perhaps, like a playboy—which was just another way to label a man’s behavior so he was viewed as harmless, his conduct largely victimless. Chicago was his fourth city and at the grand old age of thirty-two, when most players were married and starting families, no woman had managed to pin him down. Foreman was what happened when college players with asshole coded in their DNA were drafted and allowed to flourish unchecked.
Mia had met a million Cal Foremans.
Still, there was something about the man she couldn’t put her finger on. It was if he were playing a part, acting the way people expected with his Southie energy mixed with man-about-town. More likely her unease around him stemmed from the fact he hailed from Boston, a black mark against him given that she’d grown up in New York. Ye olde enemy.
He had nice eyes, however. Golden-brown ones that often danced with amusement. Only not right now.
“Tara, what’s wrong?”
The woman—Tara, Mia assumed—who didn’t want the bouquet because Mia had contaminated it promptly burst into tears. She practically shoved Mia aside and fell into Foreman’s arms. “I was so ready for it. So. Ready.”
Something like panic flashed on Foreman’s face. This should be good.
“There, now. It’s not the end of the world.”
“Oh, so you agree with her now?”
Uh oh. This had the makings of a trap, one that any man would need to navigate carefully. Cal patted Tara’s back, his big hands splayed in such a way they almost covered her entire width. What a tiny thing she was. Beautiful, too.
He caught Mia’s eye. Something had changed. She didn’t know what but Foreman was thinking, and Mia didn’t like it one bit.
Come on, Foreman. Do what you need to do to make your girl feel better.
“It is just a bunch of flowers.”
No.
No no no.
Cal’s gaze had morphed to … was that calculating? Impossible. He was a clueless, self-absorbed jock, like every hockey player she knew. Like her ex. Sure, Drew had screwed her over but even then, she wouldn’t have considered him manipulative. That would come later when other people became involved and reshaped the narrative.
Mia shivered, not liking that reminder. Not here where she was supposed to be launching her grand plans to win a man and get her life back on track. Neither did she want to watch Cal Foreman bamboozle his girlfriend. No need to witness another dickhead winning.
“It’s …” Tara eased back from Foreman’s broad shoulder. “It’s not just a bunch of flowers. It’s a symbol of love and commitment and tradition, the tradition being that whoever catches the bouquet is next in line.”
While Mia didn’t subscribe to that notion, she appreciated that faith in romance when she heard it expressed by someone else.
Cal smiled. Sort of patronizing, Mia thought. Or maybe Mia was just realizing she’d never looked closely at him before. “It doesn’t mean anything, Tara. Sure Mia caught it, but does anyone think she’s likely to be the next person down the aisle?”
Tara turned, her lips in a sexy pout, having possibly forgotten that Mia was there. “It could happen! Anything could happen.”
Thank you, Tara. You are now on my Christmas card list.
Foreman grimaced. “Yeah, it could. I suppose.”
He shot a quick, semi-sympathetic glance at Mia because obviously the idea that Mia Wallace, big-boned Amazon, girl-least-likely-to-score-with-a-hot-sports-agent would have a shot at matrimony was the joke of the season. So Mia knew she was as close to marriage as Harper and Remy’s toddlers, but no one liked to be used to make that point.
Zoltar the All-Knowing continued. “What I’m trying to say is that you shouldn’t put so much stock into this tradition and that. It doesn’t mean a thing.” And then because he was a total idiot—or maybe an absolute genius—he murmured, “I agree with Mia on this one.”
Enough of this nonsense. Mia refused to play the fall gal here. “Don’t drag me into this, Foreman.”
“You did say it was just a bunch of flowers.�
�
“But it means different things to different people.” She faced Tara. “I’m sorry I wasn’t paying attention and instinctively reached up to catch it. It’s a thing I do: act first, regret later.” Another shiver ran through her. She’d done exactly that and paid the price.
Tara gave her a pitying look. “So you’re not close to getting married?”
“Not even a twinkle in any potential husband’s eye. Ask anyone.” Mia elbowed Isobel, who affirmed Mia’s lack of prospects with an amused nod and an almost too cheery “Not a chance.”
Speaking of twinkling eyes, Foreman was looking weird again. “So, give the bouquet back to Mia, Tara. It’s not yours.”
“Oh, no, she can keep it!” Mia stepped back. Then took another wobbly one on the stupid heels.
Tara, who a moment ago had definitely been coming around, was back on the offensive. “Anyone would think you didn’t want me to be happy, Cal. You don’t want me to have this. You don’t want to take this to the next level.”
Cal rubbed Tara’s arm. “Let’s not do this here.”
But it was half-hearted, said with barely any inflection. With anyone else, Mia might have sensed embarrassment that his date was making such a fuss, but that’s not what was going on.
Or not all that was going on.
This asshole—or should she say, Masshole, because only a Southie could be this much of a dick—was engineering his girlfriend into breaking up with him. At a wedding!
“Oh, let’s,” Tara said, falling right into the trap he’d laid for her. “We’ve been together for six months—”
“This is our fourth date, Tara.”
Tara rolled right over that clarification. “And I’m getting no signs from you that I’m your number one. You spend longer playing video games or drinking with your buddies or training than you do with me.”
“Training’s what I need to do. For, you know, my job.” He didn’t make an argument against his other bro-faults, though. Typical.
“I thought you were going to propose!”
Cal’s face was pure horror, and that seemed the most genuine expression from him all day. “Today? At someone else’s wedding?”
“Oops,” Isobel muttered, sotto voce but Mia and Cal heard her. A crowd had gathered and was watching the train wreck with interest. Mia locked gazes with her brother, who raised his famous aristocratic brow.
Tara wasn’t done. “Why not? And if I’d caught the bouquet, maybe you’d have seen what was meant to be, Calvin.”
“It’s Callum, Tara,” he said, sounding truly annoyed for the first time since all this had started. “Which pretty much says it all.”
Tara smashed the bouquet into Mia’s abs. Luckily, Mia had the strongest abs around and could handle it.
“You can have this—and him!” Then she stomped off in those gravity-defying heels with a steadiness Mia envied.
“I don’t want him,” Mia called out after her. She really didn’t.
Isobel turned to Foreman, shaking her head. “Nice going, Calvin.” Then she left to talk to her husband, which encouraged everyone else to disperse now that the fireworks were over.
They should have stuck around because Mia was just getting started.
Scrubbing a hand through his hair, Cal blew out a relieved breath, now that he’d escaped his matrimonial fate.
“I’m so sorry that happened to you,” Mia said sweetly.
A quick, wary glance. A narrowing of the eyes. “Yeah, well, it wasn’t meant to be.”
She closed the gap between them, pushed the bouquet into his chest, and hissed her next words. “I got that, Masshole. Did you think it was funny to use me to piss off your girlfriend?”
“Now, wait a sec—”
“Don’t even bother denying it. I agree with Mia on this one. Give the bouquet back to Mia. What a dick move.”
He raised his hand to take the flowers and curled his palm around her knuckles.
“So, I might have pushed the envelope a little. Tara and I had no chance of going the distance. Believe me, it’s better she comes to that decision for herself.”
“Why? Because you’re too chicken to do your own dirty work?”
Something flashed in his eyes, turning the gold in them to sparks. But just as quickly, they dulled to dead copper pennies. Or just pennies because last she’d checked, copper wasn’t animate, not unlike this guy’s heart. “I find that most women will make their minds up about me eventually. She’ll feel better thinking she called the shots here instead of me.”
What had Mia concluded earlier? Hockey players. Complete dicks.
His hand still covered hers. Warmth spread through her body, a traitorous reaction if ever she’d had one.
“I’ll let you get on, Foreman. Now that you’re a free agent, I’m sure there’s a bridesmaid you can find to soothe your broken heart.”
He opened his mouth to speak, then seemed to think better of it. A smile played on his lips, but it didn’t flip the script in his cold gaze.
“Thanks for the assist, Mia. Here’s a token of my affection.” He squeezed her hand, and left her holding the damn bouquet.
3
Cal rolled over in bed and realized he was alone.
Even better, he realized he liked it.
He’d never been the kind of guy who had to have a woman in his life, but for the last few years, he hadn’t gone without for very long, which made him sound like an addict who claims he can stop smoking or whatever at any time. He had no shortage of offers—pro athletes were lucky in that respect—and when his time with a woman came to its natural end, they usually remained on good terms. Within a couple of weeks, he was ready to start up with someone new.
Serial monogamy, someone with more brain cells than him had once termed it.
He did not cheat. He treated his dates well. He never overpromised (and as a result, consistently underdelivered except in the bedroom. No one was shortchanged there). Since his near-miss on the matrimonial front with Bethany, he had dated pretty consistently and taken advantage of the fine selection of women looking to score with a hockey star.
How long would it take before he got itchy again? Before another woman caught his eye and started seeing flying bouquets in her future? After what happened last night he was beginning to think it might be good to take a break from dating.
Nothing did a better job of scratching an itch than redirecting his efforts elsewhere. This was a key year for him. Out of the game for a good eight months, he had something to prove at the grand old age of thirty-two. That hockey hadn’t moved on without him. That no young buck would be taking his place. Yet.
He needed to knuckle down on his game and simplify his personal life. From here on out, whenever he got antsy and in need of female company, he would resist. Maybe take up a hobby to fill in his downtime. Finish that biography of Hamilton instead of falling into bed with the next woman who smiled at him in a bar.
Well, that was easy. Decided on his immediate future, he figured he’d better become reacquainted with an old friend. He patted his dick.
“Looks like we’re going to be partners for a while.” His buddy perked up in acknowledgment.
He stroked, already half-hard, thinking about what—or who—would get him there. Usually, the current woman in his life figured in his fantasies, and while he was riding solo now, nothing in the rules said he couldn’t think of an ex to get the blood flowing. Maybe not Tara. Before her, he had dated Lea the yoga instructor in Montreal. Very limber. Stunning flexibility.
Raven-dark hair, blue eyes the color of a night storm, full, dusky pink lips in an angry pout. Not Lea. That was …
Whoa! Eyes snapping open, he stilled his hand. How the hell did Mia Wallace sneak into the rotation?
He didn’t know her well—if he was being honest, he hadn’t made a supreme effort. She’d entered Vadim’s life after he left Montreal to join the Rebels a few years ago, so while Cal was a good friend of her brother’s their lives didn’t inter
sect much. She was living in Chicago now, and she was at that wedding yesterday, so he supposed he’d see more of her.
But as spank bank material? Definitely not. The girl was off-limits—too young, too close, too pissed at him.
Yeah, she’d been mighty hacked off at his behavior. He didn’t usually enjoy that dynamic—too much drama as a kid listening to his parents screaming at each other. Avoiding conflict in his dating life was important to him, but a little imaginary friction with a sexy, smart mouth like Mia couldn’t hurt. Not her per se, but someone like her. An anonymous dark-haired beauty with flashing eyes and …
He groaned. The smile tugging at his lips seemed to act as a lever for his dick. Up, up, up, and damn, he couldn’t help himself. He gripped hard and gave a good, hard stroke, the kind he imagined Mia Wallace might deliver because she was mad at him for dragging her into his Tara drama.
Christ, that felt good. Better than it had in a while. What had she called him?
Masshole. Not exactly original, but he could work with that. When she pushed that bouquet into his chest, the two of them separated by a cluster of petals and thorns, he’d inhaled her scent. No way did his imagination lie to him about her reaction when he touched her hand: a widening of those deep blues, a parting of her gorgeous lips, and an almost imperceptible snatch of her breath.
He was too disgusted with himself at the time to piece it all together, but hell if he didn’t feel a spark of recognition now as the pleasure built in his heavier-by-the-second balls. According to Vadim, she was young, sheltered, and a touch fragile, and something about that supposed innocence combined with her righteous fury was speaking to him right now.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand. Later. He’d get it—later.
Now where was he? Oh, yeah. Headed to hell because he was lusting after his friend’s little sister, but no one ever said sexual fantasies had to be aboveboard. Half the time, the taboo was the thing.
Another vibration from his phone, like some higher (or lower) power was trying to tell him he was dancing with danger and needed to get his jerk-off fantasies in order. Only he was so … damn … close.
