After unlocking my Ford F-250 with the fob, I assist Cami into the passenger seat of my sleek black truck which appears newer than it actually is. I never throw money down the drain on new vehicles, only for them to depreciate when I drive the damn thing off the lot. No, I purchase used dealer vehicles. They had three on the lot. Same make and model, but I chose this truck for the color: black, like the puck I love to chase across the ice. I’m such a hockey nerd. It’s no wonder my relationships crash and burn. I don’t live up to the hype.
Women see me on the ice and think I’m a tough guy, volatile, and a total turn-on, only to discover I’m real, relatable, and no one special. If they take the time to get to know me, that is, which most don’t. Once they see past the sports-star luster, it’s done. I’m done. With the exception of sex. That’s always hot. Something tells me Cami won’t be sticking around long enough to find out after her fall, and I don’t blame her one bit.
When I get behind the wheel, Camille resists again. “You know what? I’m fine. Really. There’s no need to worry about deductibles and medical bills. No need for a doctor. I’m good.”
“Okay, if you’re fine, show me.” I start the engine and get the heat going. The cab isn’t that cold since I had plenty of time to warm the truck earlier. I did arrive early for this disaster. Forget my two Stanley Cups. My legacy will be as an epic failure in the dating world. I’d hang my head in shame, if not for the woman in pain sitting in the passenger seat of my truck.
“I’m not showing you my foot. I’m fine.” She winces. Camille isn’t okay, but she’s doing her best to hide it.
Hustling to the passenger door, I open it and ask if I can remove her boot. “Here’s your chance to prove me wrong. If you’re fine, show me.”
“Shit,” she mutters. Camille knows she’s busted and offers me her foot with an exaggerated sigh. I unzip her boot, then remove it, revealing bright purple socks. I soon find that they match her glittery toenail polish and the bruise on her ankle—the same bruise that’s swelling rapidly.
“No more wasting time. There’s an urgent care place up the street.” I place her sock back on and leave the boot off. If they don’t take her insurance, I’ll pay for her doctor bill. It’s the least I can do. Hell, I’ll pay her bill regardless. Her deductible. Anything to make up for this disaster.
As I pull onto the street, she asks about Scorcher. I’m now certain Camille hit her head. “You don’t remember any of our conversations? Not one?” I hand her my cell. The app is on my home screen.
“Oh my God, I’m on Scorcher!” Her tone drips with disdain. “Son of a—I’m going to kill my younger brother. Or older sister. It was probably one of them. Or both. Damn it, they put me on Scorcher! Seriously?”
If I wasn’t texting Camille…“When I spoke to your brother, he was typing at the time. I thought he was texting you. Hold on—you didn’t want to have breakfast with me?”
She turns, and pity has replaced the unadulterated rage in her beautiful tawny eyes. “I don’t date hockey players. I told you that—my brother and sister know that.”
“Great, so I frightened you, caused you to fall, and had a date scheduled with your brother? No, a date scheduled by your brother?” Let’s face it: I had no date. I’ll fucking kill Matty. Actually, I won’t. But I will stare him down and put the fear of God in him. Because now I’m driving a woman I’m really into, who isn’t into me, to the doctor. Talk about utter humiliation.
“I’m sorry, Nick. It’s not you. You seem great.” Though she’s sweet and is trying not to hurt my feelings, her words hover heavy in my extended cab. It’s all I can do not to choke on them. I’m getting the it’s-not-you-it’s-me excuse.
It should be no big deal, a misunderstanding, nothing more. Yet it is more. Somehow, in a way I can’t explain, it’s more. Both her emphatic apology and the realization that she didn’t agree to have breakfast with me are like punches to my gut. They wind me, to the point that I can’t breathe, until I squeeze my steering wheel so hard to steady myself that my knuckles turn white. I don’t dare respond, choosing instead to focus on the road.
Though my eyes are fixed on a traffic light, I catch her glance my way. Not just once. No, once would be bad enough. Instead, Cami studies me several times during our drive. Perhaps she does pity me. The jock who’s so desperate for a real date that he searches on Scorcher. Why wouldn’t she pity that guy? He’s pathetic. I don’t want confirmation. Some things are better left unsaid, and my truck is thick with silence as I park in front of the urgent care center.
Remembering what Cami said about deductibles, I help her to a seat in the waiting room and take her ID and insurance card to the front desk. Discreetly, I slip the receptionist my credit card. “All charges go on this, okay?”
She shoots me a wary glance. “HIPAA—”
“Send the receipt, all your forms, and confidential info to the patient, but charge me. There’s no privacy being violated. You’re getting paid for services. No harm in that, right?” I smile, then wink for good measure. The receptionist grins. Just as I suspected, a smile and a wink are all it takes to persuade her. While she types my credit card information into their system, I ask someone behind the desk for an ice pack.
By the time I return to Camille, she’s fuming, though now there’s a bit of hurt mixed in for good measure. “We were set up on Scorcher? Like I’m that desperate. No offense.”
“None taken.” So, we feel the same about being set up and about Scorcher. At least that’s something we have in common. Two things, to be exact. I’ll take solace in that fact. At least for now.
I sit beside her on a sofa, elevating her ankle by placing it on my thighs and icing it. It’s one of those gestures I didn’t think about, just acted on. Without any forethought.
Cami’s breath hitches in her throat, and I notice the look of surprise in her wide eyes. Under the fluorescent lighting of the waiting room, they appear even more golden than before. They’re also accentuated by long lashes that curl upward. They’re natural. Not the fake crap you see on women these days. She’s natural. Very minimal makeup. Just some eyeliner, mascara, and a pale-pink lip. Her cheeks are flushed, but not from blush. It’s because I’m icing her foot.
“Is it all right if I—”
“Yep.” She nods, a little too quickly. That tells me it’s not just the fact that I’m icing her foot but that I’m touching her that’s making her all flushed. I’m good at reading people. I’m the best in the league. Not to be egotistical, but I am. It’s what makes me indispensable in my role as right winger and Chris’s unofficial enforcer. Nine times out of ten, I can read our competition. I can detect their next move. My stats are impressive and I’m the guy to beat. Right now, that same intuition is screaming at me that I might be winning over the hockey-player-hating woman beside me. It causes my every muscle to tense in response, causes my hairs to stand on end. I want her to reconsider her rule. I want her to see me, not what she perceives hockey stars to be. I want it more than I ever expected. So I massage her leg where my palm rests.
Her breathing quickens. She’s into this. And if she’s into me massaging her calf, how would she feel if we went further? Christ, I am dying to find out. Just thinking of all the places I can massage, and lick, and suck…yeah, I’m still hot for her.
While it’s true that Cami’s trying to act calm, I can read her tells. Specifically, her eyes. They’ve become smoky, with…what? Yearning maybe. Or need. Hell, maybe it’s a combination of both. Regardless, Camille likes the way I’m making her feel and would date me if I wasn’t a hockey player. In a heartbeat. That much is obvious, as is the crackling chemistry between us.
Locking her eyes with mine, that same electrifying undercurrent keeps us in place, refuses to release us. The fear emanating from Cami’s eyes tells me she feels it too. The seismic shift, tugging us closer. It unnerves her. Because of its intensity. I
f it were no big deal, she wouldn’t reveal such a reaction.
“You’re staring at me. Do I need to get help?” I repeat her own words—the same words she said to me the night we first met. It’s intentional. It lets her know that I see her clearly, that I know she’s considering the possibility of letting me into her world. My tone is teasing, yet there’s an underlying gravity. The words mean more this time. To me. And her.
Captivated, Cami opens her mouth to speak, though she says nothing. I’ve made her speechless. That must be a first. I doubt the woman I met the other night has ever shied away from a biting retort.
“Why hockey?” Her change of topic is unexpected, but it’s also a good sign. She wants to know more about me.
I would normally shrug off that question with a “Why not?” answer. Because the real answer is personal. Too personal and raw. But for Camille, I’ll answer with the truth. “Because my parents went through a bitter divorce when I was a kid, and I learned that my dad cheated on my mom. I was listening to a fight between them when I was supposed to be in my room.” I swallow hard, recounting the worst years of my life. When a little boy’s hero ended up being the villain. “From then on, I sided with my mom. Since my dad had my career mapped out—to work for him when I grew up—I chose the opposite path. As far opposite as I could get.”
That infuriated my dad and I liked the effect it had on him. “During the divorce, I was an angry kid, furious with my dad. My mom thought it would be good for me to join a peewee hockey league, learn to be part of a team, have a good male role model in our coach. As luck would have it, hockey was something I was actually good at. My coach was a good guy, and single. He married my mom, taught me how to be a man, and later I met my best friend at Michigan State. Chris was the star, and I could live with that. It didn’t take away from my skills, but it also didn’t put me on magazine covers, which is fine by me. I’m in it for the sport, not the glory.”
Her eyes remain locked with mine, radiating warmth. So much warmth. Like sunshine kissing the beach on a perfect day with blue skies and calm waves. Cami’s words are but a whisper. “You’re not at all what I expected.”
Neither is she—what I expected. At first glance, she’s tough and sassy, a first-class cynic. Yet, here she is, wearing her emotions, all armor eroded. She’s genuine. I recognized it the other night, and again today. It’s my infallible ability to read people. My hand twitches and I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s the intensity of her gaze or the fact that little lines have creased her forehead like she’s thinking, like she’s confused, like she’s reassessing me.
“Camille, we’re ready for you.” One of the nurses in scrubs calls from the corner of the room. I see her outline through the corner of my eye but refuse to release Cami’s gaze. It’s solid, binding us together somehow. Her cheeks are now a brilliant shade of crimson.
“Ms. Benetti, Camille Benetti.” The nurse calls again and Camille blinks, breaking the hypnotic spell between us.
“Me. That’s me.” She practically leaps from the sofa, then wobbles as I steady her. “Thanks. Will you…I shouldn’t ask. I’m going to, though. Will you come back with me please? I hate doctors. I just…” Her words trail off, and her lustrous gaze darkens.
“No problem.” My tone is reassuring. Though I’m surprised at her request, and her admission of fearing anything, let alone doctors, I wear my poker face. As if it isn’t a big deal that she trusts me with this. As if it’s no big deal that she wants me there, when, in fact, it is a huge deal. I recognize it and silently revel in it.
The nurse asks Camille to stand on a scale, and I turn away after taking her coat from her, because of privacy and all. It doesn’t matter to me what she weighs, but it might matter to her. When we’re in the exam room, I help Camille onto the exam table and place the ice pack back on her ankle.
“So, you twisted your ankle.” The nurse reads from a form on her clipboard before taking Camille’s blood pressure. The nurse’s blond hair is pulled back into a ponytail. She looks familiar. I read the name embroidered just above her shirt pocket…Kristen.
It’s cat-cooking Kristen!
“Do you have any pets?” she asks Cami.
“No!” I answer, abruptly. “No cat—no pets. Period.”
Cami jerks her head toward me, furrowing her brows.
Later, I mouth, so only she can see.
Kristen’s fingers rapidly type on her keyboard near the sink, her eyes glued to the computer screen as she asks more questions of Cami. Then she takes her vitals. That’s when the cat cooker’s attention drifts from Cami to me. “You look familiar. Have we met?”
“No.” I say it too quickly. “I’ve never been here before.”
“Okay.” She studies Camille, as if for clarification, but Cami simply shakes her head, as confused as Kristen is.
The nurse plants her full attention back on me. “You sure we haven’t met?”
“Nope. We’ve never met.” It’s the truth. It appeases her.
Once nurse Kristen leaves the room, I place Cami’s coat on the back of the empty chair in the corner, then explain. “Her Scorcher profile says she likes cooking cats.” I pull out my cell, giving Camille something to concentrate on other than her fear of doctors, or cold and sterile exam rooms with bright fluorescent lights. “Look.”
“Oh, that’s not good.” Cami gawks at Kristen’s profile. “She can’t mean it. It’s got to be a mistake. Granted, a creepy mistake…wait. What’s in the pot behind her?”
“See?” I slap my palm against my thigh. “That’s what I wondered. It emanates a Fatal Attraction vibe, right?”
Cami gasps. “You’re right. That movie still scares the shit out of me.”
“Me, too.” Very few things frighten me, but Glenn Close as a stalker is one of them. “Forget The Shining, Fatal Attraction makes me double-check that I’ve set my home alarm.”
“Please tell me Nurse Cat-cooker didn’t invite you for dinner.” Cami hands my phone back, then pulls Purell from her purse and rubs it between her palms. As if my iPhone has become some toxic pet mortuary.
“No, I left swiped.” After wiping my cell against my shirt, I place it in my pocket.
“What does ‘left swiped’ mean? I’m not on Scorcher, remember? At least not the real me. Scorcher speak is alien to me.” Camille smiles. Again, it warms me from within and makes the room seem a whole lot brighter. Some would think the fluorescent lights were bright enough. Not me. Nothing compares to Camille Benetti’s smile. It’s vibrant, yet intimate. It’s gotta be her deep dimples.
“ ‘Left swiped’ means you’re not interested in connecting with that particular person.” I stand beside her. “It also means I made you smile. Took your mind off your fear.”
She tilts her head to the side, as if she’s contemplating my statement. I can only imagine what she’s pondering. It must be major because she’s at a loss for words again.
Her outfit is modern. Short gray blazer and figure-flattering slacks with a formfitting black turtleneck. She wears business suits like a rock star. Her sleek mahogany hair is accentuated with auburn highlights and a middle part that’s messy, with some stray strands out of place. My fingers itch to smooth her hair, but I won’t. It’s too soon, this isn’t the right time, and I have no concrete proof that’s she’s interested in me. Just my gut.
We’re interrupted by the doctor, and I exit the exam room to wait for Camille in the lobby while she is getting her exam and X-rays. Camille has asked the nurse to update me. I flip through magazines while I wait, one of which is the most recent Sports Illustrated. It features the overconfident, smirking face of Peter Harper plastered all over the cover. He’s with the San Diego Storm and is a pain in my fucking ass. Seriously, the guy takes trash-talking to another level and is an all-around dick. My solace comes from the fact that Mighty Mouse Mike Gallagher, my former Nighthawks tea
mmate who caused so much trouble for Chris earlier this season, is now the Storm’s problem. Payback’s a bitch, Pete. So is Mike. I can’t wait to annihilate them on the ice.
“Fun times,” I mutter, tossing the mag on the table with a grunt.
“Waiting was that bad?” Camille offers me a grin, having rounded the corner and now standing in the lobby with me. “I appreciate you staying. I know that you must have more important stuff to do.”
“No, nothing is more important than this. Besides, I didn’t mind waiting. It was the article—I can’t stand who’s featured.” I point at the table.
She grabs the magazine and reads the cover. “Ah, Pete Harper. What an asshole.” Camille tosses the rag into a garbage can near the table. “Ready to go?”
“What’s the diagnosis? If my asking doesn’t violate any privacy laws or personal space. I’m a very considerate guy, you know.” I wink at her as I open the passenger door to my truck.
“I noticed. You’re very kind. To answer your question, it’s a sprain. It’s wrapped. I need to ice it, elevate it, and take ibuprofen. I’m sure you know the drill all too well.”
Yeah, I do. “I know sprains. Along with breaks. Hey, why was I sent to the square by Matty?”
“The little shit knows that I go to that coffee shop every morning before work.” She clicks her seatbelt into place. “Sorry for cursing. It’s one of my faults. I curse when I’m angry with my annoying and self-righteous siblings. It’s a hard habit to break.”
“You also talk with your hands.” I’ve noticed. There’ve been a lot of animated hand gestures as she discusses her Scorcher profile.
She laughs. It’s husky, and a little sinister-sounding. “I talk with my hands all the time, not just when I’m angry. It’s the Italian in me. At least, my version of Italian.”
Ice Hard Page 3
