Ice Hard

by Tracy Goodwin

  I’ve figured out a way not to sing, by mouthing the words. In a way, this is better. Because my dancing makes her laugh, and I’m doing a lot of it. Especially old-school dance moves. MC Hammer? I’ve got it. Even better—I know the Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch moves from the “Good Vibrations” video. I’m coordinated, and I don’t suck. We both laugh. There’s a lot of laughter ringing through the garage, along with Camille cheering me on.

  No matter what lame-ass song I program into the karaoke machine, she knows all the words and sings the hell out of them without looking at the small screen. We’re on the stage, mics in hand. Her cousin really does have a professional place here. Classic songs seem to be the popular choice. She’s currently singing “Pour Some Sugar on Me.” We’re in some sort of sing-off-slash-dance-off. Camille’s singing, though I’m smoking the dance moves. She seems to love the music. Her smile fills the dim place, and she is rocking out. I imagine her jamming in her car, though I have no idea yet what she drives.

  She places her palms on my chest, singing to me about sweet dreams and saccharine, then she flips her hair, and I get hard. Cami’s putting on one hell of a performance, in full-on rocker mode, and I am done. It doesn’t hurt that her body-hugging shirt has a neckline that plunges just low enough to allow me to imagine what her breasts must look like. Feel like. This is torture.

  “Do you take sugar? One lump or two?” I’ll take anything from her. Seriously. Now. Not later. The song ends and she’s breathless as I splay my hands on her waist, beneath her sweater. She’s warm, she’s moist with perspiration, and her breathing is labored. It’s a total turn-on.

  “What’s on your playlist?” I ask, trying my damnedest not to laugh. Is it cheesy? Yes. It’s meant to be. I disarm people with humor. Not everyone gets it. To each their own.

  Camille shakes with laughter. “With pickup lines like that, it’s no wonder you’re single.”

  “Why are you single?” I’m more serious than I intended. She doesn’t seem to mind.

  With a naughty grin, Camille answers, “Because I get your corny jokes. Worse yet, I like them and your dance moves.”

  “Yeah?” I ask, and her smile freezes, like she’s said too much. In a deliberate attempt to put her at ease, I add, “Let’s keep my dance moves a secret. My teammates would never let me live that down. It would be a bloodbath. I can imagine the jokes, all at my expense.”

  “It’s our little secret.” She skims her cell screen and hands the phone to me.

  I shoot her a look of confusion.

  “You wanted to see my playlist.” She holds out her palm. “Your turn.”

  I open my music app and hand her my own cell. “Are we really doing this?”

  “Oh, yeah. It’s on—battle of the playlists.” She sits on the edge of the stage, facing me as I plop beside her.

  “I wasn’t actually serious—holy shit.” I gape at her phone.

  “Yep, I know. I have a lot of playlists.”

  “It’s not that.” Turning her cell, I study it, then tease her. “You have an Android with Amazon Music.”

  “We can’t all have iPhones,” she mocks me with an exaggerated eye roll. Camille has a bold personality and uses so many hand gestures and facial expressions. I like it. I like her. She’s refreshing.

  Returning my attention to her cell, I laugh. “We can’t all have boy bands either. The Backstreet Boys? Really?”

  “Backstreet’s back, all right?” She points to my cell. “Besides, I’ve accepted your Neil Diamond fascination. Oh! Finally, something we agree on.”

  “Sweet Child O’ Mine” blares from my cell. Camille knows the words and is totally into the song. I’m totally into her. Never before have I been this enthralled with a woman, let alone one who is singing along with Guns N’ Roses at the top of her lungs. She pretends to do a guitar riff, and it’s over for me. I can’t hide my laughter. It overtakes me. She doesn’t seem to mind.

  With every song that plays, we discover that we have a lot in common. A mutual love for Journey, Billy Joel, Queen, Lynyrd Skynyrd, and all classic bands really. We discuss why these songs mean so much to us. Her mom used to sing “Freebird” in those hot summer months when she was preparing Sunday meals for the family. Another fun surprise is that “Scenes from an Italian Restaurant” is one of Camille’s favorite songs, along with “Bohemian Rhapsody.” “Camille Benetti, you’ve been keeping your own secrets. Here you are making fun of Neil Diamond when you’re into the classics.”

  “They never get old.” She smirks, her dimples more pronounced.

  I can’t stop calling her Camille. The fact that no one else does makes me feel an intimacy with her. Because I’m the only one. “I haven’t known you long, but from what you’ve told me, I bet you resemble your mom.”

  “How so?” Camille dangles her leg off the stage and tips her head to the side.

  My own body mirrors hers. We’re facing each other as she places my cell on the stage next to her. “You like to sing. I bet your mom did, too.”

  Camille ponders it for a moment. “I never thought of that, but you’re right. Maybe that’s why…”

  Her voice trails off. “Why what?” I’m hooked. I want to know everything I can about her. Everything she’ll confide.

  “I want to purchase my dad’s restaurant. Make it less formal, you know—a family friendly restaurant, with music and karaoke nights.” She shoves a strand of her shoulder length hair behind her right ear. “The restaurant holds a lot of memories for me. It’s where we would go after school and do our homework, eat family meals. I mostly remember my mom at the restaurant. I’ll never forget watching her chat with customers. Even when I was little, I was in awe of her ability to remember all their names and ask for updates on their lives, on their families.”

  “You want to hold on to her by holding on to the restaurant. Makes sense.” The fact that Camille is opening up to me doesn’t go unnoticed by either of us.

  A deep line etches in her forehead. “My dad will never sell it to me. He says it’s too painful.”

  “I’m sorry.” Camille’s showing a vulnerability that throws me for a loop. This glimpse into the funny, sexy, confident woman is the last thing I expected. She’s so much more than I ever expected.

  Grinning one of those grins that never meets her eyes, Camille adds, “What’s too painful for my dad is the same place where I feel closest to my mom.”

  “And happiest?”

  Her eyes narrow. I’m right. Camille has no idea how I knew. Neither do I. I just…I understand her. “I’m good at reading people.”

  “That’s what makes you the Dominator, right?” She refers to my nickname, which stems from my ability to read my competition, dominate the ice, protect Chris at all costs, and get under our competition’s skin by doing social media reconnaissance. I use what I know about them against them. Anything to win. “Your hockey mind tricks won’t work with me, Dominator.”

  “Careful, now. Your sarcasm is showing.”

  “Touché.” She winces while moving her leg.

  I place her boot onto my lap. “How’s the ankle doing?”

  “It’s okay. Just a little sore. Must have been all the karaoke and non-date dancing.” She winks at me.

  “Or, it might be the heels.” I unzip her boot and remove it. Rubbing her ankle, I glance at her plaid socks. They reach her ankle, but no higher, allowing me to caress her bare skin. It sends a jolt of hunger through me. Hunger for Camille. “If I weren’t such a gentleman, I might acknowledge that wearing such sexy boots for a non-date would be a waste of time and effort, therefore this must be an actual date. But to do so would imply that a woman dresses for a man and would be extremely sexist; therefore, I’d never say such a thing.”

  Her smile is cloying, as is her tone. “Good thing you’d never infer such a thing. That would most certainly be sex
ist. Out of curiosity, what would one wear to a non-date?”

  “UGGs?” I continue to massage her ankle.

  Camille shakes her head. “I don’t wear UGGs. I’m not that trendy.”

  “Don’t get me wrong, they’re practical yet sporty and I hear they turn some men on.”

  “Some men, but not you?” she asks.

  “That would depend upon who is wearing them.” My eyes lock with hers. She understands my meaning. Anything she wears is hot. Be it a Britney Spears outfit, jeans, or nothing at all. Though I’ve yet to see her in the latter, I’m sure she’d be seductive as hell. I want to confirm that too much for my own good.

  “You are a smooth talker, aren’t you?” Camille adjusts, moving her leg, then leaning into me. “My Magic 8-Ball was right.”

  This piques my interest. “What did it say?” I don’t move, instead I let her have complete control. I already went in for one kiss. I’m sure I’d die if she denied me a second time.

  Camille leans in, closer still. Until I feel her warm breath fanning my face. “It said, or read, affirmative.”

  “What was your question?” A million possibilities immediately spring to mind, starting with how and when I can kiss her, then remove every shred of clothing from her, and fuck her like I’ve never fucked anyone before.

  “Do non-dates kiss?” Trailing her fingertips up my sleeve, Camille’s palm rests against my neck. I want to yell at the top of my lungs that non-dates can do whatever they fucking want. Until her lips seize mine. That’s all the affirmation I need as I lift her onto my lap.

  Her tongue explores my mouth, and I moan. It’s a low, guttural sound. It ignites my pent-up attraction for this woman. Ever since we met, I’ve thought of very little but her. Hockey, sure. Also, Camille. If I’m honest with myself, I’ve thought of her way too much. The same holds true for this kiss. I’ve yearned for it for far too long. It’s been torture.

  Camille melds her body against mine, grinding against me as my hands explore her curves, and I decide this kiss is worth any wait. Raw, sensual, intense, her exploration of me awakens something within me. An excruciating need for her. So palpable, it makes me want more.

  Threading my fingers through her hair, I tug, just a little. In response, she groans, tilting her head back as I nip her neck. Licking, and sucking. Trailing a fiery path to her earlobe until her breath hitches in her throat and she gasps, clutching my shoulders tight. Kneading me, riding me. Making me harder for her, then harder still.

  Her eyes lock with mine. I know what she wants. I want the same thing. Bad. That’s why I claim her mouth, this time exploring it on my own terms. My kisses are demanding, propelled by an overriding urgency to make her want me as much as I want her.

  I’m falling for her. More than she’s falling for me. I’m sure of it and I want that to change. Quick.

  She splays her hands on my back, beneath my shirt. Flesh to flesh, her hands claim my every muscle and tendon, causing them to twitch underneath her urgent kneading. I groan out loud. I can’t help myself. Everything Camille does to me feels sinful, somehow forbidden, and is arousing me in ways I’ve never felt before. Probably because she refuses to date hockey players, yet here she is, in my arms, devouring my mouth with hers.

  By the time I release her, I’m breathing hard. “This is a non-date, remember?” It’s also fucking torture for me. Based upon her audible grunt, it’s torture for Camille also.

  I cup her chin in my palms, tracing her plump lips with my fingertips. Her mouth is swollen from me, my beard, the nibbles from my teeth. “Have I passed your dating challenge? Or are you going to make me jump through more hoops? How about babysitting your nieces and nephews or working at your restaurant as a sous chef? Name it. I’ll do it.”

  Her eyes grow more golden, with a force and an understanding that I can’t comprehend. Not until she mutters, “You would, wouldn’t you?”

  It’s as if no one has ever put her first. Or maybe I’m making too much of this moment. “I’d do anything for you.”

  “Wow.” She links her fingers around my neck. “You are a rare one.”

  “So I passed?”

  She tilts her head to the side. “Are you still on Scorcher?”

  Shaking my head, I make an admission. “I took my profile down after our doctor’s visit.”

  “You do know what you want. A relationship. Am I right?”

  She runs her nails through the hair at the nape of my neck. It’s intoxicating. Her every touch is intimate, it’s exhilarating…it’s dangerous. I could get lost in her touch. That makes me weak, it makes me vulnerable. I shouldn’t be feeling any of this, but I wanted it, I welcomed it. “I do. That’s my reason for being on Scorcher. I had hoped to find one.”

  “I’m not sure I’m at the same place you are. Hang-ups about relationships with hockey players aside, I’m not fearless. Not when it comes to relationships. Not anymore.” Her fingertips trail from my neck to my face, over the hairs on my jawline, to my chin. “I’ve taken care of my family since my mom died, and with Dad selling the restaurant, I feel like I’ve lost my purpose. It doesn’t make sense—”

  “It does to me.” It’s the truth. She makes perfect sense to me. Her thumb lingers on my chin, over a scar hidden by my beard. “We each have scars, Camille.”

  Her eyes soften, filling my heart with hope. For a future with her. I’m jumping in head first, very quickly. I’m taking a huge risk and I don’t care. “Give us a shot.”

  “Would you still want that once I admit that with my dad selling the restaurant, I’m interviewing out of state?” Camille’s question hits me like a sledgehammer.

  Now, on top of everything else, there’s a ticking clock. Still, there’s a chance. A chance she can care about me. My insatiable thirst for her isn’t abating with her admission. So, I decide to take whatever time with her she allows me. “No expectations. I can do that.” No expectations, just hopes.

  Camille grins. “Are you sure? You seem like the only jock I’ve ever met that’s not into the player lifestyle.”

  She’s right. She summed me up in one simple sentence. “I’m not a player. I will never be.”

  Nodding, Camille sighs. “Let’s define ‘no expectations.’ I insist on monogamy. If we date, that is.”

  “Deal,” I agree, and she wraps her arms around my neck, tugging me toward her with a force I didn’t expect.

  “God, you are a rare one, Nick.”

  So is she. Camille is also my more. Just like I wanted. It’s time I ask her to my best friend’s wedding.

  My hand quivers. That’s an unusual response. This is what I wanted…a meaningful date to Chris and Serena’s wedding. Why am I suddenly riddled with nerves when I’m about to ask her?

  Clearing my throat, I make a decision: go for it. Either Camille says yes, or she doesn’t. I won’t know unless I try. Be fearless, Nick. You’ve got nothing to lose. Only I do. I can lose her. Which would be catastrophic. I’m falling hard for this woman I barely know, who is radiating so much warmth that it’s causing my tough-guy sports veneer to melt before my eyes. Fuck it.

  “How about a date? A real date? To a wedding.” Surprisingly, my voice sounds calm.

  “Certainly not ours.” She grinds against me, leaning against my chest. “I hate to break it to you, Nicholas, but even if I stayed in town, I don’t think you could handle being married to me.”

  Her ability to be sassy, even now, makes me harder for her. Just when I thought such a thing wasn’t possible. In my present state of erection, I’d be willing to do just about anything with her. I trace her plump lips with my forefinger. “Not ours. I’m the best man.”

  Camille nips my finger with her teeth. “That you are.”

  I claim her lips once more. It’s a long, soul-fusing kiss. The kind I never believed in until now. Until Camille. She’s made me a be
liever in…something. I’m just not sure what that is yet. I’m uncertain as to the extent of my feelings. But I’m eager to uncover more. In truth, I can’t wait to find out.

  By the time she pulls away, she’s just as breathless as I am. Maybe more. “One date. No expectations.”

  I dare not remind her that everything begins with one. Not now, not yet. But I will. Because one date with Camille Benetti isn’t enough for me. No, my own mental Magic 8-Ball affirms our date to Chris and Serena’s wedding will be the first of many.

  I’ll show Camille that this best man is the best man for her.

  Without a doubt.

  Chapter 6

  Nick

  “You’re bringing Camille to my wedding?” Chris asks in his kitchen as he hands me a beer. “That’s great!” We just won a home game and my ears are still ringing from the rink, from the fans, from the locker room filled with raucous hoots and lots of hollering from our teammates.

  After every home game, we decompress at either his place or mine. Tonight it’s his turn. I plop on the sofa in the living room with high ceilings, a stone fireplace, and wall-to-wall bookshelves, noting that Chris’s once immaculate books are in complete disarray. At least when it comes to his strict standards. “Yes, Camille is my plus-one to your wedding. Change of topic: did Serena rearrange your books?”

  “Our books. We’re trying to see what works.” He takes a seat beside me.

  Staring at what Chris once would have once considered a monstrosity, I study the books, which are now lumped together by color. This is epic, considering Chris has always been meticulous when it comes to organization. His books didn’t just sit on shelves. They were categorized by genre, organized by height, then alphabetized. “So color, huh?”