Cross Crease
On The Edge~Book THREE
By Elizabeth Hartey
Cross Crease
Copyright © 2019 by Elizabeth Hartey.
All rights reserved.
First Print Edition: August 2019
Limitless Publishing, LLC
Kailua, HI 96734
www.limitlesspublishing.com
Formatting: Limitless Publishing
ISBN-13: 978-1-64034-865-3
ISBN-10: 1-64034-865-4
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
Dedication
To all my girls for their unending support.
Table Of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Epilogue
cross crease
/krôs/ /krēs/
Noun
The crease is the area of ice directly in front of the net: the goalie’s turf. It is very difficult to score on a top-level goalie unless someone obstructs his vision and shoots a cross crease pass to get the goalie out of position.
Prologue
Heaven
“Hey, brat. What’s up?” The screen on my laptop fills with my brother’s taunting face.
“Hey, doofus. Not much. Same old same old. School, studying, school. One exciting thing after the other. How ‘bout you?”
“Same. Except throw in some hockey in the middle of these crazy ass courses I’m taking.” The close-up on his face is unforgiving. He looks tired.
“No infamous Friday night house parties this semester?”
“Not so much during hockey season. But occasionally, if we have a free weekend. I try to steer clear though if I can. I need as much quiet study time as possible.”
“Wow. Who are you and what have you done with my pain in the neck brother?” I laugh. Dak not wanting to party with his hockey bros? His classes must be harder than usual. “Tough classes this semester?” I close the anatomy book I was reading, happy to have the reprieve from my own studying.
“Yeah. This graduate course I convinced the Dean to let me take may have been a mistake. It’s really…” Dak’s voice fades when he drops his head to adjust the noise canceling headphones covering his ears.
The living room behind him comes into view. It’s apparent he’s sitting at his kitchen table with his back to the living room. But the room isn’t the thing distracting my attention from Dak. My eyes snap to the vision on the sofa: Damon Wolfe.
My Karmic punishment for having spent the past ten years telling my brother how much I hate hockey players. My fantasized-about-to-the-point-of-distraction bad boy who can turn my otherwise adequate brain into stupefied goo with one glance and a sly grin.
Dak lifts his head, blocking the view behind him. “Thankfully the professor paired me up with a genius girl. She’s agreed to tutor…” He drops the pen he’s been tapping on the table and bends over to pick it up, giving me another Wolfe-filled bird’s eye view.
His head is tipped back, his long hair spread out around his face along the sofa back. He must be sleeping.
Dak sits up. “…in exchange for me doing a skating routine with her in the Winter Fest.” His face fills my screen, bringing my attention back to his conversation.
“Wait. What did you say?”
“I said, she agreed to tutor me in exchange for me skating…”
“That’s what I thought you said. What do you mean? Like figure skating skating?”
“No. Like we’re going to do a hockey skating routine.” Dak shakes his head and purses his lips to one side. “Of course, I mean figure skating, dummy. It’s the Winter Fest.”
“But you haven’t figure skated in years. Not since you got into hockey full time. What makes you think you can still do it? And a pairs routine, no less. You’re crazy. This girl must be something special to get you to agree to figure skate.” I quirk my brows up and down. “You’re going to break your pretty face just for her pretty face.”
“You’re the crazy one. You just watch me, brat. I’ve…” A loud moan coming from behind Dak pulls my attention away from his absurd protestation concerning his ability to do a pairs routine in a show. Dak can’t hear the curious groaning coming from the living room because his headphones only allow him to hear me, nothing else around him.
Maybe Wolfe is having a nightmare. I strain my head from side to side, as if it will allow me to see around Dak’s giant head—the head which is growing larger by the second as he touts his imagined ability to figure skate. I’ll admit he was good when he was twelve, almost a decade ago. Now the only skating he excels in is hockey.
“You know it’s true. Right?” Oops. I have no idea what he just asked me.
“Huh?” My brilliant response.
“You’re not even listening to me. What the hell are you looking at?” When Dak turns around to see what I’m craning my neck to get a look at, we simultaneously see the tableau occurring on the sofa.
“What the fuck?” He rips his headphones off his ears. “What the fuck are you doing, dipshit?”
Wolfe isn’t sleeping. Without Dak obstructing my view, I can see the blonde head bobbing up and down at a frantic pace between Wolfe’s legs.
Holy smokes! Wolfe is getting a BJ right out in the open in the living room where everyone and anyone can see. The way his eyes are clamped shut in a frown and the muscles in his neck are taut and straining it almost looks like he’s in pain. But I’m reasonably certain he isn’t moaning in agony, at least not painful agony.
Meanwhile, I can’t pull my pervy, voyeuristic eyes away from Wolfe’s not-so-private porno show. I’m definitely going to need a panty change and a very cold shower.
“My sister is here, asshole. She can see you!” But Dak’s anxiety-ridden announcement concerning my digital presence doesn’t deter Wolfe from his mission. In fact, I’d say it encourages him.
“Heaven?” He moans my name as if it’s my mouth wrapped around him. He turns his head, and forces his eyes open just enough to stare directly at the computer. At me? I’m sure he’s looking at me with his lust-filled eyes and pulling me into th
eir vortex.
He threads his fingers through blondie’s hair and directs her movements without taking his eyes off the computer. “Heaven,” he groans again. Oh my God. I’m two seconds away from slipping my hand into my sleep shorts when Dak yells out, reminding me it’s not my mouth pleasuring Wolfe and we’re not alone.
“Seriously, dude? I cannot fucking believe…” My screen goes black when Dak apparently comes to his senses and slams his computer closed.
But Wolfe’s heated gaze is still burning inside my head. There will be no more studying this evening. Placing my computer on the night table next to me and reaching into the drawer, I retrieve the black silk bag nestled in the back—where my mom is least likely to find it. Flicking off the light and kicking my books off the bed, I snuggle down under the covers. It’s going to be another night with my battery-operated friend substituting for the goalie who has been my obsession since I was fourteen years old.
Chapter One
Heaven
Ten months later
See the girl stretched out on a blanket in the sweltering California sun? The one reading and sighing out in frustration every few seconds? That’s me, Heaven Andersen. Other than surfing, reading is my passion. Or should I say it’s my substitute for passion?
The book’s not very good. I should know. It’s my gazillionth romance novel. I’m an expert on romance. No. I’m an expert on romance novels. I don’t know one darn thing about real-life romance. The sad truth is, the swoony books I’ve read are my entire—totally desolate—exposure to lovemaking.
The only consolation; at least they’re diverse. Instead of one guy, I get to experience—in my mind—what having sex with hundreds of different lovers would be like. Does admitting my fantasies make me a paperback slut? Not sure if it’s better or worse than being an eighteen-year-old—nineteen in a few months—virgin.
My bawdy romantic story? There isn’t any. Unless the world is looking for a new romance genre—the unhappily ever after, the story of a pitiable girl who never gets laid. If I were an emoji, my current mood status would be extreme frustration. So why, you ask, am I bothering to tell you my boring, unfulfilled tale? Because all that’s about to change. I’m on a Devirginize Heaven mission. And here comes the not so boring means to accomplish my mission, right now.
“There’s my Pip! Damn, girl, did it hurt when you fell from heaven?” Wolfe delivers the line with his tilted grin and velvet voice. It sends pebbled chill bumps over my skin even in the scorching heat. He could be a character right out of the book I’m reading. Reeking of confidence, Wolfe saunters toward me carrying his surfboard, like the sun, sand, ocean, and me were put there just for him.
Slamming my book closed, I heave out another huge, exasperated sigh. Ever since our first meeting four years ago, we have this unknowingly-provocative-on-Wolfe’s-part-game we play exchanging cornball pick-up lines. After Wolfe playfully teased me with one the first time I met him, I decided I wasn’t going to stand there like some star-struck little fangirl when he taunted me. So, I honed my cheese whiz pick-up line skills and gave them right back to him.
“Hey, D! Guess what I’m wearing?” I quip, standing up on the blanket as he walks toward me. His wry grin morphs to a wide-eyed, shocked expression before it’s quickly replaced by his usual indifferent smug look.
“W…what are you wearing?”
“The smile you gave me.” I hold my arms out in a ta-da position as I deliver the corny line.
“Holy shit, Pip. When did you grow tits?” He smirks while shoving his board into an upright position in the sand
“Right about the time you were away at school learning to be an even bigger ass.” I tilt my head and smirk right back at him.
“Real nice. You kiss your mother with that mouth?” He pulls the elastic from around his man bun and flops down on his back on the blanket next to me, stretching his arms over his head. His chest muscles ripple causing my heart muscle to undulate like a series of corduroy ocean swells. I clench my gaping mouth closed and swallow the gasp I refuse to let him hear.
Ugh. The present man candy dominating my panorama is too much. As I lay on my side on the blanket facing Wolfe, my hip pressing into the soft sand, my thoughts drift to him. My body temperature soars, not from the blazing sun or the warm baked sand, and not even from the steamy sex scene I was reading. It’s the red-hot images smoldering through my mind—all the things I’d like to be doing with him, which have me panting.
Truth is, I’ve loved him ever since I was fourteen. Not in the biblical sense, merely in the swoony, my body aches for him sense. He didn’t then—nor does he now—know I exist. Correction. He knows I exist, he just doesn’t care, at least not in the swoony achy way. Here comes another frustrated sigh.
Wolf’s beauty is other-worldly: long wavy hair, carved muscle, bronzed skin like an ancient Egyptian prince, chiseled cheekbones which could cut glass, pillow lips I’d like to sink my teeth into. He’s unlike any guy I’ve ever seen, unlike any human I’ve ever seen.
Raising his head, he tosses his hair out before returning to the stretched position on his back. Seeing his gorgeous hair spread out around his face, I shrug. It’s a bit disconcerting when the guy you’re lusting over has hair more beautiful than yours.
“Yes. I do kiss my mom. Regularly.” I flick my chin up in satisfaction. “But never mind about my mother. I wonder what my brother would think if he saw you ogling my boobs?” I remind him my brother, Dak, is only a few yards down the beach watching us.
Wolfe is the goalie on the Bernard University hockey team—the team on which my brother is the captain. Wolfe is also the beyond-bad-boy team member. You’ve heard the term MVP? Well, Wolfe is the MIP on the Bernard team—Most Infamous Player. He is also Dak’s friend and roommate.
Consequently, whenever Wolfe is within a five-mile radius, Dak is on full alert. He never takes his analytical eyes off us. He becomes my nosey, super over-protective big brother.
“I’m not ogling your boobs.” D clicks his tongue but at the same time gives a nervous glance down the beach in the direction where Dak is teaching his girlfriend Tracy to surf. “I was only commenting on their existence. And I’m not the one Dak needs to worry about. What the hell was he thinking letting you go out practically naked?” He jerks his head toward my loving brother, who does indeed seem to be glowering at us as he glides to shore on a wave.
“Doesn’t he know the dirtbags hanging out on beaches won’t know you’re a vir…I mean they’ll think…” He hesitates.
No way. He’s actually going to throw my virginal status in my face. I confided in him only because I thought, as a well-practiced friend in the field, he could give me some pointers on what I needed to do to attract the opposite sex. Okay. Maybe I was hoping I’d get the inside scoop on what attracts him.
Even though we’re friends, I’ve never actually come out and said ‘take me, I’m yours.’ And he’s never offered his assistance to deflower me. In Wolfe’s mind, I merely exist as his best friend’s baby sister. But not cool if he’s been discussing our private conversations with Dak. Or worse, maybe he’s had a good laugh concerning my virginal handicap with his other teammates. It’s completely humiliating.
“Who will know and think what, exactly?” I hold back my seething irritation.
“They might think you’re…available,” he scoffs.
That’s it. I’m annoyed and not holding back. “For your information I am available. And I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t discuss my…experience with my brother and the troglodytes on your hockey team. Also, Dak says you’re a dirtbag.” Whenever your name comes up in our conversations.
“I think what you meant to say is your inexperience. And I haven’t been discussing it with anyone but you.” His flat tone makes me want to yank out his lustrous hair. Maybe just one handful. But I suppose hair pulling wouldn’t bode well for my trying to prove to him how grown up and ready I am to do the deed.
“You can be such a pain in the
arse sometimes.”
“Arse? Have you taken a trip to merry old England recently?” He chuckles. Sometimes while I’m love-lusting him, I’m hating him.
“Arse, ass, if the label fits you, wear it. As I was saying, Dak says he loves you like a brother, but you’re still a dirtbag when it comes to women. You know after having lived with you for four years, he’s well aware of your dirtbag status.” I mimic his apathetic tone.
Just because I see beyond Wolfe’s whorish exterior and know the right woman could melt his cold, cold heart—the right woman being me—doesn’t mean I’m going to get all sappy about it.
“Can’t argue with my man there. When it comes to women, I’m as dirty as they get. I’m no gentleman and never claimed to be. But I’ve never had any complaints from the ladies so far,” he says through his infamous tilted grin. There’s a strange clenching in my stomach.
“Anyway, no worries. You’re not a woman.” He fidgets, burrowing himself and the blanket further into the sand. “You’re…you’re Pip.” He waves his hand up and down in my direction “Exactly why you shouldn’t be parading around in that getup.” Shielding his eyes from the glaring sun with his hand, he scowls at me.
“Oh, I’m not a woman, huh? Should I stand up again so you can get a better look?”
What does he mean I’m not a woman? Maybe he hasn’t noticed I’m no longer a gangly fourteen-year-old girl who’s built like a ten-year-old boy. The dental braces are gone, I’ve grown into my lanky limbs, and I if I do say so myself, my boobs are rather spectacular. All things considered. There isn’t a speck of synthetic gelatin keeping them perky.
Since my dad’s a cosmetic surgeon in Beverly Hills, I have inside knowledge concerning the polymer goo used to keep his celeb patients up and running. But I digress.
Cross Crease (On The Edge Book 3) Page 1
