by S. R. Grey
“I know,” I quietly concede.
Coach knows why I have rage brewing beneath the surface. I may bury the past, but everyone knows what happened. You can’t be famous and keep shit like that a secret. Not to mention I’m not exactly quiet about it. I donate money and a shit-ton of my time to organizations that advocate for victims of domestic abuse.
It’s the least I can do for failing my mom.
I may seem like a man who’s come out ahead of a bad situation, but the truth is I still struggle. Visiting the cemetery made things worse, not better, just as I knew it somehow would.
Coach is right—I need to get a handle on this. I have to get back to being me. You can’t let the ghosts of the past hold you back. Isn’t that what I’m always telling everyone?
So, at last, as I pocket the card, I say, “You’re right, Coach T. I need to face this crap head on before it becomes unmanageable.”
His brows go up. “So you’ll call the gym?”
“Yes, I will.”
Clapping me on the back, he says, “You’re a good man, Dylan.”
Let’s just hope he’s right.
K-Y Jelly and One Necessary Lie
Whack. Whack. Whack.
“A little lower, Chloe,” Graham instructs. “That’s good, but you’re getting in nothing but shots to the head. You need to go for the throat. Like this…”
He shows me exactly where to hit, and I follow suit.
“That’s a vulnerable spot on everyone,” he goes on to say, just as I dead-center throat-punch an imaginary Sten.
Graham, as promised, taped pics of the dickhead to several bags. I’ve punched and pounded all of them off, except this one. It remains…but not for long.
Whack. Whack. Whack.
And there it goes, fluttering to the floor. “Yes!”
I step back away from the bag, feeling pretty damn good about myself.
And then I feel even better as I stomp all over Sten.
Ha! “Not so fast, bud. You’re not getting away that easily,” I mutter as I grind a toe into his nose.
Back to imagining he’s the bag, I knee imaginary-Sten at groin level.
Graham lets out a low whistle as he covers his own junk.
“Whoa, I wouldn’t want to run into you in a dark alley, Chlo. You’re a natural at this.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment, coming from you, big bro.” I lean against the bag and catch my breath. “Damn, I’m feeling empowered already,” I remark.
“Stop taking shit, right?”
“You got it.”
Lifting weights, punching the crap out of things, and learning to fight has been good for me. It’s also left me with a feeling I haven’t experienced in quite some time—interest in meeting someone new.
Since Graham is so picky about who can come and work out in his gym, I know anyone I meet here will most likely be a good dude.
So why not look around?
I scan around and whoa!
Wouldn’t you know it; there is someone who catches my eye—a tall, good-looking muscular guy lifting weights across the room.
“Oh, my,” I murmur.
With cheekbones you could cut ice on, a strong jaw, and lush dark hair, he is absolutely gorgeous.
But it’s his made-for-sin body that makes me ask Graham, “Who the heck is that?”
“Chloe…” He laughs as I discreetly—or so I hope—jerk my chin hot guy’s way. “That’s Dylan Culderway. And it’s funny you should notice him.”
“Hmm, why’s that?”
“Let’s just say that Dylan Culderway is definitely your kind of guy.”
“Clearly,” I reply. “Just look at the way his muscles bulge enticingly under that T-shirt.”
Graham rolls his eyes. “I didn’t mean that, pervy girl. I meant he’s your kind of guy because he plays hockey.”
“What?” I grab his arm. “Please tell me you’re not joking. This isn’t payback for that time I put K-Y in your hair gel, is it?”
“Chloe, that was over twelve years ago.”
“Still, you were really mad, Graham.”
“Of course I was angry! I was about to go out on a date with that crap in my hair. And you were going to let me. You only fessed up when my head got real hot.”
I cringe. “Yes, I was worried your hair might fall out. Or that you’d suffer irreparable scalp damage.”
“Yeah, that was bizarre. I still can’t figure out why K-Y jelly did that.”
“Uh, maybe because it was the warming kind,” I sheepishly reply.
“Ugh.” Graham makes a face. “Why’d you even have shit like that at fourteen?”
“It wasn’t mine,” I protest. “It was Mom’s.”
“Oh, Christ, that’s even worse.”
I wave my hand around. “Enough! Let’s get back to Dylan. Does he play hockey or not?”
Graham raises a brow. “Shouldn’t you know the answer to that, puck bunny?”
“I am not a puck bunny!” I yell, which makes the man in question glance over.
Great, busted.
I turn so my back’s to Dylan and hiss to Graham, “For your information, smartass, I’ve only had time to watch one Wolves game. I don’t know their whole roster yet.”
“Okay, okay. Don’t beat me up. In fact, you can just ask him yourself. He’s coming over.”
“WHAT?”
I roll my head to the right to discover Dylan is indeed heading this way.
Eek! All my head-rolling and chin jerking, not to mention the puck bunny comment, have probably come off as mating signals, because here…he…comes.
No, I’m all sweaty and gross. This is not the time to meet a hot hockey player.
I grab Graham’s arm and plead, “Save me?”
“Ha,” he replies, vengeful and smug. “Not a chance. You’re on your own, Miss K-Y.”
He starts walking away and I call out, “I thought you weren’t still mad about that? You said yourself it was over twelve years ago.”
Too late, Graham’s retreated to the neutral zone—the men’s locker room.
And the hockey player is closing in.
I turn to face him, flipping my ponytail and flashing my most winning smile.
“Hi,” I breathe out, adding in a cute wave for good measure.
But it’s all for naught—gorgeous Dylan walks right by me like I’m not even there.
I realize then he was on his way to the locker room the whole time. He wasn’t coming over to meet me, not at all.
I’m mortified. I’ve just made the biggest fool of myself.
And then it gets worse—he turns back around like it just dawned on him I said something.
“Did you just say hi to me?” he asks from a few feet away.
He’s so mesmerizingly handsome that all I can do is murmur, “Uh-huh.”
His eyes, a rich complex brown, scan me from head to toe. So I go ahead and do the same to him. Now that he’s closer it’s clear he has a really cool tattoo that starts at his left bicep and continues up to his muscular shoulder. From there, it disappears around to his back. Though I can’t see the whole thing, I can tell it’s a dragon.
Hmm, a symbol of strength, I think to myself. A strong friend would be good to have.
And how very timely, seeing as the next step in the X Your Ex program is “Make a New Friend.”
Too bad it’s not “Have a Night of Wild Sex with a Hot Dude.” I could get on board with that one. But then again, maybe not since that’s not really me.
“So friends it is,” I mumble under my breath.
“What’s that?” he says. “I couldn’t hear you.”
Suddenly, I realize I have seen him before—on the big-ass TV Graham bought me. He is a hockey player, and a really good one at that. Graham wasn’t messing with me. It’s just taken me a few minutes to place the name and put it with the face.
And, oh, what a face…
Back to Graham, I feel bad now. Sighing, I say, “Jeez, maybe I shou
ldn’t have brought up the K-Y.”
Uh-oh, I just said that a little too loudly. Dylan heard, for sure. The smirk on his face leaves no doubt.
Oh, great. Now he’s going to think I’m a nut, a weirdo, and a pervert, all rolled into one. I’m really batting a thousand here.
“K-Y?” He raises a brow. “Should I even ask?”
Chuckling, I reply, “No, probably not. I was just thinking about my brother.”
Oh, crap!
Now he’s eyeing me like I’m some sort of sicko.
Now I’m a nutty weirdo pervert who associates K-Y jelly with her brother.
Ready to melt into the floor, I say, “Can we just start this whole conversation over?”
“Sure,” he says, laughing and sticking out his hand. “Hi, I’m Dylan.”
I shake his hand and reply, “Hey, Dylan. I’m Chloe, Chloe Tettersaw.”
“Ah, so your Graham’s sister. You just moved up from Phoenix, right?”
“Yes and yes,” I confirm.
This is going much better, so I step closer to him, closing the few feet gap that was separating us.
But wait, what’s wrong?
Why is he staring at my face all funny-like?
And then it hits me—Shit, my black eye!
There’s still some bruising, which Dylan couldn’t see from where he was standing.
“Um,” I murmur, “you’re probably wondering what happened to me, huh?” Think fast! I jerk my thumb to the heavy bag. “That damn thing swung back and hit me in the face. Can you believe it? I swear I’m such a klutz sometimes.”
With the way his brow is furrowed, I know he doesn’t buy it. In fact, something tells me he knows that’s not what happened. Graham would never tell him; I think he’s just intuitive…and smart.
I meet his gaze, and his eyes are questioning.
But mine are pleading, pleading for him not to ask for the truth.
Thank God, he doesn’t.
His gaze softens and fills with empathy, making me wonder what he sees.
Does he see my pain? Can he see the broken parts of me?
Fix me, Dylan. Rescue me.
But wait, what am I thinking? I just met this guy. Still, crazy as it seems, there’s no denying there’s some kind of connection between us, a connection that was forged in an instant when he saw my black eye.
“Um…” I look away and the spell is broken—for now. “I should go hit the showers.”
“Yeah, okay, sure.”
I start to leave, but then I turn around. I’m not scared-Chloe anymore, so I state, “I hope to see you around, Dylan.”
“I hope so too, Chloe.”
Ah, I got him hooked, I can see it in his eyes, hear it in his tone. I think I’ve done more than “make a friend.”
And you know what? That’s perfectly fine with me.
A Chance
Chloe Tettersaw is intriguing to me on so many levels. Not only is she quirky and funny and sexy and sweet, but she’s the first woman I’ve felt any sort of connection with in ages.
Shit, this is going to sound corny, but I really think she wants someone to save her.
Fuck, I can be that guy.
But first I’d better run it past Graham. I’d hate to be macking on his sister and piss him off. Those two seem close.
I mean, if they joke around about K-Y jelly, they must be tight, right?
Nonetheless, it sure is wild to think Graham and Chloe are brother and sister. Talk about opposites. They may have the same blue eyes and blonde hair, but that’s where the similarities end.
Graham is big and strong, a force to be reckoned with. You feel power rolling off him. Chloe is tiny and vulnerable. And she seems kind of…damaged.
The black eye didn’t help dispel that impression.
But don’t think for a minute I buy that crap about her being klutzy. That black eye was from a punch. Plus, it wasn’t recent. It was healing, not a fresh injury.
Who the fuck hit her, though?
And why hasn’t Graham killed the guy?
Maybe he has and that’s why Chloe’s in Vegas? They could be on the run.
Nah, they’re not.
Unfortunately, I’m pretty sure the fucker who blasted her is walking the streets, probably somewhere down in Phoenix.
Suddenly, I feel a rage start to build. I hate motherfuckers who hit women—for obvious reasons.
But I need to calm down. I’ve gotten the issues that were plaguing me back under control. I need to keep it that way.
Since my workouts at Graham’s have worked wonders, I should probably head over there now and get in a few reps with the free weights.
Oh, let’s not lie. My real reason for wanting to work out is I’m hoping to run into Chloe.
So I go to the gym. But she’s not there.
Damn.
Determined more than ever now, I start hitting up Graham’s gym a lot. I even switch over my workouts at the Wolves’s training facility and start doing them at the gym.
Coach doesn’t care so long as I stay in prime playing shape, which I do. My extra work shows on the ice, and soon the team starts to turn things around.
But it’s not all me and my improved efforts that catapult us up in the standings. Management makes a key trade and we start winning games again.
I’m happy, but not really. Truth is that there’s something missing in my life. I still feel empty and alone, and frankly, I’m sick of it.
Why haven’t I run into Chloe?
That’s it. I decide to take matters into my own hands. Life is like that sometimes. You have to go out and get what you want.
And I want Chloe.
I check with Graham, and he tells me his sister has been going to the gym in the evenings. She got a job at a local coffee shop and works mostly mornings and afternoons.
“Ah, got it,” I say.
Since he’s looking at me oddly, I go ahead and take the opportunity to make sure he’s cool with me pursuing his sister.
“Is it okay if I ask her out?” I say softly.
Graham looks surprised at first, but then kind of pleased.
“Yeah, sure,” he says. “I don’t mind. Just…”
He trails off, and I prompt, “Just what?”
Scrubbing his hand down his face, he says, “Just take it slowly with her, okay? She’s been through a lot.”
Carefully, I inquire, “Does this have anything to do with that black eye she was sporting?”
“Man, that’s not my story to tell. You need to ask Chloe about that.”
“Understood,” I reply.
I may not have gotten much info out of Graham, but at least I have his blessing to ask his sister out on a date.
I adjust my gym schedule accordingly, and next time I’m there, so is Chloe.
Finally!
She’s over at the heavy bags—no surprise there. She’s going at it hard too, punching away in a series of flurries.
I then notice what seems to have her extra motivated—there’s a man’s face taped to the bag.
Wonder if that’s the black eye giver?
“If so, go to town, girl,” I murmur.
I lean against the wall and watch from across the room. She’s amazing in her anger. Plus, sexy as hell in the black yoga pants and matching crop top she’s wearing.
Chloe’s soft and curvy in some places, but tight and toned in others. Nonetheless, it’s the swell of her breasts and the shape of her ass that has me at attention. In more ways than one, as there’s an all-too-familiar tugging in my groin.
That gets me moving.
Chloe’s still wailing away on the bag with the guy’s face taped to it when I reach her. Her back is turned so she hasn’t seen me approach. Since I don’t want to sound like a creepy letch, lest I become the next dude taped to the bag, I leave he be and think about what I should say first.
It’s been over a week since we met, and I don’t want to blow that cool connection we had.
I cou
ld ask her if she’d like some water—she does look sweaty and parched—but in the end, I just go with a simple, “Hey.”
Chloe spins around, her hand going to her heart. “Oh, Dylan,” she breathes out. “You just startled the crap out of me.”
“Shit, I’m sorry.”
That was smooth. Not.
Smiling, she says, “It’s okay. I was a little preoccupied.”
“Yeah, I noticed that.”
“Hmm…”
Thumbing to the picture taped to the heavy bag, which is crumpled all to hell and torn at one corner, I ask, “Who’s the guy? Does he deserve that same punishment in person?”
“You could say that,” she replies. “He’s my ex-husband.”
Ah, now it all makes sense. This douche is why she moved up from Phoenix.
“Recently divorced?” I ask.
“Yes, but really, the relationship was over long before the papers were ever signed.”
“I get that,” I say. And I do—Chloe was married to a real jerk.
“Ugh, that’s enough about him.” She blows out a frustrated breath as she rips down the pic, crumples it to a ball, and lobs it into a nearby trash can.
“Nice shot,” I remark when it circles the can, then goes in.
“Thanks,” she says.
I then say, “Think you’re up for taking a little break from kicking ex’s asses? We could grab some waters and head outside. It’s a beautiful evening, and I noticed coming in that your brother set up some picnic tables out back.”
“I think I’d like that, Dylan,” she replies.
We grab two bottled waters and head out back, where we choose a table situated under a clump of palm trees. It’s nice. The fronds make a comforting rustling noise every time there’s a breeze.
I kick off the conversation by asking Chloe how she likes Las Vegas, so far.
“It’s fine,” she says rather unenthusiastically.
“That doesn’t sound convincing,” I reply.
“I know.” Groaning, she adds, “Can I be honest?”
“Sure.”
“The truth is it’s been kind of lonely since I got here.” She looks over at me from across the table and there’s sadness in her gaze. “I don’t really know anyone besides Graham.”
