by S. R. Grey
Rolling his eyes, he replies, “Jaxon Holland. And he has no room to talk. He’s the biggest fucking womanizer on our team.”
When it’s Right, it’s Right
I don’t know if I should thank Jaxon Holland or kick his ass.
I’m leaning toward the latter, seeing as our second-line center has interrupted me and Chloe at, like, the worst fucking possible time. Nonetheless, another part of me feels I should thank him. After all, I did say I planned to move slowly with Chloe, and what we were doing was anything but that.
It was more like a fast track to my bedroom.
Is that so bad, dumbass?
Fuck, I just don’t know anymore.
I never expected Chloe to make the first move. Maybe this means she’s ready for more?
I am, that’s for sure.
But it’s not going to happen on the ice with my cock-blocking teammate looking on.
“Dude, Dylan, you just gonna lay there all day? Some of us are hoping to get a skate in, hopefully without having to dodge bodies rolling around on the ice.”
God, he’s so annoying. We’re not even moving, let alone rolling. I think I’ll accidentally check him into the boards next time we’re at practice.
Chloe is still sprawled out on top of me, but thank God my hard-on has waned. The last thing I need is for more Jaxon commentary when we stand up.
“Come on, Dylan.” Jaxon coughs. “I want to meet your friend.”
“Shut the hell up!” I yell over at him.
He’s resting his elbows on the boards, smirking over at us.
Sighing, I murmur to Chloe, “I don’t think he’s leaving anytime soon.”
“It would seem not,” she replies, rolling her gorgeous blues.
I liked it better when they were filled with lust, not annoyance like now.
Letting her know I’m on the same page, I say, “He has the worst timing.”
She touches my cheek. “He does, but it’s our fault for making out in public.”
“It was fun though, yeah?”
“Very.”
“Come on, sweetheart.” I sit up with her still safely in my lap. “Let me help you up.”
“Thanks,” she says.
She steadies herself on my arm, and we stand together.
Motioning to Jaxon, I say, “Let’s go over so I can introduce you to Mr. Bad Timing.”
She chuckles, but then whispers she’d hate to fall down in front of my teammate. “Can you help me skate, Dylan?”
“Of course, sweetheart.”
Jaxon nods to us as we reach him. “Hey,” he says.
Rolling my eyes, I inform him, “The ice is all yours, Peeping Tom.”
“Hey, I’m no Peeping Tom. You two were the ones putting on a show.” He gestures to where Chloe and I were on the ice and says, “Though I have to say, the surface looks really good over there. Thanks for Zamboni-ing it for me with your bodies.”
He laughs, and I murmur, “You are such an ass.”
Chloe clears her throat, and I introduce Jaxon and her. She shakes his hand but can’t make eye contact. She’s clearly embarrassed that he witnessed our hot little make-out session.
Sure enough, she excuses herself after a minute or two of random conversation.
“I need to use the restroom,” she says, “Plus, I should get these skates off.”
“Do you need any help?” I ask.
“No, I’m good.”
Quickly, she plods off on the rubberized runners leading to the locker room.
“Shit, man, I’m sorry,” Jaxon says remorsefully once she’s out of sight. “I didn’t mean to scare her off.”
“Your ugly mug would frighten anyone,” I retort.
It’s just a joke; Jaxon is actually a good-looking guy.
He shoots me the finger and replies, “Fuck off, Culderway.”
“Don’t get mad. I’m just yanking your chain. You deserve it.”
“Yeah, I probably do,” he concedes. “But I have to say, I am glad you’re finally getting some. Me and the boys were beginning to think you were trying out to be a monk or something.”
“Hardly,” I scoff. “Just because I’m not a pig like the rest of you animals doesn’t mean I’ve given up sex.”
He raises a brow. “So you are tapping that?”
“We are so not having this conversation,” I warn him.
Even though beneath the bad boy persona there lurks a really good guy, I’m not sharing with Jaxon. Besides, I haven’t “tapped” anything yet. I have a feeling, however, based on the way Chloe was grinding on me, that that’s about to change real soon.
It won’t be meaningless sex, though. I really like Chloe.
Jaxon cocks his head, watching me, and suddenly it hits him. “Fuck me six ways to Sunday, Culderway. This Chloe chick has gotten under your skin, hasn’t she?”
I bristle. “First, she’s not a ‘chick.’ She’s an amazing woman. And second, no one has ‘gotten’ to me.”
Smug, he retorts, “That’s all I needed to hear. You pretty much just confirmed that I’m right.”
Ah, fucking hell. He is right. Leave it to Jaxon Holland to make me see the light. I like Chloe far more than I should. She has gotten to me. In fact, she’s more than gotten to me. I think I could be falling in love with her.
That’s why it’s time to take this to the next level.
Chloe changed all the rules when she kissed me. I want to do it again, along with a lot more. I’m not going to be satisfied till I have Chloe under me, screaming out my name.
I need to lay it on the line for her first.
I’m man enough to take a chance and put my heart out there. Let’s see how she feels about moving forward. If today were any indication, I’d say she’s fully on board.
It’s time to make it official—I want Chloe to be my girlfriend.
Arties or Aphrodisiacs
The Wolves have back-to-back games following my skating lesson. Dylan is pretty busy, but so am I. I’m working double shifts at the coffeehouse.
The weekend passes with us only texting and talking on the phone. But since he leaves for a couple of road games next week, we make plans to hang out Monday night.
When he calls Monday morning to confirm we’re still on, he says, “Damn, I’ve missed you these past couple of days. This upcoming road trip’s going to suck balls.”
“For sure,” I agree. Sighing, I then add, “What do you want to do tonight?”
Since I’m hoping he picks something mellow, I’m thrilled when he suggests, “Why don’t you come over for that dinner I promised you? I have some things I’d like to talk about with you, anyway.”
“Uh-oh. It’s nothing bad, I hope.”
“No way. It’s all good, I promise.”
He says then that he has to go. There’s a lot of noise in the background so it’s clear he just finished up with practice.
“Talk to you tonight,” I say.
“Yeah, see you then.”
We disconnect, and I take a moment to think things over on where we stand. After making out with him on the ice, I think it’s safe to assume we’re more than friends. And that means tonight is kind of a date.
Because of that, later in the day when I’m debating on what to wear, I choose the cutest dress I own—a tight lacy and white long-sleeved number.
Hope he’s not making anything with a messy sauce.
If he is, with my luck, I’ll get it on the dress.
And then I’ll have to take it off.
Wait. Take it off…
I am definitely wearing it!
I also choose a white silk bra and panty set. If I do end up taking off the dress—for any reason—I’m making sure Dylan gets an eyeful he won’t soon forget.
A couple of hours later, I’m the one getting an eyeful…of Dylan.
He’s rocking dark-wash jeans and a red flannel shirt to the nth degree. With his tousled dark hair and amazing bod, he could pass for a sexy lumberjack. I can
get on board with the lumberjack theme. Maybe Dylan will let me climb him like a tree.
“What do you think?” he says, spinning around to face me.
We’re in the middle of him showing me around his nice house, but I only have eyes for him. Or rather, his tight ass, seeing as it looks so good in denim.
“It’s hot,” I murmur.
Oh my God, I sound like Paris Hilton circa 2003.
“Thanks,” he says, looking confused. “I was actually going for a more rustic look in here. But I guess you could call it ‘hot,’ if you want.”
“Uh, uh…”
I need a cover story, and fast. I don’t want him to know I wasn’t really paying attention. I scan around the room we’re in, some kind of a great room, and realize there’s a big stone fireplace with a roaring fire right in front of us.
Gesturing to the flickering flames and crackling logs, I say. “Oh, I just meant it’s hot in here.” I fan myself. “That’s some fireplace you have there.”
He assures me he won’t add any more wood. “It should die down some now,” he says as he moves around some of the logs with a poker.
How do I get myself into these messes? I should fess up and tell him I meant he’s hot. It’s not like he’d be offended. But then I realize it is actually kind of warm in here, which is strange since it wasn’t earlier.
And now that I think of it—what’s that burning smell?
I ask Dylan, and he replies, “I don’t smell anything.”
I inhale deeply. “No, no, there’s definitely something burning. And it’s not the fireplace fire.”
Just as we’re standing here staring at each other, brows furrowed, a smoke alarm goes off.
Dylan says, “Oh, shit.”
And I say, “Ow, that’s so loud.”
I cover my ears when it won’t stop. “What’s causing that?”
He runs off. “Fuck, it’s coming from the kitchen. I think my roast is burning.”
“I told you I smelled something!”
I follow him to the ever increasing ear-splitting sound. With both of us coughing—that’s how bad the smoke has gotten—Dylan runs in and shuts off the oven.
I want to help—no more helpless girl here—so I squint through the smoke for something I can employ to put out the small fire that’s clearly burning in the oven.
And that’s when I spy a giant pitcher of water over on the counter.
Perfect! Firefighter girl to the rescue! If Dylan can be a lumberjack, I can be a firefighter.
Snatching up the pitcher, I rush over to where Dylan’s opening the oven door.
“Get back!” I yell. “I’ll take care of this.”
“Chloe, wait—”
It’s too late. I can’t stop from tossing the contents of the pitcher onto the smoldering, though certainly not in flames, roast.
“Better safe than sorry,” I say with a shrug.
But then there’s a whole new problem. Thanks to my brilliant move, things become smokier than ever in the kitchen.
“That was maybe not the best idea,” Dylan coughs out.
“Yeah, maybe not,” I dejectedly concur.
I’m actually glad there’s so much smoke. I may choke to death, but at least Dylan won’t see how mortified I am.
Running around, he flips on a bunch of fans and opens a window. Meanwhile, I work on composing myself. When the room clears, I glance into the oven and notice something lying atop the burned-to-a-crisp roast—one long-stemmed, though now wilted, red rose.
“Oh, shit.”
The pitcher I grabbed was a vase!
Not only have I completely ruined Dylan’s dinner—the roast may have been salvageable, albeit a tad well-done—but I’ve succeeded in doing so with a flower no doubt meant for me.
Gesturing to the withered and somewhat charred rose, I say, “I’m guessing that was mine?”
“It was,” he confirms.
I start to apologize, but then he says, “Hey, look on the bright side. You used your rose to save us.”
I snort. “Ha, all I did was smoke us out.”
“It’s the thought that counts, Chloe.”
He is just too sweet.
“No, I screwed up everything,” I whisper, feeling like a fool.
“Stop, this is my fault. I didn’t set a timer, nor did I keep an eye on the roast. I think it’s safe to say I’m the one who fucked up dinner.”
I look inside the oven again. Now that the smoke has cleared, I notice what appear to be little lumps of coal.
“What were those?” I ask.
“Twice-baked potatoes,” he replies.
“Aw, roast and potatoes. Sounds like it would’ve been a nice dinner.”
“I should have stuck with scrambled eggs,” Dylan murmurs. “It is my signature dish.”
I echo his earlier words when I say, “It’s the thought that counts, Dylan. Besides, I think we can save this dinner.”
He looks at me like I’m crazy, and maybe I am a little, albeit in a good, let’s-roll-with-this kind of way.
“I like my roast well-done,” I say with a smile.
“Well-done is one thing, Chloe. But this thing is charred to a crisp. It’d be like eating beef jerky.”
Always the optimist, I say, “Lumberjacks like beef jerky, I hear.”
Dylan’s brow furrows. “I don’t know what that means, but I think you’re wrong anyway. Cowboys are the beef jerky fans. Haven’t you ever seen The Outlaw Josey Wales?”
“Is that like a spin-off from Riverdale?”
“Huh?”
I try to explain. “The only Josie I’ve ever heard of is Josie and the Pussycats. You know, from the show Riverdale.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Chloe. But you had me at the word ‘pussy.’”
“I said ‘pussycats,’ not ‘pussy.”
“Close enough.”
We both lose it then, and I throw a towel at him. “You’re impossible, Dylan.”
He touches my cheek. “What’s impossible is any chance of eating that roast. I think we better just order a pizza.”
“Okay,” I concede, “sounds good to me.”
The pizza is delivered and it’s delicious. We devour New York-style slices topped with pepperoni, tomatoes, and artichoke hearts. The artichokes—or arties, as I like to call them—are my call. Dylan’s never had arties on a pizza.
“So what do you think?” I ask as he’s wolfing down his third slice, one covered in loads of artichoke hearts.
“Fantastic,” he mumbles from around the bite.
“See…” I feel smug as I dab my mouth with a napkin. “I told you arties were good on a pizza.”
He stops and quirks his brow. “Arties?”
“Yes, arties. I didn’t mention it when we ordered, but that’s my nickname for artichoke hearts. Graham and I made it up when we were kids, and it just kind of stuck.”
“Well, then,”—he holds up another slice—“arties for the win. You were right, they make the pizza.”
I love that I can share things like this with Dylan. We can be ourselves when we’re together.
I tell him this, and he says, “I like that too.” A pause, then, “Can I tell you something, Chloe?”
“Sure.”
“You’ve been really good for me. More than you could ever know.”
I have an artie halfway to my mouth, and I freeze.
“How do you mean?” I carefully inquire.
No one has ever told me I’ve been good for them. Well, no one outside of family. Sten always said the exact opposite, that I caused people nothing but grief, especially him.
Dylan gently pries the artie from my grasp, as I’m pretty much squeezing the thing to death.
He raises it to my mouth, and says softly, “Let me feed you, Chloe, and I’ll tell you what I mean when I say that you’ve been good for me.”
I let him feed me, but it’s my soul that he fills when he says he’s going to share his heart with me.
“I was starting to lose it right before I met you,” he says softly. “Things had never gotten that bad for me, and I wasn’t sure why. I figured the trigger was when I went to the cemetery to visit my mother’s grave back in December. But now I think it all just caught up to me. I came back and I couldn’t get a handle on my anger. It was even affecting my play on the ice.”
“How so?” I ask.
He takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. “Well, I became so short-fused during games that it was crazy. I was losing my temper all the time. And my concentration was for shit. That just wasn’t like me, Chloe. That’s why I joined your brother’s gym. It was Coach’s advice, and I took it. I needed to get myself back on track.”
“I understand that,” I say, nodding. “That’s part of why I started going to Graham’s gym too. It helps, doesn’t it?”
“It does. But for me, my real turnaround came when I met you. You put me back on the right path, Chloe.”
I’m stunned. “How in the world did I do that?”
Taking my hand, he says, “I don’t know if I can explain, but I’ll try. You calm me, even as you excite me. You make me optimistic about the future. That’s something I haven’t felt in a long, long time. You just give me hope, Chloe.”
“Wow,” I marvel. “No one’s ever said things like that to me, Dylan.”
“It’s only the truth.”
Tears fill my eyes, but not from sadness. For the first time in a long time, I feel truly appreciated.
“So what are we to one another?” I quietly ask.
“We’re whatever you want us to be.”
“Are you asking me what I want?”
“Yes.”
“Um, well, I guess I kind of gave it away when I kissed you on the ice, huh?”
I let out a laugh, even as a single tear—one of hope, and disbelief that this man cares for me so much—trails down my cheek.
Dylan brushes it away with his thumb and reminds me, “I kissed you back, remember?”
“You did.”
“Chloe, I think you want more, just like I do. So I want us to try to be a couple. I want you to be my girlfriend. Not just my friend who happens to be a girl. What do you say, sweetheart? Are you up for that?”
I laugh. “Are you kidding? More than you could ever imagine.”
