Player on Ice

by S. R. Grey

  Yeah, this should help him come to. I’ve seen this in movies and shit.

  I’m hitting him lightly, of course. I wouldn’t want to wound him any further. And heaven knows I sure don’t want to mar any of his stunning features.

  He mumbles something incoherent then, so I stop smacking him.

  Jesus, I’m so freaking glad I haven’t murdered the Wolves’ center. But it does appear as if I’ve injured him. There’s an angry red welt on his temple from where the planter grazed him.

  “I’m sorry,” I murmur.

  He needs some ice. That’ll take down the swelling and help wake him up.

  I jump up and hurry into the house, heading straight for the kitchen, wondering again, and this time out loud, “What is Jaxon Holland doing here?”

  Noel must’ve invited him and not told Noelle. Ugh, just my luck that the one person I’d never want to run into—not after the mean-spirited hit piece I penned about him—is here on the island with me.

  Talk about adding insult to injury! I knocked the poor guy out cold.

  Sighing, I open the freezer to search for an ice pack.

  Sadly, I’m out of luck. So I opt instead for a big bag of frozen carrots.

  Jaxon is still coming to by the time I’m back out on the patio, but he still seems really out of it. The least I can do is make the poor man comfortable.

  I scan around and spy the white towel I brought out earlier. It’s lying on the ground.

  I grab it up and shake it out, with dirt and flower petals from the planter I threw flying everywhere.

  Once the towel looks pretty clean, I fold it over once, and then carefully place it under Jaxon’s head.

  His eyes are still closed as he mutters, “Mmm, thanks, Mom.”

  Eww!

  I jump back. He thinks I’m his mom, gross. Yeesh, it didn’t seem like I threw the planter all that hard, but maybe I did. Hopefully this is just a short-term effect, and once he fully comes to he’ll be fine.

  I hold the bag of carrots up to the welt on his head, while smoothing back wayward strands of sandy brown hair with my fingers…just like Mom would do.

  Oh, yuck.

  This disturbing train of thought must be derailed immediately. And I know of only one way to do that. It might not be pretty, but a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.

  Reluctantly—oh, who the hell are we kidding? More like eagerly—I trail my eyes down to the part of him that started this whole mess.

  The offending appendage is no longer hard, but it’s still mighty impressive.

  I swear, though, Jaxon’s dick is totally staring back at me.

  And—I squint a little more closely—it’s looking rather contrite.

  “Hey,” I whisper to his cock, “don’t give me your sad, droopy one-eyed stare. You have to accept that you brought this all on yourself. If you weren’t so hard and thick and…”

  Whoa, where am I going with this?

  I clear my throat and continue, “Anyway, if not for all of those things, I wouldn’t have focused on you and only you. I would’ve realized who you are attached to and I wouldn’t have lobbed a planter at your owner’s stupid head.”

  Just then, Jaxon snickers.

  I jump up, the bag of carrots falling to the ground with a mushy thud.

  Fuck, he’s awake.

  And that means he heard everything.

  Although, wait a second here…

  I narrow my eyes.

  Was he ever even out to begin with?

  I’m not so sure now.

  Stabbing a finger at him, I accuse, “Have you been faking being unconscious this whole time?”

  He sits up, shrugging his impossibly wide shoulders as he moves the towel to cover his groin area.

  Guess he doesn’t trust me, seeing as I do have a strong arm and good aim.

  “I don’t know,” he replies just as snarkily. “What do you think? Maybe I was awake this whole time and curious to gauge your reactions.”

  What?

  He doesn’t feel bad for duping me?

  “That’s just wrong!” I grind out, aghast.

  “Ha,” he laughs. “You’re a fine one to talk about what’s right and wrong. ‘Wrong’ is throwing heavy objects at a person’s head. You could’ve killed me, you know?”

  “Well, I didn’t,” I snap back. “And with what you were up to, you’re lucky I didn’t aim lower.”

  Smugly, he retorts, “I’m surprised you didn’t, seeing as you seem to be quite enamored with what you saw.”

  “I was not!”

  “Do you really expect me to believe that?” He raises a brow. “Let’s review, shall we? Were you or were you not just now talking to my dick?”

  I stammer, “I, uh, I-I…”

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought. And in my book, sweetheart, that kind of behavior means you’re beyond enamored. I’d say you’ve moved straight into ‘smitten’ territory.”

  “You, you…”

  He has me so angry that I’m seeing red. I can’t even think of a good retort. He’s lucky there are no other planters within my reach.

  “You’re disgusting,” I finally spit out.

  He laughs. “Offended now, are we? You’re the one throwing planters and talking to my cock. If anyone has a right to be pissed, honey, it’s me.”

  I have no defense for that, but I do feel the need to remind him, “It was one planter. Not multiple.”

  “Whatever, crazy chick.”

  I have to outdo him, I must! He’s such a cocky— Wait, can I even ‘think’ that word? I heard somewhere that it was trademarked.

  Anyway, where was I?

  Oh, that’s right, I’m schooling Jaxon Holland.

  Sticking out my chest as far as I can, I declare, “For your information, I am not a ‘chick.’ I am a woman, mister. Learn it, live it, love it.”

  “Not a problem,” he says, his dark green eyes sparkling with mischief as he stares at the boobs I’m pretty much sticking in his face.

  “Oh, no way, buddy.” Hands on my hips, I relax my shoulders and take a step back. “You know what? You are just not a gentleman.”

  Scoffing heartily, he proclaims, “I never claimed to be.”

  Ugh, why must he try to one up me on everything?

  I grind out, “You’re worse than ‘not a gentleman.’ You’re a pig!” I raise my hand and tick off. “Jacking off, calling me a chick, staring at my chest—”

  “This, coming from a girl who talks to a man’s junk.”

  “So what if I do?” I shout. “Who cares if I muttered a few words to your stupid dick? He has way more personality than you.”

  “Hey now, he’s not stupid,” Jaxon retorts.

  Of course he’d be most upset by that comment, as opposed to the shot at his deficit of personality.

  Jesus, I have to get away from this man, along with his well-muscled body and that mind-muddling cock of his.

  But before I go, I have one last thing to say— “At least your dick doesn’t talk back!”

  Chuckling, he retorts, “Oh, he’s been known to spew a time or two.”

  I make a face. “God, you are so gross, Jaxon Holland.”

  As I stomp off, slamming the sliding glass doors dramatically, I hear him muttering, “Wait. How does she know who I am?”

  Doing Her and Dumping Her

  How in the hell does this crazy chick know who I am?

  There’s only one way—she follows hockey to some extent. So much for there being no Wolves fans on the island. Just my luck.

  Ah, but maybe it’s not so bad. She’s a hot fan, at least. I can deal with that. I’m more than up for banging a groupie, especially one that looks like her. That pretty face and that tight little body are made for sin. And I’m just the guy to do the corrupting.

  Hey, she’s already met my dick and she likes him. That’s, like, two for two. Now we just have to bring it down the home stretch. I’ll consider it a victory once I have the crazy chick underneath me,
screaming out my name.

  Fuck, I can only imagine what a fireball she is in bed. I’m sitting out here on the patio in the wake of her anger, and it’s like she made the hot, humid air even thicker.

  Hell, I could stay out here all night and bask in her leftover sexual tension, but I should probably go inside and make peace.

  Not to mention, I need to get to work on bedding her.

  Jiggling my now-flaccid cock, I say to him, “You and the crazy chick had a nice conversation, didn’t you, bud? How about we see this thing through to the end? We need to get you inside her, eh?”

  Yeah, I like to talk to my dick too. Crazy Chick doesn’t get to have all the fun.

  Standing, I wrap the white towel around my waist. The welt on my head is throbbing a little, but it’s nothing too terrible. I think the bag of carrots helped some. I’ll take them in with me so I can re-freeze them and use them again later.

  I’ll be fine, though. I’ve taken far harder hits on the ice. My body is conditioned for this kind of stuff. Plus, though I won’t tell the crazy chick this, I was never really knocked out. I was play-acting to get her back and give her a little scare.

  Hey, I had to fuck with her a little, hence the “mommy” comment.

  I chuckle now at that one.

  Oh, well, at least I can say we’re even now. And I forgive her for throwing the planter at me.

  I realize then that I never learned her name. Crazy Chick is fitting enough but still, one should always ask for the name of their assailant. Come to think of it, I better check and make sure she’s even supposed to be here.

  What if she’s some kind of crazy squatter?

  Hmmm, well, even if she is I think I’ll still fuck her before I send her on her way. She looked mighty good in that bikini. Bet she’d look even better out of it.

  And with that in mind, I head inside.

  Hmm, Planter Thrower isn’t anywhere to be found downstairs.

  Maybe that’s a good thing. I don’t have to worry about being brained.

  I guess she retreated to an upstairs bedroom.

  “Damn, I bet she nabbed the best one,” I grumble.

  Not that it matters, I’m not picky about my accommodations. Besides, if all goes well, we’ll be sharing a bed soon enough.

  After retrieving my phone from my luggage still by the door—she didn’t mess with my things, so she can’t be that crazy—I plop down on the sofa and call Noel.

  It’s late over in Sweden, but I catch him before he’s in bed. He informs me that he just found out himself that his twin sister invited her friend to stay at his beach house.

  Ah, so that’s who she is.

  “Yeah, I kind of met her,” I say to Noel.

  Hearing the sour note in my tone, he sighs. “Man, I am so sorry. If I had known, I would’ve warned you that someone was already there. I guess Noelle and that girl were supposed to vacation together. But my sister’s plans changed at the last minute. She landed an internship for the summer after all. Since her friend was already down there, though, I guess she told her to just stay.”

  So she’s not a squatter. Though she will be once I have her squatting on my cock.

  Noel, nice guy that he is, is still busy apologizing and explaining how he left a voice mail to bring me up to speed.

  I hold the phone out, and lo and behold, I do have a missed message.

  “I never got it,” I explain. “But I see it on here now. I was out on the patio and my phone was still inside.”

  “Hey, that’s cool, man. It’s good to know you’re already putting away the electronics. Enjoy that sunshine and seclusion. That’s what I always do when I’m down there. Unplug for a while.”

  “I intend to,” I tell him since that is in my plans—along with nailing the chick with the good throwing arm, of course.

  And that reminds me… “This friend of your sister’s, does she have a name?”

  “Yes, of course.” Noel laughs. “Her name is Cara, Cara Milne. I figured since you met her that you already knew.”

  Met her? She caught me jacking off and threw a planter at me. So yeah, I guess you could say we’re acquainted.

  I decide to keep those thoughts to myself.

  Instead, I simply reply, “Yeah, we met, but it was only for a minute or two. There wasn’t much time for proper introductions.”

  I stifle a snort, since our “introduction”—if you could call it that—was far from proper.

  “I see. Well, I’ve never met Cara, but my sister’s always telling me how nice she is. I think Noelle’s gearing up to introduce us since Cara doesn’t have a boyfriend. But you know what? Maybe you two will hit it off.”

  “Cool. I’m totally up for a little island lovin’,” I reply.

  “Whoa, wait, slow your roll, Holland. I didn’t mean that. Cara’s a nice girl by all accounts, so don’t go fucking her and breaking her heart. My sister will never let me hear the end of it if you screw over her friend.”

  Wow, am I really so bad?

  I guess so, since doing her and dumping her is in the plan. No wonder Cara called me a pig.

  I am one!

  I guess Mr. Hockeypants was right too when he said I was a dog.

  What’s the difference, anyway?

  They’re both animals, right?

  Suddenly, visions of stuffed squirrels and fake bongs fill my head.

  Shit, no.

  That’s why I wanted to get away.

  Fuck it, forget island lovin’. I’m never making a move on Cara Milne. Sure, I’ll be cordial and friendly to her, but that’s it.

  I don’t need the fucking hassle, nor my friend and his sister’s wrath.

  I’ve taken enough hits lately.

  He Must Never Know I’m Mr. Hockeypants

  I retreat to my upstairs bedroom. It’s quiet and serene, but damn if I can’t get annoying Jaxon Holland out of my mind.

  That’s not good, seeing as I really, really hate the dude.

  But if I hate him so much, why can’t I get that hard, throbbing appendage of his to disappear from my thoughts?

  It was just so long and hard and thick. I can only imagine what it’d feel like in my—

  Stop!

  He’s a jerk…and a pig…and a dog who likes strip clubs.

  Plus, he’s the ditzy player who blew the big game.

  Too bad that doesn’t work. My traitorous body just doesn’t care about those things. After seeing all of Jaxon Holland, I’m super worked up.

  And I need a damn release!

  Resigned that I’ll have to take care of things myself, I peel away my pink and white polka dot bikini and pad off to the shower in the en suite bathroom.

  Yep, I have some business to take care of that involves more than just washing off sand.

  I locked the door when I first entered the bedroom, but I’m sure to latch the bathroom lock as well. The last thing I need is for Jaxon to walk in on me touching myself while I’m thinking of him and his impressive assets.

  I wonder what he was thinking about when I caught him with his hand on his dick.

  “Oh, who cares,” I murmur.

  For a good, long while, I just stand under the shower nozzle, relishing the feel of the warm water against my skin. The pulsating rivulets are so soothing, which is good since that damn Jaxon made me so…tense.

  I turn around and the water caresses my breasts. Once I add in a dirty fantasy of Jaxon barging in and having his way with me, I am more than ready for a release.

  Leaning back against the tiled wall, I enjoy the feel of the water trailing down my stomach, and then lower…to just the right spot.

  “Unh…”

  I have to hold onto the wall.

  As warm water flows over my swollen clit, I pretend that it’s Jaxon’s tongue, lapping at my folds.

  “Oh, that’s so good, Holland. Keep doing that.”

  Working my way to a crescendo, I increase the water pressure…until I am shuddering and moaning, tumbling over the edg
e and gasping out a somewhat garbled, “Jaxon, Jaxon.”

  Wait, no, stop this foolishness now.

  My good sense returns the second orgasmic bliss fades. Funny how that works, huh?

  Suddenly clear-headed, I realize I could never start something with Jaxon, not even an island fling. First, he’s obviously very good friends with Noel Sandlund. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out who invited him to the island. They’re teammates, for heaven’s sake. And Noelle mentioned that she hadn’t spoken to her brother yet, which means he’d assume his place is empty.

  For a minute, as I’m lathering a loofah to wash away the evidence of my Jaxon Holland-induced self-loving, I consider leaving the island.

  But why should I do that?

  I’ll be damned if big-cock Holland is going to chase me away.

  That’s it, I’m staying!

  But there’s one huge caveat—Jaxon must never find out I’m Mr. Hockeypants. He’d be beyond pissed to learn he’s staying with the one person who exacerbated an already bad situation for him. I’m pretty sure his leaving town and ending up here is directly related to bad fan behavior.

  And who incited that firestorm?

  None other than—I raise my hand—yours truly.

  So yeah, no, my secret identity must remain a secret.

  Yet another reason not to get involved with Jaxon. Good thing I’ve gotten him out of my system.

  I step out of the shower and pull a towel down from the bar.

  After I dry off, I slip on a pair of cute ragged-edge jean shorts, a royal blue tank top, and some strappy sandals.

  Taking a deep breath, I head downstairs to face fat-cock Holland with my newfound attitude—indifference to his hotness.

  Can We Start Over?

  I can hear the shower running when I arrive upstairs.

  It’s her.

  Well, whatever.

  I have my luggage with me and I’m just up here to choose a bedroom and unpack.

  Though I was right about what I suspected earlier.

  Cara—I really like her name, by the way, even though she irks the shit out of me—has chosen the master suite.

  “Figures,” I murmur as I pass by her closed door.