Player on Ice

by S. R. Grey

  “Ooh.” I pretend to shake. “I’m so scared.”

  Bending down, she scoops up a handful of ocean water and tosses it at my head.

  I duck, but end up soaked.

  “There!” she smugly declares. “I got you back.”

  With water dripping down my face, I point at her and declare, “This is war, baby.”

  “Bring it on, Jaxon.”

  “Oh, I intend to.”

  Another wave rolls in and this time I drag Cara out into it.

  “No fair!” she yells.

  “Who ever said war is fair?” I volley back as I dunk her head under water.

  She comes up sputtering and spitting mad. Using her whole arm, she pushes another incoming wave right into me.

  With both of us now sopping wet, we laugh and drop to our knees in the surf. We then splash each other till we’re beyond soaked. My cargo shorts and white tee are plastered to me, and her dress… Well, let’s just say she may as well not be wearing anything at all.

  When we stop to catch our breath, she sees me staring.

  Crossing her arms over her breasts, she questions, “Jaxon?”

  This is so out of our carefully constructed friend zone.

  I look away and mumble, “Sorry.”

  Slowly, she lowers her arms. “No, it’s okay.”

  Shit, she’s saying look at me, so I do.

  The gauzy material is sticking to her lithe form like a body suit, accentuating the sexy swell of her hips, the inviting curve of her breasts, and the fact that it looks like she shaves everywhere.

  Kill me now.

  “Cara,” I say roughly, “what are we doing?”

  “Uh…” She peers out into the ocean and whispers, “I don’t really know.”

  I blow out a breath and scrub my hand down my face. “Do you think this is a good idea?”

  Wrong thing to say, I just killed the mood. Her eyes snap to me, hurt.

  I am such an ass.

  Sighing, she mutters, “I should head back to the house so I can get inside and dry off.”

  Fix it, fix this now.

  But I don’t.

  I just murmur a flat, “Okay.”

  A part of me doesn’t want to go in. A part of me would like to stay out here and let things unfold. But I know where that would go and it’d be stupid. I just got caught up in the moment for a second there. And she did too. But it’s over now.

  Standing abruptly, I offer her a hand. “You ready to go back?”

  She ignores my hand, and scoffing, stands on her own. “Yeah, let’s just get out of here, Jaxon,” she snaps.

  A wall is erected, and we walk back to the house in complete silence.

  The whole next day, we avoid each other.

  She finishes with breakfast long before I even make my way downstairs. And then, when I’m readying to start down to the beach, she lingers up on the patio.

  “Are you coming down to the water?” I ask.

  Dragging her chair over to a shady spot, she says, “No, I think I’m going to stay up here today.” She holds up her tablet. “I’d like to get in some reading.”

  Guess that’s my cue not to offer to join her.

  That night, we skip our usual walk on the beach.

  I start to worry that I’ve really fucked things up, but by the next day shit seems to return to normal.

  I’m glad about that, but I’m also more resolute than ever that we not get involved. This bump in the road has been a good reminder not to let lust or emotions take over…ever.

  That’s good; we can simply go back to the friend zone.

  Or can we?

  When we resume our nightly walk that evening, Cara is wearing another sexy-ass dress. And, again, I can’t keep my damn eyes off of her.

  Does she choose these clothes on purpose?

  This one is a light cotton number with tiny pearl buttons running all the way down the front. It’s very sexy, very inviting.

  Shit.

  Can’t she just wear long shorts and a T-shirt like I do?

  It’s like she’s dressing this way to taunt me. But that can’t be right. She wouldn’t do that after my rejection the other night. Plus, let’s be honest, she could wear a burlap sack and I’d still want her.

  Guess Mr. Hockeypants was right all along—I am a dog.

  So, woof, let the panting begin.

  It’s hot tonight, humid too. No surprise then that, as we’re walking, Cara undoes the top buttons on her dress.

  “It’s really muggy out, huh?” she says.

  I clear my throat and avert my gaze from the sexy swell of her tan breasts.

  “It sure is,” I murmur.

  Despite my attempts to look at anything but her, my eyes keep tracking back. How could they not? Cara’s such a beautiful, sexy woman. It’s all I can do to keep my hands to myself, even. Fuck the other night, I want to touch, squeeze, and lick every delicious inch of her body.

  Whoa, wait!

  Not this again. This is getting out of hand.

  Based on how the other night ended, and the next day of silent treatment, I bet Cara would kick my ass if I were to make a move now.

  Though there aren’t any planters around, so I might be safe.

  Then I remember Noel’s warning—don’t fuck around with his sister’s friend unless it’s for real. Though I’ve grown to genuinely care for Cara, a relationship is the last thing I need or want. I mean, shit, that’d totally screw with my strip club outings. Not that I’ve gone to any lately. But I could feasibly take a boat over to the mainland and hit up one. Florida does have some of the best girls in the biz, after all.

  Still, for some weird, unknown reason, I don’t have the urge to do that.

  Ah, but I like knowing I have the option.

  So yeah, no—there’ll be no making a move on Cara.

  But damn if the urge to do exactly that isn’t going away. It’s getting fucking stronger.

  Touch her, reach out and trail your hand down her arm. Grab her hand, or better yet, wrap her up in your arms and kiss her like you mean it.

  No!

  Help. Mayday, mayday.

  I rack my brain for an innocuous topic to distract me from Cara’s body and her luscious lips. Problem is she and I have covered most of the basic things. I know all sorts of stuff about her, thanks to these nightly walks. I know where she lives in Las Vegas—which, as fate would have it, isn’t far from my own home—and I know lots of other things too.

  Like that…her favorite color is purple.

  Her favorite food is steak.

  She likes indie music but hates speed metal.

  “Yeah, I’m with you on that one,” I agreed when she divulged that fact.

  She also despises pickles with a passion.

  I’ve told her lots of things about me too. Like that I don’t really have a favorite color, but I think teal is pretty cool. It reminds me of the beach.

  I also shared with her that I’m a hardcore classic rock fan.

  Not big on pickles either, especially those disgusting chip ones. Ugh.

  Oh, but I’m with her on the awesomeness of steak.

  Suddenly, that gives me an idea—I’ll bring up steak since food talk is always safe talk.

  Yeah, that’ll get my brain back on track.

  I clear my throat, then mention to her how fortuitous it was that I made steak our first night.

  She nods and agrees, “Yes, Jaxon, it really was the perfect choice for our first dinner together.”

  “It really was, wasn’t it?” I reply smugly.

  “Ooh, someone’s feeling cocky tonight,” she teases.

  I square up my shoulders and say, “I prefer to call it confidence, honey.”

  “Honey, huh?”

  I just love taunting her. If I can’t kiss her, the next best thing is teasing the crap out of her.

  I smirk over at her, and she leans in just enough to elbow me in the side.

  “Oomph,” I pretend to grunt.

/>   “Aw, poor baby,” she mocks.

  I give her a look. “Seriously, woman, I know you’re not big on hockey, but have you ever considered playing? There are women leagues out there, you know? And they could use someone like you, doling out mean-ass checks like that one.”

  I pretend to rub my side, and she laughs.

  “No, I’ve never considered playing hockey, Jaxon. I’m not that good of a skater.”

  “Aww…” I make a sad face. “That’s too bad.”

  Suddenly looking thoughtful, what with tapping her chin and all, she says, “That wasn’t really a ‘check’ anyway. It was more of an elbow. And, as you well know, I’d get called for a penalty if I did something like that on the ice.”

  Hmm, for someone who purports to know little to nothing about hockey, she sure is well-versed on penalty calls. Just the other day, when we were lying out on the beach, two little lizards were playing in the sand. When one took out the other by knocking his legs out from under him, Cara exclaimed, “Hey, that big lizard just totally slew footed his little buddy.”

  “Slew footed, eh?” I squinted over at her. “Been brushing up on our hockey penalty calls lately, have we?”

  “Nah,” she replied, blushing inexplicably. “I just heard that term once during a game.”

  Yeah, right, like it’s called so often.

  Glancing over now, I raise a brow. “Are you sure you don’t secretly follow hockey, Cara?”

  Why the hell does she suddenly look so uneasy?

  “Um, no, I told you I don’t,” she replies. “But it’s not like I’ve never seen a game.”

  I’m not letting her off the hook, not tonight, not like I did the other day with the lizard. I dropped that slew foot remark way too easily. I’m getting to the bottom of this now.

  Clearing my throat, I counter, “You know, most people don’t pick up on all the penalty calls for a long time. It’s funny how you seem to know even the seldom-called ones.”

  She shrugs. “What can I say? Maybe I’m a quick learner and retain knowledge well?”

  “Is that a question?” I say.

  “Um, no, that’s my explanation.”

  “Hmm, is it now?”

  I’m still wary, especially when she blurts out, “Enough with the hockey talk.”

  Oh, I bet she wants to change the subject.

  Since I always seem to let her get her way, though, I, of course, relent. “Okay.”

  “So…” She blows out a breath, looking much more comfortable. “Did I tell you I heard from Noelle the other day?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I did. And she’s been really busy with her new internship. Good thing she loves it so much, right?”

  Ah hell, from hockey talk to girly talk. I care about Noelle’s internship about as much as I care for pickle chips. And we all know how I feel about them.

  That’s why I don’t know why in the hell I blow out a long, capitulating breath. But I do. I go along with the subject change.

  I swear this girl has me by the balls, and she’s not even my girlfriend. Hell, we aren’t even fuck buddies.

  Yeah, so what is going on?

  “She likes it, eh?” I reply flatly. “That’s awesome.”

  I barely know Noelle. I’ve met her a few times when she was with Noel, and that’s it. Still, I listen to every single one of Cara’s updates about the girl. It’s like I’ve turned into a desperate puppy dog, hanging on to this woman’s every word like she’s my whole world.

  But she’s not.

  So what the fuck is happening here?

  Shit, I know what’s happening—I’m starting to like Cara way more than a bud. I like her, and I obviously lust over her.

  Hmm, I see impending disaster, a disaster known as “falling in love.” Isn’t that what comes next in these situations?

  Well, sorry, but I don’t do “love.”

  Spinning around with no warning, I interrupt Cara. “Hey, not to cut you off, but I think we should head back to the house.”

  “Why?” She bites her lip, naturally confused. “We’ve only walked a short distance, Jaxon. We usually go much farther than this.”

  “Yeah, I know, but…I just thought of something I need to do.”

  “Like what?” she presses.

  “It’s personal,” I snap.

  “Um, okay, cranky, let’s start back then.”

  The lost and forlorn expression on Cara’s pretty face as we walk to the house pains me. But I don’t say or do anything to explain my sudden change in behavior.

  We just continue in silence to the light, glowing like a homing beacon, that we left on in the living room.

  Like the other night, part of me wants to stop and say, “Fuck it, let’s turn back around and keep going. Let’s see where moving forward takes us.”

  But I do no such thing. I need to stay strong on this. All these walks on the beach, sharing dinners, spending days together, getting to know one another, it’s just too much.

  I need to backtrack, in more ways than one, and retrieve what I’ve so clearly lost—my fucking balls.

  Men Are So Weird

  Men are so weird. Now I remember why I don’t date all that much.

  Not that I’m dating Jaxon—hush your mouth!—but even friendship with the opposite sex can be confusing.

  It must be that pesky Y chromosome they possess—not only does it give them a dick, but it tends to turn them into one from time to time.

  Like now.

  Color me confused, but I thought Jaxon and I were having a nice time walking on the beach. We had a weird day yesterday, sure, after he was staring at my boobs through my wet dress the night before, which I’m still not sure what to make of.

  But still, I thought we were past that.

  Guess not.

  Why else would he want to go back to the house so badly all of a sudden?

  Personal reasons, my ass.

  I don’t bother pressing him any further, though. He made it clear he doesn’t want to talk about it.

  I shoot a sidelong glance his way.

  Look at him over there, strutting back to the house in silence. Jerk.

  By the time we reach the back patio, the tension is thick. Mr. Gruff and Grumpy heads straight indoors, muttering something about…balls?

  There’s no way I heard that right.

  No matter, I have some muttering of my own to do.

  Like when I say, “Good, go. Take your Y chromosome with you.”

  Too bad Jaxon’s already inside and doesn’t hear me.

  Maybe this is all for the best, though. A little space could do us some good. Things have been confusing as hell lately. Some days it feels like we’re building…a relationship?

  Ugh, that can’t happen.

  We’re far too comfortable with each other already. And that’s not good. What if he finds out I’m Mr. Hockeypants?

  Bet he won’t be staring at my boobs then. Or maybe he will, but only because he’d want to hate-fuck me.

  I don’t want that. Angry fuck, yes. Hate fuck, no. It would hurt too much when he got up and left me. And leave me is what he’d do if he knew the truth.

  So I need to be more careful.

  I slipped up a few times when I forgot that I’m supposed to be clueless about hockey. I’m bound to end up busted for real if this crap continues.

  Fuck it, my Mr. Hockeypants blog comes first. That’s my job, goddammit!

  Speaking of which, it’s been a while since I posted anything. Last was the one I now secretly call “The Skewering of Jaxon Holland.”

  Though with the way he acted tonight, I don’t feel so bad right now.

  Ack, maybe I do a little.

  No matter, I need to focus on putting up a blog post tonight. The Stanley Cup championship is well underway, we’re two games in. The Oilers are playing the Devils, and the series is tied 1-1.

  There are no TVs in the house, but there is Wi-Fi. That’s how I’ve been keeping up with things. I watched
the first two games secretly in my bedroom on my tablet.

  I’m pretty sure I heard Jaxon watching Game Two as well, down the hall. He was screaming something about bad officiating. No surprise there. Ever since that fateful hooking call on him, he thinks each and every infraction should be dealt with.

  Not that I blame him. That penalty still haunts the poor man.

  I suddenly feel a pang of guilt for egging on that hysteria.

  “I won’t do that again,” I murmur to myself as I head inside.

  After I freshen up a little in the downstairs powder room, I settle in on the sofa with my tablet, all prepared to compose a new post.

  As I type it up, I’m cognizant not to mention Jaxon, or even the Wolves, in my Mr. Hockeypants’s musings.

  Nope, I discuss only the teams who are playing for the Stanley Cup, nothing else.

  When I hit Publish, I do so with a smile. It actually feels good to post something positive. Damn, I’m kind of proud I wrote two full pages of material and didn’t bash a single player. Mr. Hockeypants must be turning over a new leaf.

  But it doesn’t matter. Not ten seconds later, the negative comments start rolling in.

  It’s a slow trickle at first. The fans simply start bitching about various plays in the most recent games. But it escalates quickly into a crescendo of anti-Jaxon comments.

  “No, no, no,” I gasp as I helplessly watch the vitriol roll in. “How is this even happening? I never mentioned Jaxon, not even once.”

  I can’t unpublish the post, and I can’t turn off the comments. Either might make things worse, like adding chum to already bloodied waters. The haters would just migrate to other blogs and bitch even more, anyway.

  No, it’s better to keep this contained to one site—mine.

  So I do nothing.

  I sit, watching in horror as the masses once again descend on and tear apart Jaxon Holland.

  In my heart, I know he’ll end up discovering who’s behind Mr. Hockeypants. I just feel it in my bones. And when he does, he’s going to hate me so freaking much.

  Now why does that make me want to cry?

  Mr. Hockeypants Kills my Boner

  That goddamn fucking Mr. Hockeypants!

  I just checked my phone for a quick Stanley Cup update and what do I find? My nemesis has posted something on his sleazy blog.