I sighed and turned away from the window. What the hell was I going to do for the next three months? And that was a minimum, if all went well. It could be longer than that.
I’d been reading tons of books, especially the romance novels I loved. Except it was unfortunate that some of the sexy times in the books got me a little, um, fancy in my nancy, as they say, and here I was all alone with nobody but B.O.B. B.O.B. was very amenable and available, but our relationship was becoming humdrum. We’d lost that loving feeling. There was no spark left. I’d taken things into my own hands, so to speak, with some buffin’ the muffin, but that wasn’t spicing things up enough either.
I eyed the television. I’d refused to watch hockey because it was going to make me think of Chase. I’d also avoided social media. My assistant had posted the updates the team had come up with for my fans, and I’d written lengthy Facebook and Instagram posts before I had the surgery to apologize and explain the reason the new album was going to be delayed. I hated disappointing my fans, but most of them had been overwhelmingly positive in their support of me, which was enormously touching.
Then there’d been the people who’d started rumors that I was actually in rehab for my alcohol/cocaine/heroin (choose one or all) addiction. I just had to clamp my teeth down onto my tongue, or rather, curl my fingers into fists so I wouldn’t type a bunch of shit online, and let it go. I knew the truth. People who cared about me knew the truth.
So yeah, it was better to just stay away from that stuff.
I sat on the couch and stared at the TV. Oh, what the hell. Maybe there was a game on. I loved hockey; it would at least distract me from the fact that I was going crazy. I grabbed the remote and turned it on, then clicked through the various sports channels. Yep, there was hockey—a couple of games.
I sat back into my couch, and my bottom lip pushed out. One of the games was the Maple Leafs against the Canadiens.
Was Chase watching? Probably not…he likely had a game himself.
Fuck. Curiosity burned insistently inside me. What the hell. I leaned way over and grabbed my phone from the end table where it was plugged in, charging. I found the Aces schedule and peered at it. I didn’t even know today’s date, that’s how out of it I was. Finally I figured it out. Nope, no Aces game tonight. They’d played last night and had another home game tomorrow.
I sucked in a long breath and let it out slowly. He was here in Chicago.
Chase had sent me a ton of messages after the night of the Mistletoe Magic concert. I’d never replied to any of them, and guilt, remorse, and shame weighed in my belly like a rock. He’d probably stopped messaging me by now. Anyway, he would have seen the stuff posted online about what was going on with me.
I opened the instant messenger app on my phone and found his name. With a heavy feeling, I swiped my finger down the screen to read his texts. Yeah, he’d stopped sending them after Christmas…the last text from him said, I guess you’re not reading these and that’s okay, I’ll stop bugging you. As you can see, I’m worried about you. The stuff in the news says you’re okay so I hope that’s true but if you need anything ever EVER just ping me. Merry Christmas, Jordyn.
The others had all been shorter, You there? You okay? Other than the first one, which had come through the night of the concert when my vocal cords had hemorrhaged. I could read the panic in it. He’d been watching the concert on TV.
My eyes stung. I dropped the phone and leaned my head back into the couch cushions.
Images of our date floated behind my eyelids. It seemed like forever ago, with everything that had happened since, but I clearly remembered how happy I’d been that night. We’d connected in a way that didn’t happen very often, a fun, easy connection with an underlying sizzle of sexual attraction.
He was the nicest, hottest guy I’d ever met.
I also remembered the look on his face when I’d told him I wouldn’t see him again. I’d told him it was just a onetime thing, a PR event our fans would love. He’d made it clear that he wasn’t into relationships and was focused on his career. And I was focused on mine. We didn’t even live in the same city. What was the point of seeing each other again?
I rubbed the heel of my hand against my aching chest. I hadn’t been honest with him. Or with myself. Because I wished so, so much that we could have seen each other again. I felt guilty about saying those things, and I felt guilty about not responding to any of his messages, because I’d at least owed him that much.
At least I could apologize to him.
I picked up my phone again and bit my lip, staring at the screen.
I entered the message slowly, then re-read it three times.
Hi Chase. I want to apologize to you for not responding to your texts. I’ve been going through a rough time and that’s not an excuse for being rude, but I want to say I’m sorry. I’m doing okay and I hope you are too. And thank you again for that amazing evening…it was the best date I’ve ever had.
My heart banged against my ribs and then I hit the button that would send the message.
I swallowed. Done. I’d apologized.
I didn’t expect a reply. I’d blown him off pretty badly, and I totally got why he wouldn’t want anything to do with me.
I opened up Twitter. Things about me had died down now so I wasn’t as worried about what I’d see, but I avoided checking my mentions and searched out some Leafs hashtags and settled back to watch the game.
The Leafs scored a beauty goal on a delayed penalty, taking the lead, and I added my praise for the sweet play to the Twitter hashtag.
“Wow, the Leafs are really pounding the D tonight!” the announcer cried.
I snorted. Yeah, I had to tweet it. It was too good not to. But before I could, I saw the tweet from Chase. He’d actually tagged me in it. I laughed out loud.
My heart went all warm, and my blood fizzed in my veins like champagne. I set my fingertips to my mouth and stared at my phone.
He was watching the game and posting dirty hockey tweets.
I touched my finger to the screen to like the tweet.
It only took seconds before he tweeted back at me. Good one eh?
My smile was huge. My fingers actually shook a little as I replied. So good eh.
I watched the game but I wasn’t really seeing it, my heart beating fast, a goofy smile on my face.
My phone chimed. I grabbed it. It was a text message—a reply from Chase. My heart rose into my throat.
Hey, song girl. Good to hear from you. After a couple of seconds, another message arrived. Are you really okay?
I pressed my fingertips to my lips, a tingling warmth flowing through my body. My nose stung as emotion rose inside me. The surgery had been deemed a success, but I still couldn’t sing. And until that happened…I’m not sure.
Ah baby…fuck, what happened?
Long story. But don’t worry. I am okay. I’m here. I’m alive. I have a lot to be grateful for.
Your voice…?
It should be okay. The surgeon said the surgery was successful.
The dots that showed Chase was typing appeared on my screen. Then they disappeared. And reappeared again. Finally his message showed up. Thank Christ.
My smile was shaky. I know. Then I sent another message. How are YOU?
This reply took longer. Eh. Could be better.
Damn. He’d been unhappy with how he was playing a month ago. Were things not going any better for him? I hadn’t been following the Aces at all. Score any goals?
Yeah. Scored the other night against Philly. Felt good. Need more though.
I nodded my agreement even though he couldn’t see me.
It’s depressing AF.
One corner of my mouth lifted. Tell me about it. I came home to Chicago to recuperate but I’m sitting here getting depressed too. Can’t sing for at least 3 mont
hs.
Shit. We’re a pair.
Yep.
Are you really here in Chicago?
Yes.
Nothing more came through, and I thought maybe the conversation was over. Then he messaged, Can you talk?
Yes, I can talk now. I couldn’t for a while.
And then my phone rang.
I sucked briefly on my bottom lip as my phone told me it was Chase, my heart doing funny things in my chest. Then I answered the call. “Hey.”
“Hey you.” His deep voice was a low rasp. “It’s really good to hear your voice.”
“Yeah. You too.”
“Thanks for texting me.”
“You should be pissed at me.”
“Oh, I am.”
I huffed out an amused breath. “Okay.”
“Look, here’s a crazy idea. You’re getting depressed. I’m getting depressed. Maybe we could get together and cheer each other up.”
Excitement wiggled through me. “Why does that sound dirty?”
He laughed. “Because you have a dirty mind and you’ve been reading dirty hockey tweets?”
“Ha.”
“I didn’t mean ‘cheer each other up’ as a euphemism for ‘fuck each other’s lights out.’ ” He paused. “Although that might not be a bad idea.”
“I hear sex is good for improving your mood. Something to do with hormones.”
He let out a low groan. “I seriously didn’t mean it that way, but hearing you talk about sex is making me hard.”
Damn. I bit my lip, my inner muscles squeezing. “You talking about being hard is making me…wet.”
Dense silence met my ear. Then he growled, “So? Do we have another date?”
Chapter 10
Chase
I rubbed my hands together, as nervous as a rookie goalie facing Crosby on a breakaway.
She was here.
I walked to the door of my condo to let Jordyn in for our second date.
This one was going to be a lot less public. She’d agreed to come to my place Saturday night for dinner and Netflix. And no, that wasn’t another euphemism. Although if a movie led to her in my bed, underneath me, I was down for that. Or rather, up for that. Heh.
I opened the door just as she walked down the hall toward me, the doorman having already announced her and sent her up.
My body became electrified when I saw her. I felt such a jumble of emotions, it was hard to sort them all out. There was a lot of relief at seeing her, seeing that she was okay. I’d been worried about her. I’d been pissed because she hadn’t answered any of my messages. But then I’d seen her posts about what was going on, and I was back to being worried out of my mind, because…damn, her voice.
I mean, we barely knew each other. But it didn’t feel like that. We’d only had one date, but I felt like at the very least we’d become friends.
But humming along with all of that was pure, hot lust. And amazement that this beautiful woman was walking toward me. That I was getting to see her again. It was a wonder I didn’t drop to my knees in front of her to worship at the altar of Jordyn Banks.
Her mouth curved into a smile, but her eyes held hints of uncertainty. And that amazed me even more, my heart turning over in my chest. This beautiful, talented woman who had the world at her feet was unsure of herself…when it came to me?
I stood aside to let her enter my condo and shut the door. Then I reached for her and pulled her into my arms. I was gentle even though I didn’t want to be, because she was fragile. What I really wanted to do was grab her, squeeze her, pick her up, and carry her into my bedroom and…“I should spank your cute little ass,” I growled at her just before I laid my mouth on hers.
I was careful with that too. I wanted to slam my mouth onto hers, plunge my tongue inside, bite her lips, and pull her hair. But she was recovering from a delicate surgery and I wasn’t an animal. Okay, I sort of was, but I managed to control my base instincts, for now anyway.
So I slid my hands up to cup her face, tilted her head so gently, and opened my mouth over hers in a slow, lingering kiss, touching my tongue to hers.
She moaned and leaned into me, kissing me back.
I lifted my head and smiled down at her. “Hi.”
“Hi.” The word was breathless, almost shy.
Again, the juxtaposition of her now, shy and uncertain, compared to onstage, confidently belting out a song and shaking her ass in front of millions of people wearing little more than a sequined bikini, struck me like a punch to the gut. And I felt…lucky. That I got to see this side of her.
So damn lucky.
“You’re still mad?” Her voice was faintly husky which I guessed was from the surgery.
“Yeah. But I’ll get over it.” I kissed her forehead and dropped my hands to her shoulders. I turned her. “Come in. Let me take your jacket, and I’ll show you around.”
She unwound the scarf around her neck and shrugged out of the puffy jacket she wore, handing them to me. I hung them in the closet, checking her out as I did so. She sat on the bench near my door to pull off her fur-lined suede boots. She wore black skinny jeans that were ripped and frayed in that cool designer way, and an oversized pink loose-knit sweater.
“Want something to drink?”
“I can’t drink alcohol yet.” She wrinkled her nose and stood. Once again, I was struck by her petite stature. “Or anything acidic—orange juice. Or soda pop that’s fizzy.”
“Uh…” My mind went blank. “I have water…”
“I’m actually okay at the moment.”
“Are you able to eat?” Alarm seized me that the meal I’d prepared—okay, the meal I’d picked up at Whole Foods—wasn’t going to work for her.
“Yes. I can eat pretty much anything now. At first, just soft stuff like ice cream and pudding.”
“Like when I had my tonsils out.”
“It probably feels the same.” She lifted her shoulders. “I never had my tonsils out. Actually that’s probably worse. The surgery I had was done with a laser, so it’s not as invasive as actually cutting something open.”
I winced. “I had my tonsils out when I was ten. I barely remember it, other than the Jell-O and Popsicles. But any kind of surgery freaks me out.”
Her eyes widened. “You’re kidding me. You’re a hockey player. Haven’t you broken bones and had stitches?”
“Well, yeah. Last year I broke my thumb, but it wasn’t that bad. And I’ve had a few stitches. Took a puck in the face.” I touched my eyebrow. “Right here. And my mouth.”
She peered at my face. “I can barely see the scars.” She eyed me, her eyebrows pulled down. “Did you pass out?”
“Hell no! I’m tough.”
Her lips twitched. “But surgery freaks you out.”
I rolled my eyes. “Shit happens during hockey. It’s an accident. You get stitched up, you keep playing. But surgery is…deliberate. Someone’s cutting you open on purpose.”
She giggled softly. “Well, yeah.” Then her smile faded.
“Sorry.” I cringed inwardly at my lack of sensitivity. “You don’t want to talk about that.”
“No, no, it’s fine. Actually…talking about it would be good.”
“Come in the kitchen while I get dinner ready.” I headed to my kitchen, and she followed.
“I thought you couldn’t cook.”
“I’m a terrible cook. Luckily Whole Foods is nearby, and they have a huge selection of prepared dishes to choose from. Honestly, almost everything I eat away from the arena is from there.”
She laughed softly and climbed onto a stool at the island. “I’m glad to hear that. Now I don’t have to feel intimidated, since I can’t cook either.”
I extended my arm with my hand in a fist and she bumped hers against it.
“So what are we having?” She lifted up off the stool to peer over.
The neckline of her sweater drooped, giving me a glimpse of pink satin and lace cupping inviting cleavage.
Christ on a crouton. My dick stirred and sweat broke out on my forehead. “Uh. Cashew chicken. Lettuce wraps. Beef goulash on buttered noodles. And cranberry spinach salad.”
Her eyebrows flew up. “Whoa. That’s a lot of food.”
“I wanted to make sure I had something you like. And I remember that you watch what you eat, so I got healthy stuff.”
Her eyes softened. “Thanks.”
I was still trying to focus after glimpsing blessed paradise. “So tell me about what happened. I saw your posts but they didn’t say much. That night at the Mistletoe Magic concert…were you in pain?”
“Yeah.” She dropped her gaze to the granite counter and traced the pattern of the stone. “I’d been having problems off and on for a while. Sore throat, a weird feeling when I sang. The night I did the AMAs I thought my voice sounded different…rough. Nobody else seemed to notice though. Then that night in New York…I kept feeling like I had to clear my throat, and then when I went to hit the high notes, nothing came out. Oh God.” She covered her face with her hands dramatically. “It was absolutely mortifying. At first. I felt like such a fool, having to leave the stage. But then I got scared.”
“I guess so.” I set a dish in the microwave to heat and closed the door, then turned to face her. I fucking hated thinking about her going through that.
“I saw two specialists and they said the same thing. I had a polyp on my vocal cord and it had hemorrhaged.”
“Jesus.” I stared at her in horror.
“But it was something they could fix, so that was good, and like I said, they used a laser. I couldn’t talk at all for three weeks after.”
“You could have texted.” I said it in a mild tone.
Playing Hurt Page 8
