Once Upon a Power Play

by Jennifer Bonds

  Focusing on her work, she pulled up the list of Santa references she’d gotten from the talent agency. It was her responsibility to book the Santa for the party and she was determined to do a good job, finding a real jolly old elf, not one of those tacky looking dudes in a cheap, bright-red suit. She peeked at the screen. The Rangers were off to a rough start. The Pens stole the puck and were moving it down the ice. Chloe held her breath. They took a shot on goal, but it was blocked by Wright.

  Shifting her attention back to the profiles, she discarded the first option immediately. Too skinny. A nice round Santa would definitely be more authentic.

  The buzzer sounded, disrupting her train of thought. The Pens were celebrating when she looked up.

  Damn.

  Still early, she reminded herself, forcing her gaze back to the Santa profiles. She dismissed two more candidates, one for his fake beard, the other for being a smidge too fat. What good was a Santa who was too fat for kids sit on his lap?

  When Chloe looked up again, Ryan was on the breakaway. “Take the shot!” she yelled, shoving her computer aside and climbing to her knees. She leaned toward the television, holding her breath and willing the puck to find the net. Ryan’s stick came back, and he fired.

  The shot was wide.

  Sonofabitch!

  Chloe slumped on the couch, wrapped in the overstuffed cushions. Well, that sucked.

  Ryan slashed the ice with his stick before returning to the bench. The camera followed him, zooming in when he rubbed his calf. Was his leg bothering him? The freaking announcers seemed to think so. Idiots. What the hell did they know? So he wasn’t on his game tonight. Maybe he was just having a bad night. It happened, didn’t it? Hopefully it wasn’t anything serious.

  Ryan had been working so hard.

  Maybe too hard.

  No. That was bullshit. Kelsey was wrong. And so were all of the other assmonkeys who said he was washed-up. Ryan would fight for his career. She was sure of it. The look in his eye when he talked about hockey? How could anyone doubt it.

  Chloe blew out a breath. Obsessing about Ryan wasn’t going to get the party planned. Besides, he was a big boy. A really big boy. He could take care of himself. She didn’t need to mother hen him. Nor did she want to.

  Pulling the computer back into her lap, she scrolled through the Santa profiles with renewed focus. Why the hell were there so many anyway? The agency must have sent her every freaking Santa they’d ever employed. Perhaps she hadn’t been clear enough. She didn’t need a hundred Santa’s. She just need one really good one.

  It took nearly an hour to narrow the list down, which probably had something to do with the fact that she couldn’t keep her eyes off the TV. Finally satisfied with her top three choices, she settled in to watch the last few minutes of the game.

  The Rangers were losing two to one, but it wasn’t over yet. There were still six minutes of play. They could pull it out. Chloe chewed on her thumbnail, eyes glued to the screen as the Blueshirts moved the puck past the red line.

  Jordy passed to Ryan. Before he could make a move, one of the Pens’ players slammed into him, checking him against the boards. Ryan took an elbow to the jaw, losing control of the puck. He came off the glass swinging.

  Unable to believe her eyes, Chloe watched as Ryan grabbed the jersey of the other player and delivered a right hook to his face. She sat slack jawed as the two men traded blows. The refs circled, but kept their distance. Ryan throttled the other player, pummeling him with his fists. Blood ran down his face, staining his white and black jersey. Ryan wasn’t looking so hot either. His cheek was split and he was sure to end up with a massive bruise.

  What. The. Fuck.

  Ryan wasn’t a fighter. That was Bash’s job. He’d told her as much. So what the hell did he think he was he doing?

  The ref steered him toward the penalty box, but Ryan shrugged the guy off. He skated right to the players’ tunnel and left the ice. Even with the heavy pads, it was clear his body was laced with tension, a live wire ready to short circuit at the smallest provocation.

  Chloe cut her eyes to the clock in the upper right corner of the screen. Her gut clenched. Less than five minutes to go. Ryan wouldn’t be returning to the game. She grabbed the remote and punched the power button. There was nothing left to see. The game was over.

  Pocketing her phone, she went to bed and stretched out on top of the fluffy comforter. It didn’t take a genius to figure out Ryan was probably feeling like shit. But what could she do about it? Unlike the puck bunnies she knew would be blowing up his Twitter feed offering solace, she was four hundred miles away.

  Fuck it. Ryan pushed the call button on his phone and waited. He glanced at the clock. It was late. Maybe too late. The phone rang and Chloe answered on the second ring. Even though he was glad to hear her voice, he cursed himself for caving. He should’ve just downed some aspirin and gone the fuck to bed. It had been a shitty night and his leg was on fire.

  “Hey,” she said, yawning into the phone.

  Shit. He’d woken her up. “Hey,” he returned, feeling like the jackass she’d accused him of being so many times. Why had he called anyway?

  “Tough night,” she said quietly. “How’s your leg?”

  “My leg is fine.” He bristled, hating himself for being a defensive asshole. After all, he’d dialed her, and whether he liked it or not, it was a natural question to ask.

  “Okay.” She sighed, sounding frustrated. “Then how’s your face?”

  “I take it you saw the game?” he asked, ignoring her question. His face was also not fine and hurt like a motherfucker, but he wasn’t about to admit it. Not after he’d taken the first swing. It was just part of the game. Of course, Bash had ripped him a new one after the final buzzer, pointing out that Ryan should’ve left the fighting to him. He’d just been so damn angry. Still was. The game had been a fucking disaster. And if it wasn’t bad enough that he’d played like hell, he’d gone right ahead and added poor sportsmanship to the mix, drawing a major penalty over a clean hit. He shook his head in frustration. So much for being a leader when his team needed him most. The only thing he’d done tonight was let them down.

  Again.

  “I saw the game,” Chloe finally admitted. There was a quiet rustling in the background, as if she was repositioning herself, confirming his earlier assumption that she was in bed. “I had it on while I was planning for the Garden of Dreams Christmas party.”

  “I didn’t realize your agency was handling the party,” he said, surprised by the news. Based on last year’s event, it didn’t seem like a big enough deal for the advertising and marketing people to be have a hand in it.

  “They’re not. I’m volunteering,” Chloe explained matter-of-factly. “Figured I might as well put my new pseudo-celebrity status to good use and see if I can get the organization some additional press before the end of the year. Which reminds me. When are you due back in town? I miss your dick something fierce.”

  Grinning in spite of himself, Ryan laid back on the hotel bed, exhaustion taking over. “I’ve got Saturday off.”

  “Saturday?” she repeated, sounding so disappointed he could easily picture her bottom lip jutting out in that pouty frown she used when things weren’t going her way.

  “Princess, that’s less than two days from now.”

  “Might as well be an eternity,” she grumbled. “I’m horny right-freaking-now.”

  Ryan stretched his leg, flexing his ankle. A searing pain ripped through his calf, cutting off any further discussion of weekend plans. Moving the phone away from his head so Chloe wouldn’t hear, he sucked in a deep breath and blew it out with controlled measure like the therapist had taught him. Fucking A. There would probably be another visit to the doc in his future. Just what he didn’t need.

  When the pain subsided, he brought the phone back to his ear. Chloe was still going strong, totally oblivious to his silence. His pride said he should be grateful she was unaware of the momentary weakness,
so why was he suddenly so pissed off?

  “You know what? Who says we have to wait for Saturday?” she asked, her words taking on a seductive edge. “Talk dirty to me, baby.”

  Ryan gritted his teeth. Any other day, he would have jumped at the challenge. Hell, he’d have reveled in it, determined to make her come while he ordered her to finger that sweet little pussy and fulfill his every sinful suggestion. But for some reason, her request just didn’t sit right with him. Anger bubbled up from his gut. Did she think sex was all he was good for? That he was just some big, dumb fucking jock that could make her come and get her extra press for her work? If so, she didn’t know the first goddamned thing about him. Just like every other woman he’d been with.

  “Come on, Ryan,” she purred. “I’m naked and alone in this big old bed. And my pussy is so damn wet for you. What are you going to do about it, baby?”

  Spoiling for a fight and unable to stop himself, he blurted out the first ugly thing that came to mind. “You know there’s more to life than sex, right, Chloe? And more to me? Or am I just a neat little NHL notch on your bedpost?”

  She gasped as though he’d slapped her.

  Then the line went dead. A wave of molten lava rushed through his veins. He threw the damn phone across the room, not giving a shit when it cracked against the wall and clattered to the floor.

  Fuck.

  Ryan scrubbed hand over his face and groaned, the anger ebbing from his body. He’d been a real asshole, throwing the most prickish, demeaning thing he could think of at her. To hurt her. And for what? Because he was feeling like shit. Hurting her certainly hadn’t made him feel any better. If anything, he felt even smaller and less deserving than ever. What had he expected from her anyway? She wasn’t his girlfriend. They weren’t a thing. Hell, they barely even knew each other.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chloe glared at her computer, wishing the damn thing would just implode so she could go home and drown her sorrows in a bottle of wine. Or maybe a box. Yeah, a cheap box of wine would do nicely, matching her shitty mood perfectly.

  Over the years, she’d suffered her fair share of indignity at the hands of the male species, but it was impossible to think of another time she’d been so completely and utterly humiliated. Because there wasn’t one. She was sure of it. Never before had she put herself out there, more or less throwing herself at a guy, to have him totally shut her down—hard.

  Talk about going down in flames. It may have been her first attempt at phone sex, but it would also be her last, considering it had been the definition of an epic fail. No way in hell would she ever put herself in that position again. Ryan the Jerk had reared his ugly head, acting like a total asshole and treating her like some stupid, puck bunny groupie. The memory of it made her cheeks burn.

  Just because he was having a bad night, didn’t mean he had to take it out on her. She’d only been trying to help, figuring sex would take his mind off the game. That’s what they were about wasn’t it? Why else would he have called? She huffed out an angry breath. A notch on her bedpost? He could take that bedpost and shove it up his—

  “Morning, Chloe.” Cole stood at the edge of her cubicle, leaning against the partition that separated her work space from the other Junior Associates. “How’re things going with the Garden of Dreams campaign?”

  “Great,” she said, swallowing her anger and forcing a smile that was anything but authentic. “The trial run of the new spot ran at The Garden and returned over one hundred thousand dollars in donations. A few more tweaks and we’ll be ready to officially roll it out.” She nodded at her monitor, directing his attention to the Twitter analytics she was reviewing. “The online response has been strong among the test group as well.”

  “Good. PBA made an aggressive commitment to increase donations fifteen percent through year-end with the new campaign. We have to deliver.” He gave a curt nod. “Tough game last night. How’s Ryan?”

  “I really wouldn’t know.” A hot ball of rage formed in her belly. She imagined it pulsing like a supernova, threatening to blow her apart from the inside out. Time to change the subject. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a lot of work to do for Garden of Dreams today.”

  “My apologies,” Cole said, stepping back. “I didn’t mean to hold you up.”

  Chloe sighed, feeling like an asshole. “No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. I’m just having a bad day. I didn’t sleep very well.”

  “Don’t give it another thought,” he responded, waving off her apology and moving down the aisle.

  It wasn’t Cole’s fault she was feeling pissy and short tempered. It was most definitely Ryan’s fault. Or was it hers? Had she gone and screwed up again, getting too invested in whatever it was she and Ryan were doing? She didn’t think so. In fact, the only feelings she could muster for him were loathing, anger, and disgust. Then again, it was impossible to see past the mountain of disdain she’d built up over the last twelve hours, so who knew? Better to not waste any more time analyzing the situation and just stick to the plan: focus on work and protect her traitorous heart at all costs.

  Shoving the fight—if it could even be called that—with Ryan aside, she returned to her analytical work, promising herself she wouldn’t spend her day obsessing about all the ways she was pissed off.

  It worked, but damn if it wasn’t exhausting. The day had stretched interminably, and by the time five o’clock had rolled around, she’d had one foot out the door. Chloe went straight home and busted out her yoga pants and corkscrew, curling up on the couch with the remote. Flipping through the channels, she finally settled on the local news. She guzzled her wine as the blond anchor, whom she’d dubbed Susan the Smile due to her impossibly perfect teeth, rattled off the day’s events. When Ryan’s face appeared in the upper right corner of the screen, she almost changed the channel. Almost. In the end, curiosity won out and she dropped the remote on the couch.

  “New York Ranger Ryan Douglas is spreading the holiday spirit this season, promising to donate five-thousand dollars to the Garden of Dreams Foundation for each game the Rangers win through the end of the year.” Susan turned to her co-anchor. “And that’s not all, John, he’s challenged his fellow team captains to do the same!”

  The screen cut to a clip of Ryan, looking sinfully sexy in a dark polo shirt and faded jeans, speaking passionately about the work GoD was doing to serve children locally. When he flashed that panty-melting grin of his, Chloe’s ovaries took notice.

  “Quite a bold, and potentially expensive, move,” John replied with a practiced smile. “Any word yet on whether the challenge has been accepted?”

  “We haven’t received an official statement from the organization or the players yet,” the Smile responded. “But you can bet your jersey they’re in. After all, it’s a great cause. How could they say no to these faces?” she asked, flashing a picture of the kids playing hockey at The Garden with the hashtag #BlueshirtChallenge.

  “Well, we certainly wish all the best to the Rangers this holiday season,” John responded, wrapping up the segment.

  Chloe’s heart skipped a beat. The kind of press this stunt would generate couldn’t be bought. It would spread like wildfire on social media. News and sports outlets would be talking about the challenge—and Garden of Dreams—before and after every Rangers’ game for weeks. A fact Ryan surely knew, just as he knew how much Garden of Dreams meant to her. What he’d done, what he’d done for her, well, it was one hell of an apology. No one had ever done anything like it for her before. That didn’t mean he was off the hook just yet. They still had unfinished business.

  “This better be good,” Ryan muttered, dropping his beer on the kitchen counter and moving down the hall to the front door. He wasn’t expecting anyone, and he was hardly in the mood for uninvited company. Throwing the lock back, he skipped the peephole and common courtesy.

  “What?” he practically growled as he ripped the door open.

  “Well, hey there yourself,” Chloe retorte
d, a smug grin stretching from ear to ear, as if she knew just how miserable he’d been the last two days while she refused his calls.

  For a second, Ryan just stared, processing the fact that Chloe Jacobs was standing at his front door. Uninvited. Unexpected. But totally welcome. He might’ve dared hope she was on the other side of the door, but he certainly hadn’t expected it. Which led to his second question. “How’d you get up here?”

  Totally unfazed by his lack of manners, she shrugged. “Doorman let me up. Apparently having your face splashed all over Page Six does have its perks. Are you going to invite me in?”

  “Of course. Sorry,” he said, swinging the door wide to let her pass. “I wasn’t expecting anyone. You caught me a little off guard here.”

  “You ain’t seen nothing yet,” she teased, winking at him as she slipped by. Ryan followed her to the living room, admiring the way her hips swayed as she sauntered down the hall in those fucking gold snakeskin heels that turned him inside out. Had she worn them on purpose just to torture him? Probably.

  Chloe stopped in the center of the living room and spun on her heel, facing him. The woman was practically glowing. She was up to something. No doubt about it. Whatever it was, he sure as hell deserved it after the things he’d said to her. He’d known his words were a dick move as soon as he’d said them, but he couldn’t take them back. So he’d lain awake all night trying to think of a way to make it up to her. The challenge was the only thing he could think of to show her he was sorry. He knew how much the Garden of Dreams account meant to her, both personally and professionally. So he’d taken a chance and hoped for the best.