by Elise Faber
Max raised a brow. “That didn’t exactly look like nothing. I mean, come on, man. She’s one of us now. You need to leave her be.”
Stefan fixed his friend with a look, hostility boiling his blood at the implication, even as his brain mercilessly reminded him that Max was right. He was attracted to Brit in a very inappropriate way.
But that was the physical only.
The rest of it—the respect, the confidence in her abilities—was acceptable. He was good at compartmentalizing, and he’d shoved her very firmly into the teammate zone of his mind.
Plus, this was nothing more than instant chemistry. Or at least nothing more than insta-lust, and lust he could deal with.
No problem.
So he glared at Max and said, “You of all people should know that pictures don’t always tell the full truth.”
It was a low blow. Max had felt the brunt of a particularly brutal and untruthful media campaign over the summer. It had cost him everything—his wife, his kid—all because of some falsified pictures and a forged paternity test. The truth had come out. Eventually. But the damage had been done.
They locked eyes for a long moment, Max’s past a corporal and uncomfortable presence.
The tension broke when Max grimaced. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
Stefan nodded, acknowledging the apology even while trying to communicate his own. He shouldn’t have brought it up . . . but then again, he shouldn’t have done a lot of things.
“There’s nothing between us,” he told Max. “She had her headphones in, I startled her, we got tangled up and fell.”
“Gotcha.” A pause. “You both okay?”
“Besides the bruise on my ass the size of a fucking elephant?”
Max laughed but went abruptly silent when Brit’s gaze whipped toward them. “Fuck. She’s scary.”
“Naw. She’s just like us.”
“What do you mean?”
Stefan grasped onto the sudden bit of clarity with two fists. “She’s pissed, maybe a little hurt. And she’s needs a way to work off some of that frustration.”
“How?”
“Dude. She’s a hockey player.”
“Oh.”
He waited. Wasn’t disappointed. Max could be seriously dense sometimes.
“I don’t get it.”
“Come on, man! Go take some fucking shots on her. That’s how she gets rid of her frustration. She plays hockey.”
“Oh.” Max glanced at him. “Are you sure?” But his friend’s lips were twitching.
“Oh my God,” Stefan said. “You’re an idiot. Go.”
Max grabbed a puck, skated to the top of the circles, and waited for Brit’s attention.
When she nodded, he ripped a slap shot that collided with Brit’s pads in a resounding thud.
More of the guys joined in. More shots. More saves. And the tension in the rink began to dissipate.
Frankie came out and began running the drills about five minutes later. Stefan joined in, skated his ass off. Sweated. Rushed. Shot. Defended.
It was a typical practice.
Except for the fact that Bernard never appeared.
And Brit didn’t smile. Not once.
In the small amount of time he’d known Brit, one of his favorite things about her was the giant grin adorning her face every time she stepped on the ice, made a save, or hell, took a sip of water. He’d even seen it in the scouting videos and in her interviews.
Her enjoyment in the game was palpable and inspiring . . . and somehow in the last twelve hours, that joy had disappeared.
****
What did an idiotic male say to the fuming female next to him?
Stefan sucked in a breath, reminded himself to man up. “Are you—?”
“No,” Brit said. “I’m not okay or fine or on my fucking period. Okay?”
His fingers froze on the laces of his skates. Was that a rhetorical question, or did she want an answer?
“Jesus Christ,” she muttered, tossing her chest protector to the floor and kneeling to remove her leg pads. “I’m fine.”
“I just thought—”
“That’s your problem,” she snapped. “Thinking.”
Well, fuck that. He might respect Brit a whole lot, might think she was hot as hell, and a damn good goalie, but fuck her pushing him around. He wasn’t a weak-ass rookie. He was the captain. And more than that, he was a man who wouldn’t tolerate someone giving him bullshit.
Didn’t matter if the mouth the crap came from was male or female.
Carefully, oh so carefully, so he didn’t step on her fingers, didn’t slice through any of that gorgeous porcelain skin with the sharp blades still strapped to his feet, Stefan knelt beside her.
He brushed her fingers aside, said, “Let me get that.”
Then he pretended to help her untangle a particularly bad knot on the lace holding her pad to the underside of one skate.
“Let’s get one thing straight,” he told her, gripping her ankle tight, his tone mild, but his words no less fierce. “I will not be pushed. I will not be snapped at. I’m the captain of this team—”
She shoved his hand away. “Get the hell away from me. You don’t know shit, Barie.”
He caught her wrist when she would have shoved him again. “I know enough.” A squeeze. A warning. “I know more than enough.” His tone was laced with steel.
Brit’s eyes widened, but she let him reach forward to untie the bottom lace on her pad.
When it was loose, he stood then sank back down onto the bench in front of his cubby. His skates were off seconds later, the rest of his equipment and sweaty clothes following suit.
The locker room had quieted during the exchange with Brit, but Stefan was beyond giving a shit.
He strode naked into the showers.
Living the dream. He was living the fucking dream.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Stefan had a moment of fuck-the-record-breaking-California-drought and stayed in the shower long past the recommended three minutes.
Unfortunately, the lukewarm water did nothing to temper his . . . temper. Frustration rode him hard and mixed with confusion to create a lethal combination.
He wanted to punch something. He wanted to fuck someone.
In one abrupt moment that made the pipes groan in protest, Stefan cranked the water off, wrapped a towel around his waist, and walked back into the locker room.
The lights were partially off, but the space wasn’t empty.
Or at least not entirely.
Brit was still at her station, still half-dressed in her gear.
Her face was so forlorn that all the anger twisting him up inside faded.
“What’s up?” he asked, kneeling next to her.
She jumped and big brown eyes flashed to his. “Nothing.” Fingers pushed her blond hair back from her forehead, but several short wispy pieces didn’t cooperate. They slid forward, curled around her temples, her ears. She gave an irritated sigh. “We already went over this.”
Hands up, Stefan rose and began getting dressed. “Whatever, Brit. Keep it to yourself or don’t. But cut the bitch act. It doesn’t suit you.”
She sucked in a breath, and he tried not to feel guilty. He really tried.
Dammit. He would not apologize.
Underwear on. Then slacks and his button down. He was bending to put on his shoes when the fucking guilt got to him anyway.
But just as he opened his mouth to apologize, Brit spoke. “I’m sorry.”
Stefan shook his head. “No. That was a shitty thing to say. I shouldn’t—”
“It’s not you,” she said and peeled down the black and gold hockey socks she wore. Her legs were bare underneath, and he worked really hard to not notice how sexy they were.
They were muscular, maybe a little hard—not unlike Brit—but her skin held a soft glow to that made him want to press a kiss to her ankle . . . then lick all t
he way up.
His hands clenched, and he shoved the image away.
Teammate. She was his teammate.
Shit. That wasn’t working.
“I’ve got some stuff going on in my life. Complications, I guess,” she said. “Then with the pictures.” She shook her head, but met his gaze straight on. “I took it out on you, and I’m sorry.”
Those eyes—he suddenly had a craving for milk chocolate—left his and focused on removing the rest of her equipment.
“What’s going on?” he asked. “Maybe I can help?”
It was an offer born of the man in him, the piece of him that wanted to fix, to do something to remove the sadness in her.
He had no business making such a proposal, not with his own life in shambles—the team, his mother’s illness, the goddamned media—but he found himself unable to take it back.
Her hockey pants and girdle dropped to the floor with a soft thunk. She released a breath. “Thanks for the offer, but I’m the one who needs to sort this out.”
Somehow, he doubted that was the truth. But he figured he’d pushed her far enough.
For now.
“You want me to turn on the lights or get out of here so you can shower?”
“No, thanks.” She shook her head, the gesture casual, except there was something in her tone—too abrupt, too quick to answer—that made his hackles rise.
Questions. This woman filled him with so many damned questions.
“I’ll just shower back at the hotel.”
He frowned. “You haven’t found a place to stay yet?”
She rolled her eyes, turned her back, and stripped off her sports bra.
Creamy skin. Delicate muscles on her back. Stefan’s mouth watered. His fingers tingled with the urge to touch, to stroke. To kiss the giant bruise that still marred her skin and make it all better.
He almost groaned. He was so fucking screwed.
Gripping his thighs hard enough to cut off circulation north of the border, he forced himself to appreciate the workmanship of the large Gold logo on the far side of the room.
“No,” Brit said, her tone just acerbic enough to make him grin. “I haven’t found a place to stay here. I’ve been in San Francisco for less than two weeks. Between training camp and practices, I’ve been too tired to look.” She paused. “Plus, I don’t know that I’ll still be here in a month. Makes no sense to look until I’m sure.”
Stefan’s position on the team had been so safe over the last few years that he’d forgotten what it was like to be a rookie . . . or at least a rookie on an NHL team.
First was the call up. Then the hurdles of training camp and preseason games. Brit had showed well at the first, but that didn’t necessarily mean her place on the team was cemented. The preseason games would be her next biggest obstacle.
He’d assumed management bringing her in meant her spot was locked, but now he realized that had been ridiculous. Everyone had to earn a place on the first go-around. Hell, if he hadn’t had excellent seasons the last few years, he would have been just as stressed about earning his own position.
But Stefan didn’t give voice to any of that. “I know a good real estate agent for when you officially make the team.”
A moment passed where neither of them said anything, and Stefan wondered if he’d overstepped his bounds.
“Thanks.”
There was something strained in Brit’s tone, so he flicked his eyes over, was surprised to find her in the same position, back to him and topless.
Except, her hands were wrapped behind her back in an impersonation of a pretzel as they scrabbled up toward her shoulders.
“You okay?”
“No.” She sighed and dropped her arms then leaned forward to rest her head against the wall.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Mm shmpf,” she said, her voice muffled and completely indecipherable.
“Was that English?”
Her head tipped back, and she stared up at the ceiling. Half the recessed lights were off, bathing the usually stark white and black room in soft golden light. It gilded her skin, and the beauty of it took his breath away.
“I said I’m stuck.”
“Stuck?”
Brit was standing, free and clear, a few feet away from her locker. A little shriek of frustration escaped her. “Oh my God. This seriously isn’t happening.” She turned, arms crossed over her breasts.
He tried to not notice the way the action pressed them together, the way his mouth watered with the urge to bury his face there.
“I’m stuck,” she said. “I’m sweaty, and my shoulder hurts, and this fucking bra is all twisted, and I’m stuck!”
Her chin wobbled, and for one awful second, Stefan thought she was going to cry.
Then her eyes slid closed, and she sucked in a breath. “Can you help me?”
“Um—”
“Never mind,” she snapped and turned again.
Reaching up—for the first time, he noticed the strip of black fabric twisted over her neck and shoulders—to grab at the back of her bra. But though her fingers could touch the bunched-up band, they couldn’t get enough purchase to untangle it.
His brain finally began working again. “Here.” He closed the distance between them, tried to ignore the way she smelled—floral, like roses, with a slight tinge of salt from the exertion of practice—as he slipped his fingers under the edge of her bra and pulled down.
It came. Partway.
The sides were still twisted, and he couldn’t stop himself from running his fingers around to the front, under her arms, unwinding the bra and brushing the sides of her breasts in the process.
She sucked in a breath. So did he.
Forward. His fingers moved forward, tugging the bra down.
Stefan’s chest pressed close to her back, and he looked over her shoulder as he carefully worked the Lycra over her breasts.
He totally looked. He shouldn’t have.
But, damn, was he glad he’d done so.
He tugged the soft black material down, covering the rosy tips, even though all he wanted was to see how well her breasts fit in his palms.
Instead, he forced his hands to slide down her ribs. They came to a stop on her waist, unable to completely break the contact.
Especially when she sighed, and her head tilted, exposing her neck. It was screaming for a kiss, a lick, a nip.
He leaned down, inhaled the soft scent of her, and she shuddered. His groin went impossibly hard.
“Thanks,” she murmured, her posture tensing just the slightest bit. Brit didn’t pull away, but she wasn’t fully in the moment any longer.
Stefan stepped back, dropped his hands. “Anytime.” His voice sounded like he’d spent some quality time with a flamethrower. He swallowed, tried to clear away the desire.
Lush lips quirked. Chocolate eyes twinkled. “Somehow I knew you were going to say that.” She was laughing at him, and he found he didn’t give a damn. He’d take the brunt of any humor if it meant she smiled at him like that.
“Yeah?” His amusement surged to match hers.
She shrugged. “It’s the Y chromosome.”
Laughter burst out of him, and he slipped on his suit jacket. “Are we that easy to read?”
Brit pulled on her t-shirt and sweats. “Yup.” Sneakers in hand, she sank onto the bench and stepped into them. “What’s with the monkey suit? Bernard only requires them on game days, I thought.”
“That’s true. Just got used to wearing them, I guess.”
“Suits you. No pun intended.” She stood. “See you tomorrow.”
Her footsteps were quiet, her stride determined, as she crossed the industrial carpeting—except Stefan was watching her so intently that he saw her slight hesitation at the door.
“Barie?” She turned.
“Yeah?”
“Thanks”—she waved a hand at her breasts—“for this.
And . . . I’ll get my shit together by tomorrow.”
He nodded, but when she would have walked out, he hurried to close the distance between them and put a staying hand on her arm. “There’s nothing to get together. You’re doing fine.”
Brit seemed as though she would protest. Then she shook her head and forced a smile. “Thanks.”
He released her. “See you later.”
“Bye.” The word was chipper, but it didn’t hide the undertone in her expression. Brit didn’t think she was doing fine at all.
Both the man and the captain in him were aligned for the first time in recent history.
He wouldn’t let Brit self-destruct.
No matter what it took.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Brit
Fine.
Brit was doing fine.
She snorted. Yeah, sure. Ordered to all-but-screw the captain of her team in front of the entire populace of the United States and Canada, and she was fine.
Son of a puckhole.
With a sigh, she picked up the pace until she was practically sprinting through the city streets. Security had offered her a ride from the arena back to the hotel, and she’d taken it . . . for a couple of blocks.
Until her frustration had boiled over, and she’d had them pull over so she could run the rest of the way.
Thankfully, there were no news vans, no shouting reporters or smartphones pointed in her direction.
Brit could run.
Though, she couldn’t quite escape the fact that she and her teenage-boy-esque-hormonal body weren’t going to be able to keep their distance from Stefan.
She wanted him. Which she could have endured, if not for—
“Stupid,” she muttered with sigh.
The problem—or problems, rather—were her brain and her heart. Those traitorous organs liked Stefan’s wit, appreciated his concern and sensitivity.
Unfortunately, management had taken her chance away of actually pursuing something with him along natural channels. They’d ruined the might-have-been.
