Benched

by Elise Faber

  Despite Stefan’s night at the hotel and the resultant pictures of them on their respective treadmills, most of the media had moved on to far more exciting things—a scandal in the governor’s office and a celebrity having her baby.

  Susan would be disappointed, not that Brit cared.

  She was doing this her way, one that wouldn’t sacrifice herself or Stefan or the team.

  And regardless of the idiotic attempt in the hotel room, she wasn’t ready to go further with Stefan. If things happened between them, it wouldn’t be driven by the fake relationship.

  It needed to be pushed by real feelings.

  The hazing hadn’t broken her, exactly. Brit had even had sex since then.

  Okay, not much. But enough that she knew she wasn’t going to turn back into a virgin.

  But it was different with Stefan. The other times had been filled with distance, and that was okay. That was what she’d needed. Release without emotion.

  They’d felt good. She’d had orgasms, had gone home with a sense of satisfaction.

  Yet, she’d frozen in that bed because Stefan was different. She couldn’t keep a part of herself back, couldn’t frost over the threads of emotion—of respect, caring, affection.

  Stefan had felt it, had demanded more.

  And she’d wanted to give it.

  Her body didn’t want distance, not when he was melting every last one of her defenses.

  “ . . .journalists,” Frankie said, and Brit blinked, trying to remember what she’d asked before her mind had gone straight down its favorite daydream.

  Stefan.

  And his glorious mouth. And hands. And abs.

  And—shit—arms and . . .

  “Management seemed to think they would be back in force,” Richie said and hurried to open the door to the arena. “More security isn’t bad. The reporters were ravenous just a few days ago. They want everyone to be safe.”

  The equipment manager smiled at her, and her heart melted a little bit. He was so sweet.

  “Thank you, Richie,” she told him, sincerity in her tone. “Thanks for keeping us safe.”

  His cheeks creased even as they went a little pink. “It’s nothing,” he said. “Just my job, after all.”

  “Still.” She squeezed his hand as she passed through the door. “Thank you.”

  So management thought that the press might return. Because of the game? It was against one of their biggest rivals, the Sharks. But that wasn’t unusual. They would play the other local team eight times that season. It—

  Her heart sank.

  Management wasn’t guessing the press would be back because of a tough game.

  Nope. It was a message.

  They wanted something to happen. Something that would guarantee press coverage.

  And the envelope in her locker—filled with only a single paper that read, MORE—confirmed her instincts.

  Funny how the truth of what she was doing hadn’t really hit home till then.

  Funny how she felt more violated by those four letters, by something that was really only her own fault—for agreeing in the first place—than she’d felt at any point in her life.

  The crinkle of paper was only vaguely satisfying as she balled the note and chucked it in the trash.

  This crap could wait.

  She had to push her feelings aside and focus on getting ready for the game.

  Her team needed her.

  ****

  Turned out, that wasn’t exactly true.

  Julian had the net, and the team won easily. Brit cheered them on, wincing whenever the guys took a bad hit—because seriously, even though they were big, tough hockey players, getting checked still hurt—and shouting encouragements as they battled it out on the boards.

  She’d lost her head for a second when Blane and Stefan collaborated for a gorgeous 2-on-1 goal, screaming like a banshee when it went in.

  By the time the final buzzer sounded, her throat was slightly sore, and she was hopped-up on adrenaline.

  Such was the life of the backup goalie. So often the bridesmaid and rarely the bride.

  Though with Beausoleil in potentially his last season, more ice time should be coming her way soon.

  She hoped.

  Because seeing her team out there and not playing was almost unbearable.

  Patience, Brit reminded herself. Keep working hard, and it will come.

  She followed the team back into the locker room, waited through the post-game interviews, gave a couple of sound bites when the media asked her opinion.

  By the time she’d finished, most of the guys were gone or were in the shower. Frankie caught her eye from across the room, and she nodded. Far as she was concerned, their post-game ritual should continue.

  When they played on home ice, whether she was in net or not, they worked through a couple of buckets of pucks.

  She needed to improve her blocker side, and Frankie had a knack for placing shots.

  He crossed over to her. “Same thing?”

  Brit nodded. “It’s not good enough yet.”

  Frankie grinned. “It’s getting pretty damn close, though.”

  “Then we’ll have to make it harder.”

  He clapped her on the shoulder. “Like the attitude, Brit.”

  She did too. It was easy with Frankie. He had an inbred optimism and positivity that made her want to work harder than she’d ever done before.

  It wasn’t like she’d been a slacker on her previous teams, but having Franklin Todd at her back gave her confidence.

  Plus, it was nice to not have a coach yell after every play, to actually hear some positive—gasp!—things, instead of everything she did wrong.

  “Let’s do this,” she said and led the way back to the ice. It was freshly cut, all the maintenance done, a pristine sheet of white and red and blue. “Sure Ken doesn’t mind if we mess up his ice?”

  “Not at all. He always does a cut”—referring to the Zamboni clearing off the excess snow and laying down a thin layer of water to fill in the divots and scratches in the ice—“first thing in the morning.”

  Brit skated to the goal that had been set up for her, scuffing up the crease in her usual manner, as Frankie pulled on his skates and grabbed the bright orange bucket.

  He poured the pucks onto the ice—at least fifty of them—and used his stick to spread them haphazardly around.

  “Ready?” he asked once he was done and took up a position just inside the blue line.

  She tapped the ice with her stick, gave a nod.

  Crack! came the first shot. It was low and to the outside, and it was a scramble to cover the angle, especially when she’d expected a high-glove side. But at this point, it was almost cheating if she knew where the shot was going.

  She wouldn’t know in a game, after all.

  No one was going to tell her where they shot, and though she could study up on a shooter’s preferences, there were simply too many players, and they were too good at shooting anywhere for her to keep track.

  She dropped to her knees, pushed hard, and slid to the far side of the net. The puck hit her pads, rebounded wide.

  Brit didn’t worry about exactly where. Instead, she was scrambling to her skates.

  Because Frankie had moved and was already lining up the next shot.

  It continued like that for a long while, Frankie occasionally calling out a pointer or adjustment before peppering her with more shots.

  By the time he finished shooting—she’d lost count after sixty-two—her legs were shaking, and her hip flexors were on fire.

  At least the bruise on her shoulder finally felt better, its only reminder an occasional twinge.

  She’d just stretched her arm out, testing the joint when she caught a flash of movement.

  They weren’t alone.

  The slight blast of fear was as normal as it was annoying. A breath slid out from between her clenched teeth, and
she forced herself to calm.

  Calm.

  She wasn’t alone. Frankie was there. And no one was coming up behind her.

  Plus, even if they were, Brit needed to get the hell over that particular trigger. Three years was long enough.

  Only once her heart had settled from a sprint into a jog did she allow her gaze to swivel.

  Bernard, Blane, and Stefan were sitting on their bench. Apparently deep in conversation, though their eyes were on Frankie and Brit.

  “You’re there,” Frankie said, skating over. As she stretched, he went over a few more points. They were small tweaks, but she knew they’d make a huge difference.

  “Thanks for staying,” she said. “I know it makes for a late night.”

  “Not at all, Brit. Anytime.”

  “I’ll help you with the pucks—”

  “I’ve got it.”

  Bernard’s voice surprised Brit. She hadn’t realized he’d put on skates. They looked ridiculous with his slacks, button-down, and tie. He’d shed his suit jacket, at least, but the beat-up boots with shiny silver blades were still incongruous with his professional attire.

  “I can—”

  “I’ve got a few things to talk with Frankie about,” Bernard said before a twinkle entered his eyes, “and I’m fully capable of picking up some pucks.“ A twitch of his lips. “I may have done it a time or two.”

  “But—”

  He gave her an even look, one that was determined and intense and very . . . well, coach-like. At least the amusement in his eyes hadn’t faded. He made a shooing motion. “Go.”

  It was an order, and Brit had too many seasons of coaching under her belt to not obey.

  “All right.” She hesitated. “Thanks.”

  “Go on,” Frankie said. “It looks like the boys are waiting for you.”

  Brit glanced over, saw he was right.

  “But don’t forget to stretch properly. You don’t want to tighten up.”

  She nodded then skated over to the bench and stepped up to Blane and Stefan. They had been in a pretty intense discussion, one that stopped when she approached.

  Blane had that look, the big brother, protective stare, but Brit couldn’t find it in her to be annoyed.

  Yes, she already had a brother, but it was nice for another person to have her back.

  “Did Dan make it in okay?” she asked Blane as their awkward trio walked down the hall to the locker room. Her brother had attended the game, but Brit wasn’t sure he’d be able to find his way to the family waiting area, even though she’d given him the proper clearance. The tunnels were decidedly maze-like, even for an FBI agent.

  She probably shouldn’t have kept him waiting by practicing with Frankie, but Dan had never given her crap for following her dreams and wouldn’t hold it against her now.

  He nodded. “Yup. He’s waiting in the PT suite.”

  Brit frowned. That was weird. But then she remembered Mandy and knew the petite brunette was very much Dan’s type.

  That’s to say . . . she’s a woman. Who’s single.

  “Seriously?”

  Blane nodded. “I’ll see if I can peel Dan out of there and meet you in the locker room.”

  “Thanks.” She turned to Stefan. “We’re going to dinner. Want to come along?”

  It was an invitation she would have made to anyone. Brit was inclusive by nature, knew what it was like to be on the outside, and didn’t like feeling as though she’d left anyone out.

  But with the tangle of emotions in her mind, with the task management had given her—the job she’d agreed to—knotting with the things she wanted to do . . . well, it felt wrong.

  Stop whining. Stop seeing an ulterior motive in everything.

  Except, she did have an ulterior motive.

  Brit sighed inwardly. This was the way things were. She either followed through—

  Or she didn’t.

  But she couldn’t keep beating herself up for it.

  Maybe she could get her and Stefan out of this unscathed. If she played things carefully, maybe they could remain friends.

  Because she felt too much to casually dismiss Stefan.

  How could she risk hurting him?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  His hand on her cheek startled her.

  Brit glanced up, saw Stefan was very close, blue eyes staring down at her full of concern, his suit-clad body only inches from hers. The rich spice of his aftershave filled the air, and they were near enough that Brit could see the scars on his face—a thin slash above his brow, a small, jagged dash across his chin.

  “What is it?” he asked, brushing his fingers down her cheek again. God, how she wanted to lean into the touch, to lose herself in the feel of the slightly calloused roughness against her skin.

  The truth.

  It would be so damned easy to tell him the truth. To lay it out there and let the chips fall where they may.

  “Have you ever been in the middle of doing something that you’re already regretting but you can’t stop?” she blurted.

  He stiffened and leaned back slightly. The distance wasn’t much, given the narrow hallway they were in, but it still hurt. Especially when those blue eyes went a little cold. Stefan stared at her, studying her as though he could see right through every protective layer she’d ever erected.

  She looked away. “So dinner? Yes?”

  There was a long moment of quiet, then Stefan tugged her ponytail. Cautiously, she flicked her gaze back to his and saw the chill in his expression had been replaced by something Brit really hoped was understanding.

  “Yes,” he said. “And also”—quieter now—“yes, I have.”

  She smiled broadly, and the happiness she felt at the small acceptance in his eyes made her tongue loose. “Good. I like spending time with you.” She mentally groaned but couldn’t stop more words from coming. “You’re funny and sweet and a good hockey player—”

  Shut. Up.

  Good God, her social skills needed an overhaul. As in a little more smooth and a little less verbal diarrhea.

  Girls didn’t just tell guys they liked them. Not so explicitly, anyway.

  For fuck’s sake, she was terrible at this. At life in general.

  “I like spending time with you too,” he murmured.

  Oh.

  Funny how one sentence from Stefan, and things were all right.

  “Are we going to do this, Brit?” He took a step toward her. There was less than a foot between them, and good Lord, how she wanted there to be none.

  “D-do what?” For a second she thought he knew about her plan with management and the media. Then she got a good glance at his eyes.

  They were molten, burning as he watched her.

  Her breath caught. Because—holy shit—never, ever had a man looked at her in such a way.

  Not when she’d been fully dolled up. And especially not when she was sweaty and wearing hockey gear, the slight funk of wet equipment permeating the space between them.

  “Explore this thing between us.” He leaned in, pressed a kiss to the corner of her mouth.

  “Th-thing?”

  Lips on her jaw. Her throat.

  “This attraction. The chemistry threatening to ignite the room.” Teeth on her neck, a sharp bite soothed by a smooth flick of his tongue.

  Her sucked-in breath was loud . . . and shaky.

  “I don’t think we should.” The words were out before she’d had time to calculate how it would affect her plan, the feel of his lips—soft and hot and wet—against her skin better than a truth serum.

  Stefan pulled back slightly, one side of his mouth quirked in humor. “No?”

  This was her chance to tell him everything.

  She shook her head. To herself. To him. Not yet. She couldn’t tell him yet.

  After he knew the truth he might not look at her in the same way, full of laughter and heat and temptation.

  �
�No.” Brit couldn’t. She needed more time, had to shore up more barriers against Stefan’s charm. The allure was too much. It led to too much vulnerability and too damn much of her heart being involved.

  He smiled fully then, a flash of bright, white teeth against pale pink lips. “Why not?”

  “What about the honor clause in our contracts?” she asked, mind scrambling even as she felt her head tilting on its own volition, as if merely exposing the skin of her neck would draw his mouth back to the spot.

  It worked. He kissed just beneath her jaw before stretching to whisper in her ear, “That only extends to dating Gold employees. Not players.”

  “One could make the case that we are employees,” she said, humor crawling into her, sweeping aside the anxiety. He was just so . . . Stefan.

  He unlocked something inside of her, made it so damned easy to be with him. Comfortable. Warm. Okay—blazing hot and filled with so much desire that she was almost desperate for his mouth on hers.

  “One would be wrong,” he murmured.

  God, she wanted him.

  He kissed her then, his fingers sliding into her sweaty ponytail, lacing through the locks without revulsion or hesitation. A little sweat didn’t bother Stefan, and it made Brit like him even more.

  No other man she’d dated had wanted to be near her post-game. She’d had to shower first, slap on something girlie to hide the scent of her exertion before they’d go out.

  It wasn’t like she wanted to walk around smelling gross and stinky. She considered herself a decent human being, and with that came well-rounded hygiene skills.

  But Brit had always wished the man she was with would want—no, need—every part of her, whether or not it was pretty or polished or smelled like freaking petunias.

  Stefan being that kind of man wasn’t surprising.

  He was good, sweet and charming, and—

  All thoughts fled as he deepened the kiss.

  His fingers trailed down her back, moved forward to brush the sides of her breasts, and a firm stroke of his tongue across her lips had her opening her mouth, completely forgetting they were in a public place where anyone might see.