He Has MVP: An Enemies to Lovers Romance (Boston Brawlers Hockey Romance)

by Stephanie Queen

  Pink will be fine at my house, too, but I don’t mention that and we end the call.

  I’m determined to spend the night with Pink one more time. And another night, and one more time after that. And on and on until I can’t convince her to stay any more nights.

  We get back to the house in the tow truck and Arnie takes the Land Rover away.

  “Now what?” Pink asks, her serious-as-hell frown back, her face pale as moonlight under the cloudy sky. Her hair is combed sleek and held in place in a tight knot behind her neck, ballerina style. It should look severe, but I see the softness in her eyes and her mouth.

  I shrug. “Arnie will fix it up and deliver it back to the house when he’s finished. I gave them my credit card. O’Rourke’ll be pleased. He’ll owe me one.” I give her a wink.

  “You’re ridiculous,” she says, rolling her eyes. She shifts her feet and I see she’s back to wearing the designer boots she arrived in, tight pants and a soft sweater. Not hurricane clothes. Not Nantucket clothes. She’s wearing her Boston clothes.

  “I meant what about getting off the island? What about the ferry? Or the airport? When can we leave?” Her hands are wrapped in front of her like she’s holding herself together. There’s a desperate note in her voice, but not the same as before. Before it was all about practical considerations. Now, there’s a raw note to her desperation, like getting off the island—and away from me—is an elemental concern.

  Or maybe I’m imagining that because I can’t stand the notion that she’s all buttoned up and serious again and ready to leave. As if what we’ve had is no more than a one-night stand.

  It wasn’t. I should know. I’ve had hundreds of them in the past few years. And last night with Pink was nothing like any night I’ve had with another woman in . . . longer than the past four years I’ve been with the Brawlers. Maybe since my first crush back in high school.

  “Don’t worry. I hitched a boat ride off the island. Our car will be by to pick us up in about—” I check my phone for the time because I know that damn Dane Blaise wasn’t kidding when he said to be on time. He’d be a scary dude if I was one to be afraid of tough dudes. But how can I be when I’m one of them? “Twenty minutes,” I say. “Let’s get everything ready to go.”

  Chapter 13

  Pink

  “Who’s that?” I say under my breath to Aiden as some blond chick dressed in what looks like safari gear jumps from a beat-up old Jeep. Is that a gun tucked in the back of her pants? Shit. The jealous bubble turns to impressed and I move to greet her.

  “You must be Allie,” She says, extending a hand and a warm smile. But I see her sizing me up all the same.

  “This is Shana Blaise,” Aiden says. He smiles back and she nods.

  “We ready?” Shana doesn’t wait for a response and instead picks up the nearest bag—which isn’t a light one—filled with dog food and gear.

  Aiden doesn’t try and stop her, joining in, grabbing two bags. I hang onto the pups, picking up Curley. I’m a little worried about how they’re going to fare on a boat. Visions of one or more of them falling overboard has my nerves hopped up. Or maybe my nerves are fried because every time Aiden gets near me I want to reach out and touch him, hold him in my arms and not let him escape. Forcing myself to stay cool is so hard and so depressing.

  But we both need to get back to reality and I need to keep my business front and center in my head. Too bad it’s my heart that keeps tugging at me, fraying my nerves and my resolve.

  Once the Jeep’s loaded, Shana invites me to sit in front with her while Aiden takes care of the puppies in back.

  “Go,” he says, as if he’s in charge. Maybe he is because Shana salutes him in the rear view and steps on the gas.

  “This should be an adventurous boat ride,” she says. I grunt as the Jeep bumps over a stray tree limb.

  “Why do you need to get back to the mainland in such a hurry?” If I didn’t have a neglected business waiting for me I’d stay. “Important business?”

  She laughs. “You could say that. But honestly, Dane and I are only dabbling in the PI business these days. It’s my baby girl that I’m desperate to get back to. We chose the wrong weekend for our mini-retreat.”

  Unexpected warmth and understanding connects me to this woman and there’s no reason for it because I have no baby and nowhere near retirement from my business. And yet, seeing the tender look on her face when she mentions her baby girl pulls at me. Shit. I glance in the rearview at Aiden. He’s staring back at me, a smirk of understanding in his magical eyes. Turning away, I work on calming my heart and ignoring the sting of heat between my thighs.

  The bumpy in the springless Jeep is short, thang God. She pulls into the drive of a smallish beach house with a marina-sized dock out back and a forty-foot boat with its engine running.

  Aiden carries the bags and Shana and I take the dogs directly down to the water without going inside the house.

  “Hope you don’t mind if we leave straight away?”

  “No, I’m dying to get back.” I flash a look at Aiden, too aware that getting back means an end to our mini-affair. My chest tightens, but I have no choice, do I? It’ll be like ripping off a band-aid, necessary and best done quickly in spite of the massive sting.

  We follow Dane and Shana onto their boat which is big enough and comfortable, but more serviceable than plush.

  “You two can stay in here with your puppies,” Dane says. “Shana and I’ll be above in the wheelhouse. The head is below.” He points to the stairs with a grim warning on his face. “It’s going to be a rough ride.”

  It doesn’t take me long to understand first-hand how rough the ride is and how important getting to the head is. Within ten minutes, I’m clutching Aiden’s hand. Hard. He hauls me against him and whispers against my temple.

  “It’s okay, babe. I got you.” The blanket of calm and warmth settle my soul, but not my stomach.

  “I don’t feel so good…” I lurch to my feet and Aiden is right there with me, whisking me down the ladder to the head. Shoving the door aside I lunge inside the small space, barely holding on, and get sick over the toilet. Aiden follows me inside, closes the door and literally plasters himself to me, rubbing my back. I bristle, mortified that he’s here and soothed at the same time, wanting him to leave and needing him to stay.

  “Aiden,” I say, not sure what to add, whether I’m pleading or complaining or grateful. He pushes my hair back off my face and my stomach clenches again as I lean back over the toilet.

  His voice is quiet in my ear, like a background hum to quiet the noise, like the music in a dentist’s office waiting room meant to quell anxiety. He holds my hair back as I puke my guts out into the toilet.

  Only one other person in my life has held my hair back. That one failed relationship I had in college.

  With a hockey player.

  Although I haven’t thought of him in ages, memories come flooding back now. It’s not like he broke my heart. In fact, it was the opposite. Guilt stabs me every time I remember him—which is probably why I’ve buried his memory. He was sweet. He was hot. He wasn’t for me. I let him go. Maybe I should look him up so I could see he’s happily coupled up with some sweet young woman who adores him and stop feeling my guilt.

  But what I have with Aiden is so far from that experience that I shake my head, reminding myself to hold up my guard.

  “What is it, babe?” Aiden whispers, close to my ear, one strong arm around me, holding me against him, one hand holding my hair at the back of my neck, his knuckles brushing the fine hairs, making me shiver.

  “Nothing. It’s okay,” I manage to squeak out, not looking at him.

  The last thing I want to do is hurt Aiden. But I’m kidding myself, aren’t I? Because I’m so much more worried about hurting myself. Aiden isn’t going to be hurt if I push him away, if I tell him to hit the road.

  Right after he rescues me from a hurricane and gets me home safe and sound, right after he’s rocked my world
with his passion and fucking awesomeness in bed. Right after he makes me feel warm and protected, makes me laugh, impresses me with his resourcefulness and intelligence. Right after he shows me his fucking serious side.

  There’s a lull in the rolling boat and I take a deep breath. The salty air that usually cleanses me, assaults my sensitive stomach and I clench my muscles. No not again.

  He circles his big warm hand on my back and I settle down. Splashing water on my face, I rinse my mouth, my hands shaky as he strokes my hair, holding it aside, gentle in spite of the size and strength he has at his disposal. Looking up at him I wonder aloud.

  “Why do you bother with me? I’m a nasty jerk.”

  He laughs. “I ask myself the same thing.” His tongue is in his cheek and I chortle, a weak and pathetic response to his humor. Not at all representative of the blossom of heat and affection that takes me.

  “Seriously,” I press because I need convincing. I need more of the warm and fuzzy comfort that he provokes unwanted. Well, maybe not so unwanted. But… do I? What about my career?

  “Seriously I can’t help myself,” he says, “It’s my instinctive response to you. Same way you’d pick up a stray adorable kitten in the road and protect it.”

  With my gaining strength, I choose to swat at his chest. Is it because I want to express my mock disdain or is it because I love the feel of his muscled chest, the warmth, the solid expanse of him, the strong beat of his heart?

  He looks at me, those eyelashes doing their magic, the smirky line of his sensual lips, the idea of those lips on me, everywhere, melting me like M&Ms held too tight in my hands. And I want to hold him in my hands.

  His eyes go glassy and I see the reflection of my want in them. What was it I’d been contemplating? Does it matter? Should I go with my feelings? Should I let my impulse have its way with me? Who am I kidding—my impulse to have him, to hold him—now and for as long as I can manage—overwhelms me, eliminates the quaint notion of choice.

  “You’re…” I say before my voice fails because his face closes in, his mouth with its slight tremor moving to mine, almost touching, breathing, bathing me in that spicy hot comfort that shouldn’t be possible.

  “Babe, I want you so much.” His whispered words send a thrilling fire through me like a lit fuse. A short fuse that explodes into me. I grab his face with both hands and press my mouth onto his. I taste him, test the lush firmness of his lips against mine, revel in the swirl of my insides rising to my chest. My heart flutters and beats like butterflies on fire. My whole body incinerates then and I don’t care that we’re in the tiny bathroom of some stranger’s yacht. I want this man right here and now, every single part of him, everything he has to offer.

  Reality crashes in the form of a loud alarming crashing noise above on deck. I jump and let out a yelp. Aiden holds onto me, caresses my back with his sure hands.

  “It’s okay. Normal boat noises,” he says.

  I chortle and say, “You can’t expect me to believe that?”

  “No,” he half smiles, “but you have me desperate to make everything right.” He shifts away from me with effort as if he’s a super magnet trying to pull away from an iron wall, but he manages and opens the door.

  “I’ll go check and see what’s going on. You be okay here?”

  I nod, happy not to be going anywhere when the boat tilts and my stomach lurches.

  Eventually the boat docks in Hyannis where the ocean swells with less violence. Dane and Shana give us a ride to Aiden’s car and he drives us back to Boston. I’m the worst company ever on the trip, dozing on and off while my stomach settles back to wherever it belongs deep in my gut and quietly behaving.

  He drives straight to his building, taking advantage of the fact that I’m groggy from sleeping and feeling a bit like a kidnap victim hijacked by a rakish pirate. Not feeling threatened at all. Feeling giddy in spite of everything, including the danger to my heart.

  It’s late, and he carries the bags, his and one for the dogs and I help to bring the dogs up without him asking. Predictably, he invites me in. Staring up into his face, desire in his hooded blue eyes causing a flip in my gut, I let out a breath.

  “I can’t, I have an early meeting and a lot of catching up to do. I need a good night’s sleep.” It’s all true, but I don’t sound convincing, don’t feel convinced.

  “I have a meeting too. then a morning skate.” He’s not pleading, but he’s so damn compelling. With a massive power of will that I resent and regret immediately, I step away.

  He picks up the keys because he has to drive me to my place.

  “I promise I’m going to call you.”

  “I’ll call you if you don’t.” The surprise is that it’s true. I will. I don’t move and neither does he.

  “This isn’t a casual fling,” he says. I shake my head in agreement and there goes my tummy again, gut this time the tumult is joyous.

  “I know. I don’t know what it is, but casual doesn’t cover it.”

  “Serious,” he says.

  “Who, me?” I say, the role reversal not lost on me. The smile he cracks has me in his arms again, covering his mouth with mine. He doesn’t resist my kiss. It’s long and filled with all the meaning in our hearts that we can’t name. He nibbles my lips in that heart-fluttery way I love, then separates our mouths, resting his forehead on mine.

  “Alright. You’ve convinced me. I’ll stay.”

  He chuckles, low and throaty and ready.

  “You won’t regret it,” he says.

  “You won’t regret it either,” I say. “I’ll set the alarm and make sure you get to the rink on time. I’ll take good care of you.”

  “I care about you too, Pink,” he says. My heart about flips out of my chest and my eyes tear up, everything in me goes hot and I’m vibrating with emotion.

  “I know. I can’t believe it, but it’s true.”

  “That makes no sense,” he says, his hot tense lips hovering over mine as he walks me backwards, unerringly toward a bedroom and it all seems familiar in spite of me never having been here before.

  “Exactly,” I say, barely a whisper. Then practicality strikes me. “What about my bag?”

  “I’ll get it in the morning.” He pushes the bedroom door open and backs me into his bed.

  I fall helplessly, giddy with the sensation. As he covers me with his solid sexy and warm body, I wonder if this is what it feels like to fall in love.

  Falling in love? A pinch of anxiety makes me put a hand on his chest between us. I can’t be falling in love, not by myself. Could I be okay with it if I weren’t alone?

  “In the morning,” I say. “Will we still be together then?”

  “We’ll be together as many mornings as I can keep you, Pink… Allie.” The way he says Allie, all reverent, would make my knees buckle if I were standing. He rains small kisses on my mouth and chin and cheeks and eyelids and that falling sensation hits again. Maybe I have no choice. I let out a deep sigh and he lifts his head.

  “What?” he says and I open my eyes to meet his. It’s a brave act to face those intense blue eyes fringed in those dark lashes, personifying sex in a devilish and angelic way both. Overcoming his spell, my bravery rises up from nowhere, gaining strength from his warmth.

  “What would you say if I told you I was falling for you?” I hold my breath.

  The suddenness of his smile, that crinkling of his eyes, the glint of pleasure there, would take my breath away if I wasn’t already holding it. As it is, the breath gushes from me and into his mouth as he covers mine. I laugh. He does too.

  “I would say—right after I kiss you—that I’ve already fallen. You’re slow, Pink. You need to catch up with the program.”

  I laugh-cry then as I swat his arm and he cradles my face in his hands, serious all over his expression now.

  “Allie, I want you, every part of you. I’m into like I’ve never been into a woman before. Say you’re mine.”

  I’m not sure if it’s a
question, but I know the answer. “I’m yours if that makes you mine.” He breathes a heartfelt sigh and takes my mouth, possesses it like he means forever and I let myself fall, knowing I’m going to keep falling, all the way as far as we can go.

  “Of course you’re mine,” he says, that pirate grin banishing all seriousness. But I can go with that. I roll my eyes.

  “Of course. Everyone knows hockey players are pirates, ravishing and pillaging wherever they go,” I say. “Especially you. You’re the MVP. And you know MVP means Most Valuable Pirate, right.”

  He throws his head back and laughs and I swear he may as well have a patch over one eye and a scarf on his head.

  “The Ballerina and the Pirate,” he says, nodding his approval, sending a shiver of anticipation through me. The kind of shivering that anticipates a lifetime of ravaging by my dream pirate.

  Epilogue

  Aiden

  The realtor opens door number three to condo number three. This one is located at Long Wharf overlooking Boston Harbor with a knock out view. Pink rushes toward the window and I wink at the middle-aged realtor named Barbara. She knows her stuff, as all middle-aged women named Barbara do.

  We wouldn’t be here if we hadn’t had a knock-down drag-out fight about who’s place to move into. Finnegan Reed, goalie for the team, of all people, came up with the solution.

  “Stop your incessant bickering and go see my realtor,” he said one night after the last game before All Star break. He flicked Barbara’s business card at us. Then he took his wife left our table at Porter’s Bar & Grill and joined Ryan and Chelsea for a game of darts.

  That’s when I knew we were an official couple, right together. The moment our friends can’t stand to be around our bliss, we know we’re solid. More than solid enough to move in together.

  So Barbara sold our condos and now we’re ready to buy one together. As Pink spins, like only an ex-ballerina can, turning away from the absurdly stunning view to beam at me, I know we’ve found our new home.