Play Hard

by V. K. Sykes

  “The doctors in Sweden were topnotch, my trainers, all of that. Everything is good, it’s just,’—she hated hearing the words—‘the fear is that I’ll get hit again and it won’t be good and after assessing the risks, uh, I decided it wasn’t worth it.”

  Wow, she’d become a great liar because the truth was, she would have done anything to keep playing, but the team had never given her the chance. That last hit had weakened her in the eyes of management and most of the players. It was the excuse they needed to pay out her contract and send her home. Another boys club where she didn’t quite fit.

  Trent leaned against the countertop, his face worn out, his expression as sad as she felt inside.

  “I’m sorry, babe.”

  Don’t cry. Don’t cry.

  “I know.”

  “I wish I could have been there for you, for…everyone.” He glanced away and she swallowed thickly when she spied the wetness that filled his eyes. Her dad never cried. Herschel had told her once that the only time he’d seen his son cry was at their mother’s funeral. The girls would have been much too young to remember, they’d been barely three.

  “I’m not well, but I suppose you know that.”

  “Dad,” she began and took a step forward but he cut her off.

  “I have a hard time remembering and I’ve lost days, weeks even.” He glanced up at her. “Maybe months.”

  “I know,” she whispered. “But you’re good right now?”

  “I’m feeling pretty good,” he nodded, palms outstretched.

  Billie was across the room and in his arms within seconds. Shocked as she was at his frailty, the feel and smell of him was all she needed.

  “I’ve missed you,” she whispered into his chest.

  “I know.”

  “Wow, everyone is up and no one made any coffee?” They both turned as Bobbi walked into the kitchen, followed by Herschel. Bobbi’s eyes were overly bright, her voice subdued, though a rare hint of a smile curled her generous lips.

  Trent slowly released Billie and gazed at his other daughter. “I’m feeling like hazelnut cream.”

  “Huh,” their grandfather huffed. “Only an idiot would ruin a good old coffee bean with that artificial crap.”

  “Well,” Trent said with a wink. “I guess I’m an idiot.”

  Herschel opened the cupboard door and grabbed both the regular roast and a small bag of flavored coffee. He tossed it to Bobbi. “Guess you’re not the only one then.”

  Billie glanced at Bobbi and whatever was there between them—that hard, unyielding thing they’d created over the last few weeks—disappeared. For the moment they were like family again and that was all that mattered.

  At least until Billie glanced at the clock and realized it was ten minutes to six.

  “Shit!”

  “What’s up?” Herschel enquired, as he poured water into the coffee machine.

  “I have to get to the arena.” She kissed her father on the cheek and grabbed her keys off the counter.

  “What for?” Bobbi asked as Billie flew past her.

  “You don’t want to know,” she replied and then grabbed an overcoat off the hook beside the garage door, thankful she’d parked inside.

  She tossed a “See ya later,” over her shoulder and was gone before anyone could say anything else.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Logan was still pissed.

  He hadn’t seen Billie since Saturday night and he was still hot and bothered…and pissed off.

  Hell, he’d been walking around with a permanent boner ever since and not even four fucking cold showers had been enough to quench his desire.

  Christ, it was insane how much he wanted her and it wasn’t just because she was so fucking hot. It was the total package. The fire in her eyes when she was talking about something she loved. The dry humor he was sure no one else appreciated. The way her hips swayed gently from side to side when she walked.

  The smell of her hair, the line of her jaw, even the hurt in her eyes when she thought about her father.

  It was all of that.

  Which sucked because he had no way to read her. He didn’t really think she was the cock tease he’d called her the other night. Not really. That was Betty’s style.

  But there was something going on and even though he knew he was right about one thing—the Barkers were total screw-ups—he was determined to get to the bottom of it.

  And get her into his bed.

  It was all he’d thought about.

  Logan shifted and glanced down, once more thankful that his dick was hidden behind the thick confines of his hockey pants.

  Never had a woman gotten under his skin the way Billie-Jo Barker did. Never. Hell, he’d even considered not showing up this morning, but Christ, he’d plunked down a grand—which wasn’t the smartest thing he’d ever done—for these damn lessons. A grand. One thousand big ones.

  Gallagher had laughed until he’d nearly cried.

  Him. Logan Forest paying for hockey lessons.

  “Just jump her bones already,” Gallagher had joked.

  Logan scowled. Yeah. If only.

  He stared out at the ice and thought of another time, of another Barker girl who’d royally screwed him over. God, Betty had been something else. She was the ultimate cock tease and one he’d been stupid enough to fall for. The one night they’d spent together had been something else—hell, he still thought of it from time to time—but she’d left for New York the day after without a word.

  At first he’d chalked it up to the fact that Betty was known for playing the field. Half of the guys in town had claimed to have had her. But Logan was no slouch when it came to the ladies. He’d had his fair share and that night had been different. Special. He’d known they’d been good together.

  So a few months later when he’d returned from college for summer break and she’d been home from New York for a few days, he’d been expecting something other than the cold shoulder he’d received. Betty had acted as if they’d never hooked up.

  It was then that he’d come to the realization that the Barker girls were bad news. At the time Billie wasn’t on his radar—she was the hockey girl—but Bobbi had already set her sights on Shane. He’d warned Gallagher, but his buddy hadn’t listened and look where that had gotten him.

  Christ, he couldn’t figure these women out. There was a trail of broken hearts lying in their wake and damned if his was going to join them. Not that Billie had a chance at his heart. He wasn’t that stupid, but maybe…maybe it was time to teach one of them a lesson.

  He knew Billie wanted him. As much as she played the hot and cold card, he was pretty damn sure if he pressed his point the other night he’d have eventually gotten her home and into his bed.

  Her passion had been real. The way she’d opened her mouth and kissed him back had been real. So why had she pulled back? She was twenty-five years old and from the way she’d responded to him, she sure as hell wasn’t a virgin.

  Did they even come in twenty-five year old models anymore?

  He straightened and squared his shoulders. He could do that. Give her a bit of her own medicine.

  He should do that. Hell, he’d been tied up in knots since Saturday night.

  Stu, the caretaker strode toward him.

  “Barker not here yet?”

  Logan shook his head.

  “Hm. I’m opening up the other side. The midget girls are practicing.” Stu grinned. “You know, in case you want to skate with more than one girl.”

  “Nice,” Logan retorted.

  “No,” Stu pointed behind him. “That’s nice.”

  Logan turned and for once he was speechless. Where was the goddess, sex slave who had haunted him for the last two nights straight? The one responsible for a new record in manual stimulation?

  He grinned—couldn’t help it—especially because her scowl deepened the closer she got to him.

  Billie-Jo wore pajamas—blue flannel pants with pink piglets all over them. Her
raincoat was an old, yellow thing, obviously Herschel’s or her fathers, but her feet—he couldn’t help the laugh that escaped his lips when he spied the gray bunny slippers.

  “What?” she barked.

  The gray—used to be fluffy and now soaked—bunny slippers. Heck, the ears drooped so far across her toes that she almost tripped on them coming down the stairs.

  Her skates were slung over her shoulder and she held her hockey stick in her hands.

  Logan glanced down at his equipment, feeling a little over dressed.

  “Where’s your gear?” he asked.

  “I forgot it.”

  She trudged past him and slipped out of the rain coat. Underneath was an old sweatshirt, but the edge lifted up as she flung her coat onto the player’s bench, showing an impressive amount of skin and—was that a belly ring?

  Jesus, but she was full of surprises.

  “Crap,” she muttered to herself as she bent over the bench with her skates. “Do you have an extra pair of gloves?”

  Don’t look at her butt.

  “No, but Stu can grab you a pair.”

  Her butt is the enemy.

  “You’re late,” he managed to say, barely keeping his eyes above her hips.

  She finally turned and sat on the bench. “Sorry, I was…I slept in.”

  As she pulled on her skates he strode past her and stepped out onto the ice. “I paid good money for these sessions, Barker. Don’t be late again.”

  Logan skated a few laps while she finished lacing up her skates and by the time she joined him on the ice, his blood was flowing and he was feeling pretty good.

  That was until Billie-Jo Barker put him through the ringer.

  He was a guy who was in shape. He played hockey, baseball, basketball and soccer. He knew that his mother thought the reason he was still single, was because if he wasn’t at the shop, he was playing some sort of organized sport. There was some truth there—he didn’t know many women who’d put up with their man out of the house five nights a week. But the point was, he was a guy who was used to hard, physical activities.

  And yet, Billie had him doing drills over and over again that had his legs shaking, and his heart pounding so hard it felt like it might burst.

  She had him running drills up and down the ice, some utilizing the puck and some not. He spent at least fifteen minutes skating backward around the center ice, and then around each faceoff circle in the end zones. Always with her on his heels, shouting for him to be better. To go faster. To keep his head up and use his legs.

  You name it, he did it.

  Shit, maybe she was trying to kill him, but Logan was stubborn enough to play along and by the time she set up pylons down the center he’d almost had enough.

  Almost.

  “I think it’s time you show me some of your skills.”

  She turned to him and he was struck by the fragility of her bone structure. Just like that his thoughts scattered. Her jaw and cheekbones were exquisite, her nose delicate and that mouth. Sweet Jesus.

  How was it that this woman could tear up the ice the way she did, and still be the hottest thing he’d ever seen?

  Her blue eyes were wide and questioning as she skated over to him.

  “What do you mean?”

  She propped her elbow against her stick. Her hair was wet from the rain when she’d arrived and she’d clipped it in a mess on top of her head. Now, small chunks fell free and hung in long curls down her back. Her cheeks were flushed pink, and her lips…

  Okay, stay away from the porn star perfect mouth, dumbass.

  “Well, that is if you’re feeling up to it,” he goaded.

  The tension inside her seemed to dissipate, and she offered a small smile. “What did you have in mind?”

  He grabbed several pylons and skated out to center ice, noticing for the first time that they had a crowd watching. The midget girls from next door were gathered beside the player’s bench, their excited chatter now hard to miss.

  He placed the pylons in exactly the same pattern that she had done and pointed toward her. “A race.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  Was that sarcasm? “No, I’m not.”

  “Are you sure you’re up for that, Forest?”

  Definitely sarcasm.

  “Lady, you have no idea what I’m up for.” He cocked his head and nodded toward the pylons.

  “All right,” she answered softly. “We’re nearly done anyway.”

  Billie skated over to the bench where she re-clipped her hair and doffed her sweatshirt.

  A loud catcall echoed from the stands and he spied Stu grinning from ear to ear.

  Her midriff was bare and he clenched his jaw together, refusing to find the sexy-as-hell belly ring he’d spied earlier. The woman was playing hardball, but that didn’t mean he had to play along.

  Logan pointed toward the net at the far end of the rink.

  “First one to ding each corner wins.”

  “Really? And who made you the God of rules?”

  He shrugged. “My challenge. My rules.”

  “Okay.” Her eyes narrowed. “Wins what?”

  “I haven’t decided yet,” he answered.

  “You’re pretty sure of yourself,” she replied.

  “Yeah,” he skated toward the blue line closest to them where he’d lined up five pucks each. “I am.” He only needed four, but the extra one couldn’t hurt.

  Adrenaline pumped through his body as he lined up on the right side, she would take the left. Billie was fast. She was strong and her hands were great. There was no doubt she had enough talent for the big leagues.

  But Logan was just as fast and though his stick handling might not be on the same level as hers, he could shoot the puck at a target and hit it. He’d been doing it for years.

  Besides, he was looking forward to claiming his prize and damned if he was going to let Billie-Jo take that away from him.

  One of the young girls watching them hooted and hollered. He flashed a smile, grabbed the whistle from Billie and tossed it over. It was the Mayor’s youngest daughter.

  “Hey, Amanda, you want to start us off?”

  She licked her lips. “I’ll blow your whistle anytime, Logan.”

  For a second he was startled. These girls were what? Sixteen? Seventeen?

  Billie joined him behind the blue line and he took a second to study the pylons. His muscles bunched and small puffs of hot air fell from his nostrils, as if he was a bull about to charge. When the whistle blew it was anticlimactic.

  He took off, his legs digging deep and then he grabbed his first puck, maneuvering his body around the pylons and not losing his puck as he did so. He kept his head up, his body moving forward and moments later he approached the far blue line and took a hard slap shot that dinged the top right corner.

  It was followed less than a second later by Billie’s, but he was already skating backward, around the pylons to get his second puck.

  By the time he grabbed his fourth puck, the girls were jumping like crazy, half of them shouting for Logan, the other half for Billie—who was seconds behind him.

  He took off for his last run grinning when he heard her swear. Seconds would count in this match. He’d just cleared the pylon at center ice when a blur of dark hair and blue and pink pajamas raced ahead.

  Fuck!

  He poured on the speed, lined up his shot, but she’d somehow gotten by him and ripped a low wrist shot toward the right corner.

  And missed.

  Logan let fly another impressive slap shot and dinged the top left corner, circling behind the net with a big grin, and whooping it up as he did so.

  Goddamn! He was out of breath but felt like he’d just won the Stanley Cup.

  The girls were going crazy behind the player’s bench, several of them shouting his name and Logan grinned, enjoying his moment.

  Billie skated over, gloves dangling in one hand, stick in the other. Her hair was now totally out of its clip, long pieces
of it sticking to her neck and she used her shoulder to push a good chunk of it out of the way.

  “Congratulations,” she said quietly, turning away but not quick enough that he didn’t notice the wince of pain.

  “Thanks.”

  Shit. He had totally forgotten about her side. After the workout she’d put him through and the little ‘race’ they’d just had, her stitches must be killing her.

  Instantly concerned, he started toward her. “Hey, are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” she snapped.

  Her coolness effectively halted any warm and fuzzies he might have been feeling and he put on the brakes.

  For a moment neither one of them said a word, both jumping when Stu yelled down, “Okay lovebirds, I need to clean the ice.”

  Logan nodded and turned toward the bench, pausing when he reached the edge of the ice. He glanced over his shoulder. “I’ll see you tonight.”

  “What?”

  “Tonight,” he repeated, watching her closely. “Be ready by seven.”

  “But,” she sputtered.

  “You lost and now you owe me.”

  Damn, if she didn’t bite that bottom lip—that, sweet, fine, bottom lip. Between all that hair and that luscious mouth, most men would be in trouble, but not him. Logan had a plan and he was going to stick to it.

  “I’m almost afraid to ask what you have in store,” she said carefully.

  “Seven sharp, and make sure you look good.”

  He stepped off the ice and headed toward the dressing room, a huge grin on his face. Things were working out better than he’d hoped. By tonight, he’d have Billie-Jo Barker right where he wanted her. In his bed and hopefully, once he had her, out of his head.

  Logan tossed his gear and headed into the shower, feeling better than ever. He would kill two birds with one stone. Get a taste of something he’d wanted for weeks, and teach Miss Billie-Jo Barker a lesson while he was at it. He wasn’t the kind of guy to be played with.

  And if that wasn’t a damn fine reason to feel good, he didn’t know what was.

  Chapter Eighteen