Wanna Puck?

by Layla Valentine

  “That’s what you get for being such a delinquent in high school,” I scolded myself.

  The walls weren’t marked very clearly, but I’d been sent directions to the press room. After what felt like a mile of aimless wandering, I decided that I had gotten turned around. With a heavy sigh of frustration, I pulled my phone out again.

  “So I came in here,” I murmured. “And turned…left. Walked all the way over here…oh, damn it. Second left, Livia, not first left.”

  I squinted at the map, searching for a shortcut back to the hallway I was supposed to be in, and thought I found one. About twenty feet farther, and there was a room which connected to both halls. I could just walk through there, and…oh.

  The first thing I saw when I pushed the door open was a firm, muscular, very naked ass attached to a firm, muscular, very naked hockey player. I froze in place as heat flowed through my body, stirring up a wicked need in between my thighs.

  The players took no notice of me huddled in the doorway as they paraded every rippling bit of their glistening bodies through my vision—thighs bulging, dicks swinging, all framed by their perfect athletic builds.

  Swallowing hard, I pulled myself away and flattened my back against the wall. Was it suddenly hot in here? I unbuttoned my parka, letting the steam off as I fanned myself.

  Good lord, Livia, you need to get laid, I thought.

  As much as I wanted to peek my head back in there, I was already cutting this interview too close. I found my way around at a brisk jog with my parka tossed over one arm and my press pass clutched in my hand so it would stop bouncing off of my unruly chest. I came around to the manager’s office and slowed to a walk, breathing deeply.

  The press room just beyond it was bustling with activity. My window of opportunity quickly closing, I checked my compact mirror and tossed my hair. Bright-eyed, rosy-cheeked, and not a drop of sweat to be seen. Satisfied, I snapped the compact shut and marched in to corner my quarry.

  The two stars sat at the end of the room, flanked on either side by the coach and a few other people who I assumed were managers and agents. Joel’s bright, wicked grin beamed naturally from his attractive—if immature—face; Dante’s was more subdued and knowing, making him look just the slightest bit mysterious.

  Being this close to him had heat coursing through my veins, a fact which I combatted with a cool expression and a switch of focus. Two other reporters were in the room already, firing technical questions at them. Joel replied in short to every question, bouncing from reporter to reporter until his responses might as well have been gibberish. Drake, on the other hand, kept his mouth shut until the reporters stopped for breath.

  “As you can see,” he said in his deep, smooth drawl. “We have spent a lot of time perfecting our defense, offense, and teamwork. Yeah, Billy, you’re right—the kid here has talent. That’s why we let him loose out there to do his thing.”

  “Well, whatever it is you’re doing, it seems to be working! Congratulations on kicking off the season with a win.”

  The sports writers packed up their things, shook hands, and walked away. As they turned their backs, I saw a flash of relief cross Drake’s face—relief which was quickly replaced by annoyance when he saw me.

  “Hi, Mr. Drake, Mr. Palmer. Livia Ramos of The Portland Crier. That was quite a game.”

  “It was decent,” Drake said, leaning back to relax into another interview. “You must be new to sports writing.”

  His eyes drifted over me in subtle appraisal. Joel’s merely groped.

  “As a matter of fact, I’m not a sports writer at all,” I confessed with a smile calculated to put him at ease. “I write human interest pieces, and you two happen to be some very interesting humans.”

  A wink and a grin put the proper tone to my confession, and earned me smiles from both stars.

  “If you’re looking for interesting, doll, look no further,” Joel said, standing up and flexing. “What do you want to know?”

  “You’re new to the league,” I said, zeroing in on Joel. “How are you acclimating to it so far?”

  “With enough layers, I can acclimate to anything,” Joel quipped, flashing his dimples as he grinned. “But seriously, it’s great.”

  “And how are you getting along with your teammates?” I asked it innocently, but I watched his face carefully.

  An angry shadow marred his features in a flash, only to melt away under that high-wattage smile. “They’re awesome,” he said. “Great guys. Great players.”

  “And you, Mr. Drake, how are you adjusting to having an up-and-coming star on your team?”

  “My team is filled with men who have star potential,” Drake said, turning a palm over. “Joel just happens to be the newest.”

  “So, there isn’t any animosity between the two of you? The rising star, the aging legend…classic setup for tension.” My most piercing gaze bore into Drake now, demanding the truth.

  A slow smile spread across his face as his eyelids half-closed, leaving his hooded eyes camouflaged from my analysis.

  “Darlin’, you get a bunch of men amped up for a competition, there’s going to be tension. It’s a fact of the game.”

  I noticed the manager and the coach exchange glances, so I decided to take a different approach.

  “As I said before, I’m no sports writer, Mr. Drake. Can you explain to me if there is a rule on the books stating that someone in your position can’t pass to someone in Mr. Palmer’s position, and vice versa?”

  Drake’s eyes widened in surprise, and Palmer’s grin turned to an ominous sneer. Drake recovered quickly, but seemed uncomfortable.

  “There’s no rule like that,” he told me. “Why do you ask?”

  “Well it seems to me—and excuse me for assuming; I really don’t know too much about it—but it seems to me that there were nearly a dozen moments out there today which would have allowed your team to score easily if one of you had passed to the other, but neither of you did. You’re both star athletes, and Drake, you’re famous for your split-second mapping of the rink. If I could see those opportunities, I’m sure you could. So I assumed that the only reason you wouldn’t be passing to one another was if there was a rule against it…or the rumors are true.”

  “What rumors?” Joel demanded, ignoring Dante’s warning look.

  I smiled at him indulgently. “Why, the rumors that you and Dante are fierce enemies in private, of course.”

  Dante was still trying to catch his eye, but Joel only glared at a spot behind my head.

  “Those rumors are baseless,” Dante drawled lazily. “We’re teammates. Anything we do, we do it for the team. There’s no behind-the-scenes drama, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh? And what of the jersey incident?” I asked.

  Joel’s face turned red and his eyes glittered dangerously. Dante cleared his throat.

  “Accidents happen,” he said vaguely. “And high-spirited men tend to give each other hell about it. It’s all standard male bonding, Ms. Ramos.”

  “I see,” I said, raising an eyebrow. “So, you expect me to believe that all of the rumors of a serious rivalry between the two of you are entirely fabricated?”

  “Yes,” Joel said staunchly.

  Dante cast a slow, lazy gaze in his direction, then turned back to me.

  “We do have a bet going, Ms. Ramos. All in good fun. Whoever finishes the season with more scores wins. And…” Dante’s easy smile twisted slightly, giving him a dangerous, wicked edge which made my belly stir in the most deliciously distracting way. “The loser will do a forfeit. The nature of which will be decided by the winner, of course.”

  “Of course,” I said, returning his smile with a toss of my hair. “And if you should win, what will you choose for Mr. Palmer?”

  Dante’s lips quirked in amusement, rattling my already fragile self-control.

  “I’d prefer to keep that to myself, Ms. Ramos. Wouldn’t want to give the kid any ideas.”

  “I’ve got more ideas than
you’ve had in your whole life, old man,” Palmer said jokingly.

  I didn’t miss the threatening undertones. There was definitely more going on here than they were willing to tell me.

  “And you, Mr. Palmer? What would you have Mr. Drake do if you win?” I asked him, noticing the slight reddening of his skin.

  Anger, I decided. Not embarrassment. How interesting.

  “That’s for me to know,” Palmer said. He eyed me up and down and licked his lips. “And for you to find out.”

  There were endless layers of suggestion in his tone, and I rewarded him with my own sultry smile. Not bad for a second choice, after all.

  “How long do you plan to stay in the league?” I asked him, turning to give him a clear view of my cleavage.

  “I’m a lifer, baby!” Joel said with a smirk. “I’ll be on the ice till the day I die.”

  I suppressed a laugh, but allowed it to reach my eyes. The better to seduce you with, my dear.

  “And you, Mr. Drake? How long do you see yourself staying in the game?”

  “Trying to put me out to pasture already?” Drake asked with that same easy humor.

  “Not at all,” I said with a grin. “Statistically, however, you have already doubled the average hockey career.”

  “Nobody ever said I was average,” he replied, his eyes and smile suggesting that “nobody” included his various lady friends.

  “I see,” I said, rolling the vowels out to acknowledge his double meaning. “Tell me, is there any more to this bet of yours? Or is it a simple matter of scoring goals?”

  “It’s all about scoring,” Joel said with a smirk.

  I nearly rolled my eyes at his clumsy attempt at a double entendre, but managed to keep my composure. It seemed clear at this point that I wouldn’t be getting any more out of them, but my seeds had been planted and well-watered.

  “Thank you both,” I said warmly, pulling two business cards out of my purse.

  “Feel free to give me a call if you think of anything else. Or even if you don’t,” I finished with a wink.

  When Joel took my card, he surreptitiously slid his own into my hand with the same motion. I caught his eye and he winked, earning himself a sultry smile. As I walked out of the room, I put a little extra sway in my hips to give them a long, hard look at my assets as I left.

  The bait was set. Now, I all I had to do was wait.

  Chapter 4

  I spent the next morning looking over my notes, searching for any chink in their armor. If my feminine charms failed, could I find another pressure point to hit?

  “An entire notebook full of what-ifs,” I said in disgust, tossing it on the desk. “Nothing but a hunch and a rumor.”

  I curled my knees up under my chin and glared at the offending pages. I had written more dramatic articles with less information, but those had been for gossip sites. While The Portland Crier did occasionally indulge in a speculative story or two, it prided itself on journalistic integrity. Any hint of conclusion jumping would end my career in its tracks.

  “So will this empty story,” I grumbled, pushing a hand through my hair. “I need more. Come on guys, take the bait.”

  As if on cue, my phone rang. I snatched it up and looked at the number—local area code, no known name.

  My heart thundered. It had to be one of them; I was certain of it. I let it ring once more.

  “Livia Ramos,” I answered in my most professional tone.

  “Ms. Ramos, good morning.”

  I would recognize his smooth lazy drawl anywhere. My belly clenched with desire as a grin spread across my face.

  “Mr. Drake, so kind of you to call.”

  He chuckled softly, a sound which sent delicious chills over my arms.

  “Well, you seemed like you needed a real story. My coach would lose his shit if he knew I was talking to you again.”

  “Ah,” I said, my eyes gleaming as I caught sight of my prey. “So there is something to hide.”

  “You could put it that way,” he replied casually. “I don’t have time to tell you about it now. Let me take you to dinner tonight.”

  Yes!

  “I suppose I could fit you in,” I told him evenly. “How does seven sound?”

  “Sort of like heaven, but with more of a hiss.”

  I didn’t even try to keep my eyes from rolling. “I’ll take that as a yes, then,” I said, my amusement filtering into my voice.

  I gave him my address and he promised to see me at seven to tell me the whole story. I kept my cool until the instant the call ended.

  “Yes!” I cried, pumping my fists in the air. “Yes, yes, yes!”

  My excitement was too much for my chair, and I toppled. In spite of my aching hip, I laughed as I lay on the floor. Hot dates and hot rumors were the best comforts on a cold autumn day, and I had managed to snag both at once.

  “Got him,” I told the ceiling with a grin.

  Dante Drake did not disappoint. The clean lines of his classic, steel-blue coupe accentuated the clean lines of his semi-casual suit. His light blue sport coat contrasted perfectly with his nutmeg skin and brought out his jewel-like eyes, which he flashed at me mercilessly.

  Every bit the gentleman, he opened doors and offered his elbow, gently but oh-so-firmly taking control. I wondered if he behaved the same way in bed.

  “You like Thai?” Dante asked.

  “I like good Thai,” I emphasized.

  “Looks like it’s your lucky day,” Dante said with that slow grin. “I know the best Thai place in the state.”

  His glossy black curls glistened in the city lights, and I noticed that single curl which fell over his forehead. He looked every bit as good tonight as he had ten years before; most of the pictures I’d found had been from that period. The peak of his heartthrob days, back when he was the young whippersnapper on the team. Which finally reminded me why I was really there.

  “So, you were going to tell me…”

  He grinned at me as he turned the radio up. My mouth fell open, caught somewhere between offense and amusement. I settled for a simmering pout, but let it pass quickly. If he wanted to talk at the restaurant, we would. If not…well, I might still get something out of it.

  “Here we are.” He sounded deeply satisfied, but I couldn’t quite figure out why.

  The restaurant—if you could call it that—was a tiny hole-in-the-wall in a run-down strip mall. The sign was only half-lit, making “Thai Palace” become simply “ha Place”—fitting, I thought. The ashtray outside had been kicked over, and there appeared to be a person sleeping under the window sill. I raised an eyebrow at Dante.

  “Just give it a chance,” he said, flashing his grin at me. “See how full the parking lot is?”

  “Yeah, they’re probably here for the twenty-four hour tattoos,” I replied wryly.

  “All right, all right. I’ll make you a bet,” he said, his eyes dancing. “If this place does not serve the best damn Thai food you have ever tasted, I owe you a thousand dollars.”

  “Man, I could use that right now,” I laughed. “But if it somehow, miraculously happens to be the best Thai food…?”

  “Then you owe me a kiss,” he said, the laugh lines around his eyes crinkling.

  “A kiss is equitable to a thousand dollars?” I asked, incredulous.

  “Don’t sell yourself short,” he said, suddenly serious. The moment passed quickly, and he stuck out his hand with his playful grin back in place. “Deal?”

  “Deal,” I replied as I slipped my hand into his.

  Warm, dry, and strong. His fingers fully enveloped my hand, making me feel like the daintiest little thing in the world. It was a feeling I was rarely entitled to, courtesy of my useful yet cumbersome curves, and I sort of adored him for it. Or, at the very least, I adored his hand.

  The restaurant was crowded, but somehow managed to feel cozy and private. Short glass walls topped deep booths, trailing plants obscured tables from view, and the lighting was low and rosy. I rela
xed immediately.

  “Mr. Drake!” A short Asian man dressed in an apron greeted Dante with a warm handshake and an almost ecstatic grin. He repeated the gestures with me, to my amusement. “Come, come!” he said, waving for us to follow him. “Your table is ready, Mr. Drake.”

  Dante placed his hand on the small of my back to guide me through the restaurant. Part of my brain was annoyed at the gesture—as if I couldn’t figure out how to follow the man while dodging patrons? But the rest of my mind was distracted by the violently erotic tingle of electricity which shot over my skin when he touched me.

  I allowed Dante to guide me, and wasn’t surprised when he pulled out my chair for me.

  The man who’d greeted us was apparently the owner, as well as being Dante’s biggest fan. The table he brought us to was surrounded by walls on three sides, each of which was decorated with signed photographs of Dante and the team. He left quickly, promising that drinks would come shortly, leaving me alone with Dante.

  I looked around at the signed photos pointedly.

  “I’m not sure the food’s going to taste as good to me as it does to you,” I said with a small chuckle. “Ego-stroking tends to add spice.”

  “Then maybe I should stroke yours,” he said in a low rumble.

  He reached across the table and caressed my hand, an overly corny expression on his face. I laughed, which made him smile, which made me want to jump across the table and straddle him.

  Clearing my throat, I turned my attention to the menu. The staff were on top of every little thing; wine and water soon appeared at the table along with a bowl of appetizers, compliments of the chef.

  “They must absolutely love you here,” I remarked, watching the waiter hurry away. “Did you save his only child from a burning building or something?”

  “Pretty much,” Dante admitted, shrugging his broad shoulders.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means…once upon a time, a desperate man bet everything he owned on another man making a record-breaking shot. I made the shot; he won back twenty times what he put up and got his life together. Jack’s a good guy; he just needed that one lucky break.”