Good Boy

by Sarina Bowen

  Mic feedback screeches through the room, and we all turn to see the founder of Broken Paws take the stage.

  “Hello, everyone, I’m Paula Anderson—”

  I shove my fingers in my mouth and let out a deafening whistle.

  “Go Paula!” Eriksson shouts, while our d-man Hewitt thumps both hands on the table.

  The fifty-year-old redhead laughs into the mic. “Hockey players…can’t bring ’em anywhere.”

  The crowd rocks with laughter.

  “With a few exceptions, of course,” Paula says with a smile. “Because what many of you might not know is that every player on the current roster of this revered Toronto franchise volunteered at one of our animal shelters this past year.”

  It’s true. We all have, though I know some of the guys didn’t do it willingly. Like me, Coach Hal is a hardcore dog lover. This is his pet charity—pun intended—and he made every player promise to work at least one shift at a Broken Paws shelter. Non-negotiable.

  “But one player in particular has worked so hard and so relentlessly to raise money for our cause.” Paula’s voice thickens with approval. “So I ask all of you to give a big round of applause for Blake Riley, whose tireless fundraising efforts have allowed us to save the lives of a hundred more dogs this year than we did last year. He’s also made several sizable personal donations that have enabled us to provide veterinary care for the dogs of families with limited means.”

  As applause fills the room, Jess turns to me in amazement. “You did all that?”

  I shrug. “Dogs are awesome.”

  Her eyes narrow, as if she’s trying to figure something out. Then she turns back to the speaker.

  Another girl would probably give me at least a kiss for helping all the pooches. But not Jess. She only raises one lithe, elegant arm to take a sip from her wineglass. She swallows, and I watch her throat work, wishing I could put my lips right there and taste her.

  Shit. Once upon a time we were briefly friends with benefits. Now we’re just friends at a benefit.

  “And now I’d like you all to turn your attention to the screen,” Paula says, and behind her, a huge projection screen slides down. “All of you have donated tonight. All of you have donated in the past. I, along with everyone else at Broken Paws, thank you for it. We thank you, and we commend you, and we would like you to see where all your money has gone.”

  “Oh God, here we go,” Eriksson moans.

  The lights dim. The first strains of “Angel” float out of the speakers. And then the slideshow begins.

  The first shot is of a scrawny chocolate lab puppy who’s missing his right eye. The caption reads: Wally. Four Months. Abandoned in a dumpster in Joliette, Quebec.

  The second shot shows a slightly older Wally, still missing an eye, but now happily sitting in the lap of a smiling little girl with pigtails.

  The caption: Four surgeries later. Wally’s new home with Katie.

  Luko’s wife is the first one to sniffle.

  Then we have a pic of a Great Dane with two broken legs. He’s followed by a litter of starving terrier puppies in a cardboard box that was found on the side of the road in Northern Ontario. And a husky that was beaten within an inch of his life.

  With a little gasp, Jess slips her hand into mine. She’s trembling, and I look over to see tears sliding down her cheeks. When I check the table around me, I see Jamie give a teary smile to Wes, who discreetly flicks a drop away from the corner of his eye. Aw. They’re as cute as the fucking dogs.

  There isn’t a dry eye in the room, mine included. This happens every year at this event. I don’t know why I keep coming back, except that it’s such a fucking amazing cause, and I guess even hockey players could use a good cry every now and then.

  But Paula wouldn’t leave us in this condition. It’s bad for business to destroy your donors completely. So the music morphs from Sarah McLachlan to “Who Let the Dogs Out.” There are pictures of the new grooming facilities in the Ontario shelter, thanks to last quarter’s donations. A state-of-the-art operating room at the Quebec location. There are several shots of my teammates and various shelter dogs.

  And then? The thing closes with a montage featuring yours truly. There’s a video of me being swarmed by a litter of Rottweiler puppies. Paula had opened their cage when I wasn’t looking and the six of them started jumping all over me, trying to get the sandwich I was eating. The audience cackles as they watch me hold up my sandwich so the puppies lick my face instead.

  But I’m not done yet. The next four photos are of various dogs sticking their noses in my crotch. Beside me, Jess lets out a giggle. The music swells and one last shot fills the big screen. It’s me holding a puppy in one hand, close to my face. I’d been letting the dog sniff me a little, but the photo was taken in a way that suggests we’re sharing a kiss.

  The sound of a hundred and fifty female sighs fills the room.

  “Oh my God, Blake,” Jess whispers in my ear, and I jolt when her lips brush my cheek. “You are…you’re…”

  “I’m what?” I ask thickly.

  She squeezes my hand. “You’re the best.”

  Her praise makes my heart soar. Damn it. I’ve got it bad.

  I’m so fucking fucked.

  20 A Rough Ride

  Jess

  Blake is acting weird. Weirder than usual, that is. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this subdued, but I’m done pestering him about it. If he wants to tell me why he’s down, then he will. I can’t force him to talk.

  “You want to dance?” I ask him.

  Now that the speeches are done, the music has started up again. Not Hozier, unfortunately—I’m assuming he’s already on his private jet heading somewhere awesome—but the DJ’s song selections aren’t bad. Jamie is out on the dance floor with Ben Hewitt’s wife, Katie, and either I’m wrong or they’re doing the Uma and Travolta dance from Pulp Fiction. They’re terrible at it, though, and Wes and Hewitt stand nearby, laughing at their respective spouses.

  “Naw,” Blake answers. “Not in the mood.”

  I put my arms up around his neck, though, hoping I can change his mind. “How did you get involved in this charity, anyway? Seems like you put in more time than if it was just a team thing.”

  This wins me a shadow of a Blake smile. “I love dogs. Used to have one, a big white boxer. After graduation, I, uh…” He clears his throat. “Lived with Molly for a while. She took care of him when I had away games, which was all the time, right? So after we broke up, I had to let her keep him. Otherwise he’d be in the kennel half the time.”

  Damn it. Blake looks even more blue than he did a couple of minutes ago. “Maybe you’ll see him again now that she’s back in Ontario,” I suggest.

  “Maybe,” he halfheartedly agrees. “Listen, do you mind if we take off? I’m kinda wiped. Didn’t get much sleep last night.”

  I drop my hands from his shoulders. “Hot date?” I say lightly.

  He shakes his head. “Neck.”

  “Huh?”

  “Neck’s sore,” he admits. “It was hard to find a good position to sleep in.”

  I have to bite my tongue to refrain from suggesting a whole bunch of naughty positions that he might find pleasing. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. My girl parts have been tingling ever since that photographic montage of Blake and all those cute puppies. I guess I’m turned on by philanthropy? Who knew.

  Or maybe it’s just Blake who turns me on. Blake and his big body and easy grins. The man whose magical power is that he’s always able to make people laugh. And orgasms—he’s good at giving orgasms, too.

  “Jess?”

  I snap out of my Ode to Blake train of thought. “Hmmm?”

  “So you’re cool if we go?”

  “Yeah, it’s fine. I have finals to study for.” We’re on trimesters, so there’s only ten days until crunch time.

  Blake and I say our goodbyes, hugging, kissing and fist-bumping his teammates, their dates, and the event organizers. As w
e leave the ballroom and walk toward the coat-check area, he keeps a couple of feet of distance between us, which is unsettling. Normally he doesn’t waste any opportunity to touch me, even if it’s just placing his hand on my arm.

  I wish I knew what was up with him. Loud, brash Blake, I can handle. Melancholy Blake? I’m stumped.

  We reach the coat-check counter, only to find a little plastic sign that says Back at 10:15. Seriously? I check the clock on the wall. It’s 10:03. Who just leaves their post mid-party? People need their coats, damn it!

  I suppress a sigh. “Awesome.”

  Blake rubs the side of his neck and rotates his head as if trying to stretch it out.

  “Your neck hurting again?” I ask in concern.

  “A bit.”

  I move closer and brush my hand over his nape. The soft hairs there tickle my palm. “Want me to rub it out for you?”

  I wait for the inevitable wisecrack, but…it doesn’t come. Oh boy. Is Blake broken? Maybe he needs his batteries replaced?

  Leaning up on my tiptoes, I press my mouth to the side of his throat and kiss his warm flesh.

  “Jessie… What are you doing?”

  “Kissing your boo-boos,” I murmur, then trace the tendons of his neck with my lips. “Do you want me to stop?” My tongue glides over his skin, and his clean, spicy flavor infuses my taste buds. “Would you rather we talk about why you’ve been sulking all night?”

  He groans when my lips encircle his earlobe. I’m not sure where this urge to maul him has come from. It’s not like I’ve been aching for him these past two weeks. My school schedule has been so hectic that it didn’t leave much time to think sexy thoughts about Blake Riley. But now that he’s here, standing so close to me, smelling fantastic and looking good enough to eat in his tailored black suit…sexy thoughts are all I’m thinking.

  “Well?” I prompt, tilting my head back to meet his eyes, which are now burning with lust.

  “No, I don’t wanna talk.” His voice has gone husky, sending a shiver up my spine.

  I glance at the clock again. 10:05. Then I shift my gaze to the coat-room door. “We have ten minutes,” I say meaningfully. “You think that’s enough time?”

  He winks. “Baby, I’ll make you go boom in three minutes, tops.”

  I choke down my laughter as he yanks open the door and pulls me inside. Oh, thank God. I fixed him. Blake is back in Blake form. Smiling, naughty and impulsive, his green eyes blazing with heat as he lowers his mouth and kisses me. With our mouths locked in a battle for dominance, we stumble down a row of coat racks toward a private nook in the back of the room. Blake has me up against the wall before I can blink, his tongue slicking over mine, his hands all over me.

  I gasp when he slips one hand underneath my dress and rubs me over my panties.

  “So wet,” he croaks, before cupping me fully.

  I squeeze his package through his trousers and groan, “So hard.”

  His choked laughter heats the air. “’Kay, so we’ve established that you’re wet and I’m hard. What are we gonna do about it?”

  I latch my lips to his again and loop my arms around his neck. “What, you need me to show you an instructional video?”

  “Mmmm, a sex video starring you?” One long finger dips underneath the crotch of my underwear. “Let’s put a pin in that. Right now, I just want…” His finger pushes inside me, and we both moan. “That,” he grunts. “I want that.”

  That’s as much foreplay as I get. Blake produces a condom from his wallet and has his pants down and his dick out before I can blink. Not that I was expecting sweet, lingering kisses and lots and lots of teasing. We’re in a coat closet and on a deadline. This is going to be a quickie, through and through.

  Blake lifts me up and presses my back against the wall. I hook my legs around his waist, relishing the feel of his warm hands cupping my ass. He angles my body slightly, moves one hand to his erection, and then guides it inside me.

  “Oh,” I gasp when he thrusts deep.

  “Hold on, baby. This is gonna be a rough ride.”

  Holy shit, he’s not kidding. His mouth captures mine in another blistering kiss, and then he’s fucking me in fast, shallow strokes. I cling to his shoulders and rock my hips, straining to get closer. The tension in my core gathers, tightens, as pleasure makes my toes curl. I can’t catch my breath, because Blake is still kissing me, and his frenzied pace doesn’t let up.

  My piano teacher always said, “If you’re going to make a mistake, make it good and loud.”

  I’m pretty sure she didn’t mean this kind of mistake, but I’m following her advice nonetheless as I moan into Blake’s mouth and writhe against his talented body.

  Blake

  It’s been a long time since anything felt so fucking good. I’m drowning in this girl and I don’t want to be saved. I keep giving it to her hard and fast, even if what I really crave is a long, slow night of it in my bed.

  But she’s loving it, and I’m the kind of guy who knows not to ruin a good thing. Except it’s such a good thing that it’s ruining me. She’s wrapped so tightly around me, I never want it to end. The sweet sounds she’s making are almost as good as the clench of her pussy on my cock.

  Then she sucks on my tongue, and my nuts tighten up faster than a slapshot.

  “Oh shit,” I say between groans. “I’m gonna come, Jessie. Like…super fast. Like…oh fuck…like now.”

  My eyes pop open to see her beautiful features taut with ecstasy, and it’s over like rover. I shoot so hard that my whole body shakes with the force. She moans, long and low, and we tremble together, our mouths locked as tightly as our bodies.

  Afterward, we just stay there for a moment, panting. But eventually I have to set the poor girl down and disengage. She clings to me still, her arms around my neck. “That was…” The sentence gets no ending.

  Indeed. I smooth her skirt down, because I don’t really want to stop touching her. But we can’t be seen like this. Gently, I lean Jess back against the wall and tuck myself hastily together.

  She seems to wake up to our current situation, her hands straightening her hair. Her big eyes hold mine and it slays me. She wears the most beautiful sex flush on her cheeks, and all I can think about is dragging her back to my lair and starting over again.

  And my neck feels looser all of a sudden. The pain is gone. I want to build an altar to Jess Canning and declare a miracle.

  But first, we have to get out of here. I nudge her gently toward the exit, hoping nobody will notice us sneaking out of the—

  Jess smacks into Will O’Connor’s chest the second she steps out the door.

  Shit.

  My least trustworthy teammate smirks at Jess, then arches a brow at me. “So,” he remarks. “Riley. I guess the ass-kicking for hooking up with Wesley’s sister doesn’t apply to you? He’s gonna be fascinated when I tell him about this.”

  I open my mouth to argue, but Jess gets there first. She pokes his chest and scowls at him. “This isn’t high school, asshat. My brother really doesn’t need to hear about every time I do something a little stupid.”

  My mouth slams shut. I wish I could unhear what she just said, but it’s already branded into my brain. And the pain it brings freaks me out a little, because it’s been a long, long time since my gut has clenched like this, since it felt like someone had stabbed me in the heart with a skate.

  O’Connor’s face splits into a grin. “Hey, if you’re feeling stupid again later, I’m available.”

  The strangled sound I’ve been holding back breaks free, emerging from my throat like a twisted gasp.

  Sensing trouble, Jess eases backward until she’s pressed against my chest. Her hands find mine, which are clenched into fists. “Move along, Will,” she says quietly. “Nothing to see here.”

  He gives a final smirk, and I feel like punching it off his face. It takes all my willpower to let him walk away.

  When he’s gone, Jess lets out a breath. “Whew. What an asshole,
right?” She turns to me with a smile.

  I try to return it, but it’s hard. Because Jess just said in no uncertain terms that fooling around with me was stupid. Whatever I’m feeling for her, it’s obvious she’s not feeling it back. My good mood has been punctured as quickly and completely as a balloon with a needle.

  “The coat-check lady is back,” Jess says. “Shall we?”

  I take her hand. And then I take her home. But there’s no joy in it.

  21 Once More With Feeling

  Blake

  The puck comes whizzing toward me—it’s a pass from Wesley. I put my stick in position, pluck it out of its trajectory and snap it into the goal.

  Or that’s what should have happened.

  For the third time today I shoot wide, sending the puck into the waiting arms of my scrimmage opponent, Will O’Connor. And that asshole laughs. I don’t pay attention to him, though, because I’m glancing at Coach instead.

  His face goes slack, and he shakes his head.

  I’m so fucking frustrated I could spit. My neck aches, too. The pain radiates down my shoulder, wreaking havoc with my concentration.

  We position ourselves for another face-off. I catch Wesley watching me with nervous eyes. Then the puck drops and Eriksson passes to Wes. I put on a burst of speed as he lines up to send it over to me.

  Once more with feeling! I get my stick on that puppy and…

  Lemming steals it with a poke check that I never saw coming.

  Coach Hal blows the whistle. “Let’s change a few things up,” he says.

  Wes groans. He knows what’s coming. Hal is going to make a line change before our game tomorrow night. Goddamn it.

  And then it’s worse than I thought, because Coach puts Wes with O’Connor, who’s a glory hog. Wesley spends the rest of practice looking sour. And when the final whistle blows I leave the ice so fast there’s probably a contrail behind me. I’m in the showers before anyone else has even unlaced his skates.