The Winning Score: A best-friend's-sister, enemies-to-lovers sports romance (The Playmakers Series Hockey Romance Book 4)

by G. K. Brady

  “Sarah? My love?”

  I am not your love! “What the fuck do you want, Wolf?” she hissed. She was already kicking herself for being so damn stupid. Of course he’d figure out a way to get a local number. She shouldn’t have expected anything less; he’d proved how adept he was at deceit.

  “My sweet, fierce little ball buster. It’s one of the things I love best about you, you know.” His chuckle slid a greasy chill along her spine. How had she never seen this side of him before? “What I want, Sarah, is that dirty mouth of yours. God, I’ve missed it.”

  Her cheeks blazed, sending sparks skittering across her scalp. Every hair stood on end. Every nerve ending zipped, then zapped, and not in a good way. “I told you I never wanted to hear from you again,” she gritted out. “What part of that did you not understand?”

  He tsked. “I understood it all, love, but what you didn’t understand was the part where I said you don’t get to walk out on me. I’m coming to Colorado to bring you home, Sarah.” Another slimy laugh. “Oh, you thought I wouldn’t know you’d run to your brother’s, didn’t you?”

  “How’s Ingrid?” she snapped, trying to keep the tremors from her voice while she reined in her shallow breaths. Calm. Stay calm. You can do this.

  His voice frosted over, turning to ice. “Ingrid has nothing to do with us.”

  Sarah’s hand flew out. “There is no us, Wolf, and Ingrid has everything to do with it. What world do you live in?”

  Without missing a beat, he smoothly said, “Why, Wolf’s World, of course.”

  Movement in her peripheral vision drew her gaze to the hallway entrance. Quinn was lasered in on her, his mouth a hard, straight line, as if he was trying to bite back words. Damn it! Now I’m flinging all my dirty laundry in front of Sparky, who looks like he’s going to fire my ass. Can this get any more fucked up?

  “We’re done, Wolf,” she bit. “Don’t waste your time coming to Colorado, and do not ever call me again.” She hung up, raked her fingers through her hair, and pushed a huge breath through her lungs. Setting her phone down, steadying her shaking hands on the kitchen counter, she psyched herself up to look Quinn’s way.

  He hadn’t moved. He was frozen, like a hulking statue. She darted him a quick glance. “I need to get your mom out of the hot tub.”

  “You okay?” His unnaturally soft voice both warmed and threw her at the same time.

  Without looking at him, she waved a dismissive hand and pivoted toward the patio doors. “Never better.”

  On the counter, her phone rang. She came to a sagging stop.

  “Sarah?” Quinn called, his voice gentle and filled with concern.

  “What?” she rasped.

  “I’ll get my mom. You take care of your phone—or not—and maybe figure out what, or if, I should know about … whatever’s going on with you.”

  Nothing! You don’t need to know anything! Quinn brushed past her as he headed toward the doors, and his just-worked-out masculine scent enveloped her, oddly pleasant. As she watched his retreating back, a thought jolted her. Wolf was capable of finding out where Gage lived. The thought of staying put at Quinn’s morphed into a necessity. For everyone’s sake.

  Da fuck was that? Quinn’s stomach was wound into knots after hearing the wobble in Sarah’s voice. She’d sounded so off that he’d come to an abrupt standstill in the hallway. He couldn’t help but hear the almost desperate edge in her voice—such a contrast to her usually snotty tone—and it had riveted him in place.

  There is no us, Wolf. What world do you live in? Do not ever call me again.

  As he glanced at his mother relaxing in the hot tub, his mind churned. Who the hell was this Wolf asshole, and why was he harassing Sarah? Then it struck him. The douchebag must’ve been why she left Seattle. Was she running from him? Did Gage know? Not that it mattered because Sarah was in Quinn’s house now. She was a bro’s sister, and now she was Quinn’s responsibility.

  Overwhelming protectiveness surged within him. It was a weird feeling, one he’d only experienced once before, when his dad had left his mom behind to galavant off to Europe.

  “Quinnie!” His mother interrupted his thoughts with a frowny face. “Where’s Sarah?”

  He nearly laughed out loud. Two times in his life he’d felt a primal urge to safeguard someone, and each time that someone had been a crabby, mouthy woman.

  Before he could ponder it further, his mother’s scowl returned him to the here and now. “She had to take care of something inside, and I told her I’d come get you. Do you need me to lift you out?”

  A triumphant little smile curved his mother’s lips. “No. Watch this.”

  Slowly, she levered herself out of the hot tub while he stood there somewhat stunned, arms tense in case she stumbled and he needed to catch her. But to his utter amazement and delight, she didn’t stumble. Instead, she stood on the decking and smiled up at him proudly before breaking into body-shuddering shivers.

  “Oh shit!” He snatched up a towel and threw it over her slight shoulders. “Sorry, Mom.”

  She pointed an accusing finger at him.

  “I know.” He gave her an eye-roll. “Two bucks.” Shit, he was going to go broke.

  When they got back inside, Sarah Sunshine seemed to have recovered, acting as though no Wolf had sunk his fangs into her. Though the afternoon passed quietly, Quinn fought the urge to pepper her with questions; her affairs were none of his business. Nonetheless, the unsettling episode bothered him, and he ran through different scenarios to shake the truth from her. All this played in his mind as he watched her maneuver his mom with a finesse he obviously lacked. Maybe it was because they were bonding over girl shit, like the stinky dye Sarah was currently slathering on his mom’s hair as they chatted.

  “We’ll do the tips in teal and the rest in this golden brown. How’s that?”

  “Oh yes, please,” his mom said. “But what about you? Aren’t you coloring your hair too?”

  “Yep. Well, I’m turning it back to its natural color. I’m over the pink.” Sarah hummed, then said, “Liz, have you thought about setting some mobility goals? I know you’re dying to spend less time in the wheelchair, and we could build on your good days a bit at a time. What do you think?”

  “I love that idea!”

  Wow. Only here a few days, and Sarah was light years ahead of anyone else he’d hired. Maybe because she seemed to give a damn. Why hadn’t he thought of setting up a plan, just like his trainers did with him?

  Feeling a little sheepish—and wanting to get away from the god-awful smell—he retreated to his bedroom, relieved he could do so without worrying about his mom. There, he scooped up his beanbags and began juggling—which was when he remembered his other phone. He pulled it out and fired it up, listening to a dozen or so voicemails from his out-of-town regulars. The messages were all pretty much the same, hoping he was doing okay and saying how sorry they were that they wouldn’t be seeing him soon. Yeah, me too.

  The last three voicemails were from Dory, which set off his wacko radar. Why the hell had he given her this number? The more important question was, why the hell had he slept with her? His fear factor took a step back from the ledge as he cued them up and listened. Nothing stalkerish. Simply pleasant, brief hello-thinking-of-yous. He blew out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, then typed out the same text to each woman—even Dory—who’d called him: Thanks for thinking of me. Hope you’re staying safe and that this doesn’t last much longer.

  A knock on his door commandeered his attention, and he stuffed the phone in his pocket.

  “Dinner in ten.”

  Dinner in ten? He wrenched his door open, and Sarah Sunshine nearly flew backward. “You made dinner?” he said. Her short do was one color, a rich, dark brown that caught the light and reflected it in reds. The pink hadn’t bothered him—he hadn’t cared, honestly—but now he found himself wondering why she’d ever want to change it. It was really pretty.

  “Well, yeah. I �
� There’s a lot of fresh stuff that I didn’t want to see go to waste, so … But don’t get your hopes up, Sparky. This is not what you’re used to. No five-star gourmet fare by any stretch of the imagination. My cooking’s more like Betty Crocker’s newbie apprentice.”

  Wyatt’s comment about finding Playboy Bunny Betty streaked through Quinn’s head. Would she be a brunette? He shoved the thought aside. “Who says that’s what I’m used to? Oh, by the way, I have something for you.”

  She took a step back and cinched her arms over a black T-shirt that read, “May the 4th Be With You.” He slid the phone out and handed it to her.

  “What the hell’s this?”

  He arched an eyebrow at her. “That’s a buck.”

  “Your phone’s a Buck? Never heard of that brand.”

  “No, Sunshine. ‘Hell’ is worth a buck. For the swear jar. That”—he pointed at the phone—“is a spare phone I’m not using right now. If you want to give the number to your family, anyone you want to be able to reach you, feel free. Then you can leave your other phone off in case … Well, if you don’t want certain people trying to reach you.”

  Her eyes fixed on the phone in her hand. “Um … Wait. Is this your hookup phone?”

  Well, shit. He shifted his weight from side to side. “What, now?”

  “You know, like you have your phone phone, and then you have your phone with a private”—she used air quotes around the last word—“number you only hand out to hookups. Girlfriends. Whatever you call them. That way they can’t bombard your regular phone.”

  He stood there gawking at her like a total idiot.

  She waved her hand at him. “Pfft. You forget I’ve had a front-row seat to hockey players and their shenanigans for years. I’m wise to all their tricks. And I’m older than you, which makes me just downright wiser all the way around.” She shoved the phone back at him. “You might want to close your mouth before a fly moves in.”

  With that, Miss Sassy Sunshine turned and marched her cute little ass down the hall. Not that he was checking out said ass. She was his buddy’s sister after all. And an older, wiser woman. Not that the label “older woman” was a deterrent. To the contrary, it sounded sexy as hell for some reason that escaped his comprehension.

  “How much older?” he called after her, unable to stop himself.

  “Four years older than Gage, so whatever that adds up to.”

  Whoa. He could’ve sworn she was the younger of the two when he’d first met her, and when he’d learned she was older, he’d figured by no more than a year, two tops.

  She stopped and turned, her side to him. “In case you can’t do the math, I’m thirty … and way more woman than you can handle.”

  Part of him was irritated that she’d read his mind and dismissed him like he was a punky teenager, and another part was all kinds of inappropriately heated up. “Hey, don’t you want the phone?”

  “Um, no. I don’t want to be fielding calls from women hot for your bod day and night.”

  Oh, this made him break out in a wide grin. “And that’s how it is. Day and night. Night and day. They can never get enough of the hot bod.”

  A hand planted itself on her hip. “Oh my God, you are so full of yourself! How do you pass by a mirror without swooning?”

  “Toughest thing I do every day, toots. Not gonna lie. It’s especially hard when I’m trying to shave. You know, I see myself and pass out with a razor in my hand. Then I get up, see myself again, and fall down again. Super dangerous. And shaving takes. For. Fucking. Ever.”

  He got the eye-roll he’d been after, along with an extra snort. Tossing the phone on his bed, he followed Sassypants to the kitchen. “I can block everyone on that phone so you won’t be bothered—not that there were that many to begin with. Or I can get you a burner phone.”

  “Five bucks goes to the jar,” she called over her shoulder, “and I’ll think about the phone. Thanks.”

  Why this made him happy, he had no idea. One winning score for the Quinnster.

  Chapter 12

  The New (Virtual) Normal

  Over the week, they settled into a routine that smoothed out like a freshly Zambonied sheet of ice. Quinn’s mom—whose blue-tipped hair he’d finally adjusted to—continued to improve while her stress level decreased. Begrudgingly, he admitted to himself that Sarah exercised far more patience than he’d thought her capable of—and far more than he could have mustered himself.

  Archer was included in their workout games. The dog not only motivated his mom to go for short walks with Sarah, but he seemed to soothe her at the same time. For some freaking reason, the dog even knew her meds schedule and went off like a whining timer if Mom wasn’t getting to it fast enough. Un-effing-believable!

  Sarah hadn’t had any more uncomfortable phone calls that he knew of—not that she’d confide in him anyway—and that wicked tongue of hers gave him a daily lashing. Oddly, it had become the highlight of his day. He even found himself pushing her to get her rolling. Probably because he was bored out of his ever-loving mind, being cooped up twenty-four-seven with his mother and her mouthy caregiver. A guy could only take so much working out and playing video games. Shit, Quinn couldn’t even banter with his teammates, who were either still giving him the cold shoulder or fully focused on their families. As for TV, he avoided it because his mother held a morbid fascination for COVID-19 numbers.

  So when he veered into the family room one day and the TV was blaring stats on mask-wearing, he veered right back out and found himself in front of a space he’d dubbed the “solarium.” Shaped like an oblong octagon, the room served no purpose but to hold plants and offer pretty views of the grounds. Surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows and topped with a glassed-in dome mimicking the room’s perimeter, it also let in lots of light … which must have been why Sarah had chosen it to construct 3-D puzzles.

  She was hunched over a table, chin in her palm, frowning at a partial foundation. Intrigued, Quinn casually drifted in and peered over her shoulder. “Where’d you get the puzzle?”

  She didn’t look up. “Amazon. Where else?”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s supposed to be the Taj Mahal,” she huffed.

  He grabbed a chair and slid it perpendicular to hers. “Want some help?”

  “You don’t have anything better to do?”

  His eyes darted between the picture and what she’d assembled. “Not really. I’ve already worked out twice”—and I’m in the best damn shape of my life—“and Mom’s got the TV tuned to Covid Network News again. I’m so over it.”

  “Mmph.” Sarah picked up a piece and eyeballed it.

  He pointed. “I think that goes—”

  Her eyebrow dipped in a spectacular stink-eye. “Really?”

  He grinned. “I’m helping!”

  “Okay, smartass. Help.” She handed him the piece, and to his delight, he snapped it in place after only a few tries.

  “Piece of cake,” he chortled. “I think we’re going to need glue, though.”

  “I was thinking the same thing, but we don’t have any.”

  They worked quietly for a half hour. Unlike the rest of his existence, hanging with Sarah wasn’t dull. Grating, annoying, irritating, yes. She was sharp as razor wire, with wit to match. Girl was ruthless and competitive. But like this? Surprisingly, it wasn’t so bad.

  He stole a glance at her. Something glimmered on her cheek, and he reached out to brush it off. Her head snapped back, and she looked at his finger cross-eyed. He pulled the finger back, but not before he registered the unexpected softness of her skin. “Sorry … just some … You’ve got … glitter.”

  “That’s my nose stud.”

  He shook his head.

  She peeped at him through long, dark lashes, surprising him when she placed her fingertip on his jaw and smirked. “So do you.”

  Her light touch shot a bolt through him, and he barked, “I do? Where the hell did it come from?”

  She glanced a
t the bag that held puzzle pieces. “From the Taj, I think.”

  Heat percolating in his veins, he ran a hand through his hair. “And speaking of the Taj, I think I’ll go get us some glue.” He shoved himself up from the table. “Need anything?”

  Hopeful hazel eyes tracked him. “Flour? And TP? I can’t find them anywhere, and I’m worried we’ll run out.”

  “How much TP do we have?”

  “Not enough. According to the Internet quiz I took, we have another ten days’ worth. I should’ve waded into the TP wars when Lily and I went to Costco.”

  He shrugged. “We’ll be fine. And if we do run out, I read about some substitutes.”

  “Such as?”

  “Rocks—that’s a favorite among backpackers, apparently—and leaves.”

  Her mouth swung open. “Are you serious?”

  “Absolutely. Oh, and my personal all-time favorite: pine cones. Never used them myself, but we have an endless supply in the backyard.”

  She gave him a horrified look. “Pine cones?”

  “That’s what the article said. Highly effective, but you only use them going in one direction.” He bit back his laughter and patted her shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’ll find us some TP.” How hard could it be?

  An hour later, waiting with other TP seekers in a line that snaked through the store, Quinn wasn’t laughing. Shoppers jockeyed their carts to get in better position. Had he wound up at a car race? Adding insult to injury, just as he turned the corner into the paper goods aisle, a clerk announced they were sold out for the day.

  With his glue and a few meager groceries, he popped into the liquor store next door and loaded up his cart. The place was packed. Evidently, everyone was on the same wavelength.

  As he waited his turn to pay, a customer at the front of the line laid a case of Rolling Rock on the counter. “Yeah, drinking the cheap stuff for now. What I was pouring at the arena is better than this, but when you got no money coming in, what else can you do?” he joked.

  Quinn peered over the heads in front of him to look the guy over, not that he’d recognize him. The sight brought him full circle to his comment at the press conference. The arena hired a fuck ton of concessionaires. If this guy was out of work, how many more were? He looked at the people behind him in line and what they held in their hands, then glanced down at his cart brimming with expensive craft beer, high-end rum, and several cases of wine.