Waking the Lion

by Lacee Hightower

  Was it something I said?

  Something I did?

  My chest tightens as I stare down at the ring symbolizing infinity, one more thing I didn’t know shit about … before Lindy.

  A circle has no beginning. It’s endless, just like our love.

  Slowly, I slide the looser than normal band from my finger and place it on top of all the cards she’s given me the last two years, never wearing my wedding ring to the rink for obvious reasons.

  ****

  A good three hours before anyone else will be arriving, I pull into the players’ parking, the short conversation I’d had with Reese on the drive over still fresh in my mind.

  I’m proud of you, bro. Get back in your game. Do what you do best. And Jesus Christ, I hope you cleaned your ass. You reeked. And one last thing, little brother. Your dick will always be the smaller one.

  Twenty minutes later, I’m lacing up my skates and glance over at the coach standing against the door. Common for this man who’s a friend first and coach second, his hands are shoved deep inside his pockets.

  Surprise flashes across his expression. “Rhett, what in Christ are you doing here?”

  “I’m fine. A little rusty, but I need to get back on the ice.”

  His gaze darts toward my shoulder as I try not choking up on my words.

  “Shoulder’s good. There’s hardly any pain left. I need to skate, Coach. I need to be out there on the ice.”

  Coach is a strong, no-nonsense kind of guy who doesn’t say a lot unless he thinks something really needs to be heard. He doesn’t talk bullshit. Only sticks to fact. Coach to the Dallas Blue Hawks the last four seasons, he led us to the Stanley Cup victory two years ago. Unfortunately, last season, the team failed to make the playoffs after a handful of team injuries, but we’re headed back that direction in a few months if I have my say.

  I won’t let my team down any longer. I’m the Captain for fuck’s sake.

  And I’ve missed way too much.

  At twenty-nine years old, born and raised on the ice in Canada, I know hockey is in my blood. My dad had Reese and me on the ice by the time we were walking, and I’d known since I was in the fifth grade that I wanted to play professionally. Selected second overall in the NHL Entry Draft by Dallas, I play Left Wing, named team Captain three years ago after being awarded the Art Ross Trophy as the league’s leading scorer with 87 points.

  “I’m here for you, Rhett. When and if you need me. Don’t keep all this shit bottled up. It’ll eat your fucking insides alive.”

  His words stab through my brain, my dad’s similar advice coming to mind. Always the silent type, I choose to keep my thoughts to myself and haven’t really discussed much of all this with either of my parents. Well into middle age when they had both me and Reese late in life, they’re now in their mid-seventies, living the life of retirement. Even though I’ve assured them everything is fine, when it isn’t, they’re too damn old to be spending their days brooding over my issues. Aside from all that, I still need to have the decency to at least call them back. And, at some point, I will. Still living in Canmore, Alberta, where they were both born and raised, they wanted to spend their final years in the place they love most, so we don’t see them much anymore. Maybe I’ll get them down here for a game soon.

  Let’s fly your parents in for a game, baby.

  “I appreciate it, Coach.” I release my jaw that’s so tightly clenched it aches. With a quick drop of my head, I lean over and re-lace the skates Coach and I both know don’t need adjusting.

  Chapter Ten

  Kass

  Kim parks in the Lexus Garage adjacent to the American Airlines Center, and we both grab our purses and head inside, pushing through the security check. After a quick dinner at El Fenix sharing nachos and two frozen swirl margaritas each, we’re both borderline tipsy and giggly with excitement. With still an hour before the puck drops, we both buy bottles of water and make our way to the premium seats.

  “Shit, you can hang meat in here.” I hug myself, still chilled through the long-sleeved turtleneck and jeans I chose to wear. My dark hair is styled in soft waves with a side part, and I’m wearing knee-high boots, and big silver hoops in my ears. Kim has on a cute pink and white jersey with the number “44” and “Gentry” across the back. She’s worn her longer hair twisted up with a cute gold and black headband on top and matching dangling earrings. The cute jersey makes me wish I’d thought of picking one up before the game. Better yet, right now I’d be happiest with a thick coat and gloves.

  “I’ve never had seats right behind the ice. This is awesome, Kass.” Her smile thins. “It’s gonna suck going back to the nosebleeds though.” She leans over, shoving her purse underneath the seat, so I do the same. AC/DC starts playing a few minutes later, and the players skate out onto the ice and start circling the rink.

  “This is the pre-skate warmup. Sometimes, it’s really cool. The guys toss pucks up in the stands to kids, and then they stretch and get ready for the game. Shit, I hope there’s a good fight tonight. You’ll love it, I promise.” She grins, lifting her eyebrows.

  “What’s with the fighting? Is it all that common?” When I reach for my water in the cup holder, two men in the adjoining seats are glaring at me like I’m a bug-eyed alien from Mars. “What?” I shrug. “I don’t watch hockey.”

  The warm-up ends quickly, and the players leave the ice. After we make a quick bathroom trip, we get back to our seats just in time to see the lights dim and a large blue star surrounded in thick fog lower from the rafters.

  “Now taking the ice, your Dallas Blue Hawks!” blares from the speakers. Everyone stands, clapping as the team exits the tunnel and returns to the ice.

  “You know the Predators are going to kick Dallas’s ass,” the attractive guy next to me utters in what’s the beginning of, I hope, a short-lived conversation.

  “Not likely,” I respond teasingly.

  Quick introductions are being made that I’m missing, as I try to end this discussion with the talkative Predators fan who’s more annoying than anything else, slamming back beer like he’s been stranded in the Sahara for the last week. In the midst of the guy informing me our goalie is on his way out and can’t keep their number one scorer from sneaking in a puck, I swear I hear the name Rhett Gentry over the loud speaker, quickly ignoring it when Kim leans over and whispers, “I’ve gotta pee again.”

  Her timing is perfect as far as I’m concerned, and I answer with a sharp, “Let’s go,” happy to take a break from the chattering beer-guzzler beside me.

  “Please stand for our national anthem,” roars over the speakers right as we get to the top of the stairs and rush to the bathroom. Thoughts of asking about the Gentry player take a back burner when Kim starts a conversation between stalls about Seether and Rob Zombie coming to Dos Equis Pavilion next month.

  Halfway into the first period, I’m positive I’m a fan for life. Still no score, two fights have already taken place and this is only pre-season. Hockey is seriously intense and quick-paced. I’ve stood during both fights, screaming like a person who’s a regular fan and understands the concept of the game. Thirty seconds until the end of the period, they’re stealing our puck and skating toward the net, a goal inevitable. I jump out of my seat.

  “No!” I yell. Gentry is flying toward the skater, tipping his hockey stick just the smallest bit and tripping the guy with the puck. The move is sneaky as hell, and I laugh, watching the guy stumble to the ice as the crowd jumps up, going crazy and chanting “Gentry” for long seconds. In a quick instant, the Predator is jumping back up and racing toward Gentry.

  Fans start pounding their fists against the glass.

  “Bring it,” Kim yells, as the music starts blasting Metallica while the game comes to a stop. Half or more of the crowd is on their feet, and Gentry drops his gloves, instantly pushing at the other guy’s chest and causing his helmet to fall off. Whatever he’s saying obviously pisses the other guy off and the Predator shoves back at
Gentry’s shoulder and drops his gloves. In each other’s face, their noses nearly touch as they continue confronting. Then, a fist lands against Gentry’s jaw, his helmet joining the other one on the ice. A sexy mass of sweaty, nearly shoulder-length, dark-brown hair and the onset of what I consider a shaggy start of a beard, faces our direction, and the sight of him is like a hard slap to the face, sparking a flame through my whole body. Even mid-ice I recognize that form. Pure sex and egotism, it’s Rhett. Number 44 is Rhett Gentry.

  “Holy shit! That is Rhett!” Stunned, my heart starts pounding. “Come on, Rhett!” At the top of my lungs, I’m yelling as they take aim at each other and fall to the ice.

  “God, he’s so damn fine!” Kim elbows me in the side.

  Oh my God. And yes … he certainly defines fine.

  Even covered in thick bulky pads, his hair slick with sweat, a saliva-coated mouthguard dangling from the lips that I know by personal experience have no problem spitting out crude remarks, Rhett Gentry is the hottest specimen of man I’ve ever laid eyes on. The ends of his damp hair flip up, and my fisted hands are raring to touch every sexy inch.

  When the ref pulls them apart, both players immediately skate off to the penalty box.

  “I thought you didn’t watch hockey?” Kim’s eyes widen as my chest pounds with surprise. Rhett Gentry is a hockey player. Nobody bothered telling me that, and I wonder if Darci even knows.

  Still mouthing even inside the penalty box, Rhett bangs his stick angrily against the ice. Incapable of responding to Kim’s question at the moment, I’m still in awe, his presence tingling all over my skin as I stare at those thick lips and their unending mumbling. His demeanor is nothing like the gloomy-acting guy I’ve seen. This man is pure, undivided, testosterone-filled, strong male. Complete masculinity. Totally confident in every move he’s making. With a sexy sneer covering his face, he leans over, spitting on the ground, before looking back up … straight toward me.

  Butterflies clench my stomach, and my pulse turns ragged as the clearness of his eyes are recognizable even this far away. His shockingly handsome features send stabbing tingling sensations way deep between my thighs. My God, he’s beautiful.

  He maintains his stare in my direction for several long breaths, his eyes so full of unreadable expression that I can’t force myself to look away. Seconds later, he’s up again, returning to the ice. Nothing but distant and damn near rude, he hasn’t been friendly toward me, but each time I see him, he unnerves me just a little more, turning me both hot and cold. The pull I feel toward this mysterious man is sexual and … terrifying.

  “I don’t watch hockey … but I know Rhett,” I mumble quietly.

  The next few minutes, I’m oblivious to anything. Rhett Gentry’s effect on me makes no sense. I’m not sure I like him or even want to. Every hunch in my mind tells me he’s trouble. And a danger I don’t think I can ignore.

  ****

  With midnight three minutes away, I crawl into bed for the night and tug the comforter under my chin, knowing sleep isn’t going to come easily. I’m wide awake, excitement still barreling through my chest, the puck Rhett tossed me after the game all I can focus on. Along with the glacial blue gaze drilling through my eyes that I can’t stop thinking about.

  My first appointment isn’t until eleven o’clock in the morning, and it’s a good thing. There’s no way I can close my eyes. Not just yet. Staring at shadows on the floor peeking through the blinds, visions of blue eyes and thick, dark hair replay in my head. Admitting to myself that this guy is pulling feelings from me that I haven’t felt since Adam, I know damn well I should ignore this desire. He’s still the same unfriendly guy that basically slammed a door in my face, telling me to fuck off. Practically said it again in the grocery store. He’s only putting on an act for the crowd. I know this is the case. Yet, he still makes my chest roll and brings on an awareness I don’t want or need. Hunger. Lust. My fingers ache to touch his abs. I want to look in his eyes again and sense that strange charge through my body that only he has brought on. Feel his hair. Hear him whisper sensual words in my ear.

  I want him in my bed.

  Jesus. My thighs clench together, thoughts of his hair tickling my face as he thrusts through my sex all I can think about. This attraction is raw and crude, and I’m certain it’s unhealthy. So why do I keep visualizing? Inventing scenarios? He’s dark. Cold. Stoic and detached.

  He doesn’t want me.

  A quick flip of the remote, there’s nothing to watch, and I finally settle on a rock music station and reach for my tablet to download a book. A part of me wants to Google Rhett and I plan on it, but a quick coating of loneliness sweeps over me and my mind wanders to the past. Nights like these are the ones when I miss my life with Adam the most. Not that I still love him. I don’t. But dark nights get lonely. And I still can’t seem to get warm. And everything between my thighs aches.

  Desperately trying to relax, I give up on reading. With “Burning Bright” by Shinedown playing in the background, there’s suddenly a calm stroke of longing pulsing deep inside me. This desire to know Rhett Gentry continues to be a relentless brick wall I can’t seem to get around. As much as I try ignoring it, the need doesn’t ease up. I’m achingly aroused, and my fingers dust across my chest, giving my heavy nipples a firm tug. The dull throb pounding through my thighs grows stronger.

  My God, what’s wrong with me? The man is an ass. Beautiful physically, he was only friendly because it was expected. Strictly put on for the crowd, it had nothing to do with attraction. But I’m still human. Lonely. Cold. Missing the intimacy I’d once shared with Adam, I consider calling him for a quick second. I know he’d come over if I asked. But would it be enough?

  I just … I need … something. Companionship. A man’s touch. Release. Him.

  With the ache in my core almost excruciating, I ease a hand down my thigh, caressing my sensitive skin. Pulsing shame slides through me as my legs widen, the pressure only deepening. My panties slide down over my knees, and I brush a finger over my slick mound, pushing it inside my sex while contemplating my vibrator in the drawer only inches away.

  My body aches for a real touch … by a real man.

  Not just a man, but that man.

  Rhett Gentry.

  My finger plunges deeper and I add a second, brushing my clit with the edge of my thumb, my hips lifting as I long for warm pleasure to fill my core.

  His pleasure.

  I want to reach that edge. Listen to the sound of satisfied groans against my damp neck. Sigh into his strong chest as I hear my name being muttered in a fulfilling, low tone, while thick, dark waves tease my skin.

  His tone. His hair.

  Seconds later, my heart races, lurching into a beating frenzy as my fingers curl deeply inside my channel while I silently scream out in climax. Imagining. Fantasizing.

  Widely blue bedroom eyes radiating with lust, latching on mine.

  Shaggy, long hair full of my fingers.

  Thick, damp lips, swollen from deep, heavy kisses.

  I rub my clit again and screw my eyes shut, prolonging the last sensitive beats of my release. Still visualizing blazing blue eyes. Long fingers. His mouth. His beautiful hard body. His baritone voice.

  Entirely confident this man holds a beating heart heavily primed for breaking others and unsure whether I consider him a friend or a foe, I know that he, and only he, can satisfy this burning need he’s brought into my existence.

  Despite his cold attitude, I’m positive I’ll see him again one day.

  Chapter Eleven

  Kass

  The morning could be wonderful, being that my appointments don’t start today until noon. Instead, like clockwork, the backup beeping of the trash truck only feet from my bedroom window has me awake way too early.

  “No.” I pull the pillow down over my face, wishing for a few more minutes of sleep.

  “Shit.” It’s only fifteen minutes after six in the morning, and I don’t have to be up for at least t
wo more hours. With a quick glimpse at the hockey puck only inches from my face, I toss the covers back and crawl out of bed, brushing my fingers across the top of the hard rubber disk and head to the kitchen for coffee.

  There’s a new box of hazelnut-flavored K-cups on the right pantry shelf, so I grab one and stick it in the Keurig, brewing myself a much-needed cup. Dunkin’ Donuts makes a kickass cup of coffee, strong, but not bitter. Cup in hand, I venture back to the pantry in search of something for breakfast besides my usual yogurt and granola. Beside a box of chocolate graham crackers is a bag of semi-sweet chocolate chips and a container of shredded coconut. The ingredients I bought last week to make cookies for the salon still sit exactly where they’ve been since I got them. Counting on me for a cookie run at least once a month is a habit I probably should have never started, and I consider ripping open the bag and enjoying a handful, which I do.

  Ten minutes later, I’m mixing up cookie dough when a completely insane idea hits me, my belly spiraling with butterflies at the thought. So ridiculously out of character for me, I find myself giggling—before I’ve finished my coffee.

  Not only am I going to bake cookies before work, I’m going to drop some off for Rhett Gentry.

  The idea is a little blurred and a whole lot crazy. Will taking cookies to a man I barely know make me look like I’m chasing the jersey, or more specifically a puck bunny? Will the Dallas Blue Hawks’ captain assume I’m trying to score an orgasm by bringing over fresh baked goods? These thoughts cross my mind, but I’m absolutely not thinking that direction at all. I literally just want to say thanks to the angry hot stranger for last night. What can it hurt? Besides my ego? My last conversation with him comes to mind when I’d handed him my business card. He’d responded with a short “I appreciate it” and nothing more.