Hard Checked: Ice Kings, #4

by Lynn, Stacey

  Gruff and growly. My lips pucker. I’m not… but perhaps that’s who I’ve become? I’m not sure I like her first part of her impression of me but I’ll take the latter. “A wolf, huh?”

  “Yeah. And since you’re from Minnesota, that’s probably rather cliché but it suits you.”

  Several Minnesota professional sports teams have logos with wolves, so she’s not wrong.

  “I like wolves. They’re fiercely loyal, strong, and pretty badass. Just like me.”

  Gigi snorts. “Don’t let it go to your head, hotshot.”

  I can feel my smile stretch my cheeks wide. This woman. Everything about her makes me feel good. And with the way she’s looking at me?

  Something inside me stirs.

  I push off my sunglasses, wanting to see her without the barrier. I want a clear view of the way she grins at me and when I do, her lips part.

  She sees it. She sees everything she’s making me feel, and I’m not hiding it.

  Not anymore.

  “Sebastian,” she whispers as if afraid of breaking the moment.

  I whisper her name back even quieter and move in a fraction. The pull she has on me is indescribable. My tongue slides along my bottom lip on instinct.

  Because she’s close to me. And no longer smiling. I can see her eyes behind her own lenses drop to watch my movement and I swear she pulls up so she’s closer.

  And then she clears her throat, cheeks flushed, and she pushes up to sitting, jumping off the bench.

  “I should probably get going.”

  I turn and watch the way she brushes her hands down the thighs of her leggings, avoiding me.

  Maybe I’ve read that wrong.

  Maybe I shouldn’t be doing this.

  Not with her or with anyone, but I don’t want anyone.

  I like her.

  “Yeah.” My voice is gruff. Scratchy.

  I clear my throat and slide off the picnic table, packing up the travel bowl and water bottles before tugging on Bruiser’s leash, who’s panting beneath the table in the shade.

  “I should get back too. I have a workout later.”

  We head back to the car in near silence. Her clicking away at photos randomly. I feel like I should apologize.

  Although I’ve done nothing wrong except make her uncomfortable.

  But I’m not sorry, so I don’t.

  I like this woman. I’m interested in her, in everything she says.

  It’s too damn bad I have no clue what to do next.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Sebastian

  I’m kicking back on the bus, Klaus next to me. The bus is silent, all of us pissed we lost to New York. It took us too long to find our rhythm and our skates. Our passes were sloppy and we moved too damn slow out of the gate when New York came out barrels blazing. They were on fire and after two quick goals in the first period that had Maddox letting loose his helmet and curse words that would make a sailor proud during the first intermission, we got our shit together but we spent the rest of the game playing catch up.

  It was an embarrassing two to five loss playing a team that has no hope of making the playoffs.

  “You coming to the bar tonight?” Klaus asks, pulling out his phone and tucking his headphones behind his neck.

  “Probably. Think we could all use it.”

  “No shit. I don’t think I’ve played that bad since I was twelve.”

  “I hear you. Tonight was ugly.”

  “Coach is going to have our balls in a tight grip this week.”

  As gross as the visual is, he’s not wrong. You know you’ve done shitty when Coach stares at you in the locker room post-game and then leaves without saying a word. It’s more powerful than if he’d come in cursing as mad as Maddox.

  For me, even with my goal, I have an excuse for playing like crap. Twenty minutes before I took to the ice my lawyer sent me a text.

  Papers are signed and filed. Divorce final.

  I pull up the text again and re-read it. It’s final. I gave Madison everything she asked for after she declined my one attempt to give her more money. She made it so damn easy and months ago I would have been devastated.

  As it is, now, I just feel numb. I’ve joined the ranks of the other forty percent of people who have their first marriages end in divorce. Not exactly a statistic I’m proud of and there’s definitely no textbook for how you’re supposed to feel when the woman you loved forever leaves you but sitting here on the bus, letting it set in…

  Maybe it’s possible I’ve already started moving on and accepting it.

  My phone buzzes in my palm, making me almost drop it.

  And then I grin when I see the name.

  Maybe I don’t feel all that upset about my divorce because there’s another woman who makes me smile.

  Gigi.

  Nice goal tonight, hotshot. Sorry about your loss and that shitty penalty call.

  I was sent to the sin bin for hooking and it didn’t even freaking happen. She’s not wrong at all and before I got off the bus and stepped foot into the hotel, it was the thing I was most upset about today. The stupid power play because I was off the ice allowed New York to score the goal that put them in the lead after we’d skated our asses off to tie it up in the second.

  I don’t want to talk about the game anymore. I’ll get enough of that tomorrow when we’re watching film.

  Instead, I grin at that stupid nickname she insists on calling me, and type back,

  Can’t win them all, even when you’re the best. Like me.

  “What’s got you happy?” Klaus asks. “I don’t think I’ve seen you smile like this in weeks.”

  Yeah. Something tells me I’m moving on. The only question is am I moving on to someone else? Or just acceptance?

  “Gigi texted,” I tell him and press my lips together as his eyes widen.

  I’ve kept my friendship with her relatively quiet. We haven’t been to the bar a whole lot but we’ve gone and when we’re there, she treats me like every other player so I assume she’s been taking her cues from me.

  There’s no longer the awkwardness about our last walk or what I confessed and I haven’t done anything about it because I’m still confused.

  And because I’m married… or was. But I’m not anymore, am I?

  “Gigi the bartender?”

  “Yeah. We’ve become… friends, I guess.”

  “You guess?”

  “What?” I shoot him a look. “I can’t have friends?”

  “Friends that are that fiery and sexy? I wouldn’t keep her just as a friend if it were me.”

  The idea of Klaus, or any other man calling Gigi sexy or thinking of her that way has me gritting my teeth before I can stop it.

  Klaus laughs, slaps my leg. “Yeah. Friends, my ass.”

  Hell. If he’s going there, I know one way to get him to shut up. “Friends,” I repeat. “Like you and Jillian.”

  She works for a marketing company that produces all of our gear for signings. They met at least two years ago and became fast friends. He was dating someone, she was engaged, but they still hit it off and have been friends ever since. But I’m not a moron. Just like with Jason I can see when one of my friends is panting after someone and not acting on it. Now they’re both single and he’s still not doing anything.

  Sort of maybe… it might possibly be the same way I’m acting with Gigi.

  He scowls at me. “Fuck off.” He tugs his headphones over his head and smirks. “Hotshot.”

  That little fucker. He read my damn text. I punch him in the thigh, relishing when he bends over and grabs it. Serves him right.

  I return to my text and Gigi and yeah… I’m smiling.

  Not because of the shit talk with Klaus, because of Gigi.

  You think you’re the best? At what exactly?

  And shit.

  Oh. The ideas and visions that suddenly pop into my brain are not respectable, especially with nosey Newman sitting next to me.

  It takes
me a minute to respond. No flirting. Straight to the point.

  I want to see you. Saturday.

  I turn my phone off. I’ll look at her response later. Tonight I want to kick back with the team. Bond. We need to get over our loss so we can win the next one in two days. And I need to take a few days to figure out exactly what it is I want from Gigi Barnes, the petite little vixen who makes me think sometimes, getting divorced might not be so bad after all.

  * * *

  I haven’t made love to a woman in longer than I can remember. I have not fucked a woman in longer. That I’ve been married for so long, only had one woman, does not mean those two things happened.

  We were schedules and rituals. In the last three years, there was not a single time that I came home, smiled at Madison and she smiled and dropped to her knees in our kitchen like she’d done so many countless times before.

  A blow job? A wasted effort when our sole focus was procreation.

  Fun? When in the hell did that end?

  I had sex with fevers while trying not to puke. I had sex with bruised ribs and black eyes and bloody lips because games fell during optimum ovulation timing.

  I was woken at six in the morning with Madison’s hand on my dick, getting it hard and sliding on top of me.

  Sounds sexy, right?

  Only until the first words she said were, “I’m ovulating. I need you before you leave town.”

  She didn’t need me. She needed what I could give her. And unfortunately, now we both knew even that was wasted effort.

  Our sex life might have started off fun when we started trying to have kids… practicing is fun, right? Two years into it when she finally talked to her doctor, all of that ended. So for the last three years, I felt more like a milking cow than a partner or lover.

  At the time, I didn’t much mind. I wanted a family as much as she did and I wanted to give her everything she wanted. Everyone goes through sacrifice and everyone goes through hard times.

  All this means it’s been a really long time since sex has been fun, or the mere thought of sex has been fun. So when I wake up in the morning, for the umpteenth day in a row with my hand wrapped around my hard length after having another sex dream about Gigi, I groan… in both pain and pleasure.

  In part because I can’t stop thinking about her. Logically, my head and heart are a mess.

  Also, the last game in New York earned me a check into the boards, so I have a lovely bruise in that soft area above my hip.

  Pleasure because… holy crap. If the thought of Gigi makes me feel this damn good, what in the world will it be like if I can actually have her?

  It’s that thought that has my hips bucking fiercely up into my fist, abs coiling. Hot, blinding heat spikes down my spine. I finish all over my stomach and my chest on a groan so damn loud Bruiser starts yipping outside my door.

  Gigi hasn’t responded to my text about getting together, but I’m all out of fucks to give.

  Waking up this morning, multiple mornings over the last couple weeks have already cemented the decision I’ve been waffling on.

  Tomorrow…

  Tomorrow, Gigi becomes mine.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Gigi

  I’ve always assumed quitting my job and taking off for Europe by myself in my early twenties would be one of the most radical, outrageous things I could ever do.

  Boy, was I wrong.

  Turns out, not setting fire to my growing and simmering crush on Sebastian is riskier.

  I can’t stop thinking about him. It’s been a week since the day he showed up at my apartment, sweet little grin twisting his lips, beard cleanly shaven, hair hidden beneath a ball cap and tucked behind his ears while holding two coffees before so sweetly asking me to hang out with him.

  What’s a girl supposed to do? How could I have possibly stopped my attraction to him when he looks at me the way he does?

  And that moment when he leaned in and licked his lips? The promise of what a kiss from him would be like radiated down deep between my thighs. For a moment, I was tempted.

  Then reality slammed into my brain.

  This is a guy who’s married. Or is he? Sort of though, right? Because even if his wife says she wants a divorce, things can change.

  So when he pulled back up to my bar and building, handed me his phone and asked for my number, the smartest decision would have been to say no thanks.

  I’m learning when it comes to dealing with my feelings for Sebastian, I’m not all that smart.

  “You want my number?”

  “Yeah…”

  My hand shakes as I slide his phone into mine. Sebastian Hendrix wants my phone number. “What for?”

  I glance at him as I start tapping in my phone number. “Because I like talking to you.”

  “Right.”

  Such a simple statement shouldn’t make me warm all over. I can’t even blame the heat or the sun, it’s February for crap’s sake and we’ve been in his air-conditioned car for a half hour.

  My thumbs tremble, causing it to take me three tries to get my number right. Thanks a lot, fat thumbs. Before I can stop myself, I send myself a text that he’ll see. Hotshot’s digits.

  Handing his phone back to him, he takes it, sliding his hand beneath mine holding his phone and squeezing.

  “Gigi.”

  My other hand is already wrapped around the door handle. Is it hot in here? It has to be. Perhaps his AC is on the fritz and the temp just rose thirty degrees.

  I’m still remembering the way he licked his lips, gazing at me with such warmth in those green eyes my body still feels it.

  “Yeah?” I have to force myself to look at him.

  His hand squeezes mine so sweetly. He’s warm and strong. Calloused palms scrape the back of my knuckles. Man. That scrape would feel delicious in other places.

  “Look at me.”

  It takes effort but I finally manage and when I do, his expression is inscrutable. My lips part in response. This is not a friendly look. It’s most definitely not a happy one, although I’ve rarely seen them on Sebastian so I’m not altogether certain what that looks like on him. It’s definitely not anger.

  It is, however, intense. Extremely so.

  “If I were in a better place, a different place, I think I’d end this walk and our time together today very differently.”

  “What?”

  He drops my hand slowly, sliding his phone out of my palm and smirking. “You heard me.” He waves his phone back and forth. “We’ll talk soon, okay?”

  I don’t think talking anymore to Sebastian is good for my health. My heart is currently palpitating at unusual speeds.

  “Okay,” I croak out and climb out of his car. It takes a second to gather my balance, although the cement beneath my feet is firm and flat. It’s my knees that are wobbling like a newborn foal. “Bye, hotshot.”

  My first text from Sebastian came later that evening.

  Someday you’re going to tell me why you insist on calling me that.

  He was referencing his nickname. I smiled, so surprised at the buzz of my phone in my pocket while I worked behind the bar that night on a slower than normal evening that when another buzz came while I tried to think of a reply, his next text made me roll my eyes.

  I’d prefer the lone wolf.

  No way, I’d typed back. You need a team behind you. A pack. Like the Ice Kings.

  I hadn’t even thought of my response, and it wasn’t very playful, but I wasn’t going to ignore him despite the alarm bells blaring in my brain while I remembered one of the last things he’d said to me earlier that day.

  How would it have ended differently?

  What different place does he need to be in?

  Would that different place slash different ending come with those full, dark pink lips pressed to mine? Perhaps parting my own before he tasted me fully?

  Ridiculous.

  Yet what else could he have meant?

  That was a week ago. Since then, he�
��s texted almost every day.

  Good morning texts. Do anything fun today? texts. Even more mundane texts follow, like, Favorite food. Favorite color. Favorite movie and favorite show to binge-watch.

  Uh. The Last Kingdom. Obviously. No one should have to ask that question. Ragnar… le sigh.

  If he’s been offended I’ve rarely asked the same back of him, he hasn’t shown it, but if I’m not mistaken, I think he’s trying to get to know me. Slowly. Platonically. And I’m not quite sure what to do with that.

  I’ve sent him texts after games, congratulating the team on their winning streak, the fact they’re now ahead by five games in their division is huge with six weeks left before playoffs begin.

  And maybe I shouldn’t have teased him about being the best the other night, but I couldn’t stop myself. I expected something stupid back. Maybe a hidden talent like juggling, or that he’s a yo-yo master.

  When I received his text back saying he wanted to see me, I froze. I stared at the phone.

  Then I had no clue what to do. I really like this guy. He’s confused about his marriage. He’s absolutely the last person I should be spending time with or luring into conversations with flirtatious texts. I ignored it until I had a better response.

  I haven’t heard from him since.

  I do know that tomorrow is Saturday so I have got to get my shit together and fast.

  “Georgia.”

  My dad is standing across from the bar, brown envelope in hand several inches thick, a deep line digging into his forehead between his bushy brows.

  I finish drying a glass and toss the towel onto the bar, wiping my hands down my hips. “What’s up?”

  “We been talking about you liking working at the bar or if you want to do something different, right?”

  “Not this again.”

  “It’s not. Not exactly anyway.”

  Based on his expression, this doesn’t sound good. “Okay…”

  “I’ve been thinking about something for a while. Started thinking about it while you were gone, actually, but my heart and head couldn’t connect.”

  “Spit it out, Dad,” I tease and flash him a smile, but it wobbles. It’s rare I see my dad uncertain or so serious.