Hot on Ice: A Hockey Romance Anthology

by Avery Flynn

  “You’re groaning again.”

  He was also tenting his pants, but there was no need for Trish to know that. He blinked and tried to erase the vision, it didn’t help. Shit. She pulled up beside the shop, he could tell by the big red sign hanging over the front porch steps. It was in a font he’d always had trouble reading. Too many swirls. But when he stared at it for a second, mentally erased the swirls—something Trish had taught him to do—he was finally able to make out the words, The Three French Hens.

  The shop was in an old two-story Victorian—a painted lady of all things—with a big, deep, wrap around porch where they had a display of what he would call kitschy junk. A bale of hay held flowers and a few items for sale. There was an old fashioned hanging scale in the corner—weighed down by a price tag, a few chairs painted in bright colors, and the siding below the porch roof was covered with signs and objets d’art. A star, a sign that read Country Glam, hung below a painting of an empty clay pot. Another had Hip Chick written in black across a red rectangular board, the monograms L and Y were mixed among the menagerie of other signs, one of which was in another language—French maybe? Another read, “You only live once, but if you do it right, once is enough.”

  He stared at the house-turned-shop. This is where he was supposed to hide out for the next week when he wasn’t being tortured and interviewed by the press? Shit, the guys on the team would have a field day with him if they ever caught wind of this. The only good thing was that the woody he’d been sporting disappeared faster than a snow cone under the high desert sun in late July.

  He got out of the Prius, grabbed his bags, and followed Trish up the steps of the front porch. Bells jangled as she opened the door.

  Mary Claire stepped out from behind a counter. “Welcome home, Stryker!”

  Mary Claire hadn’t changed at all—well, except today she wasn’t splotched with paint and she had a guy with her—something else he hadn’t seen when they’d run into each other around campus. “Thanks.”

  The guy held out his hand for a shake, so Stryker grabbed his duffel in his left hand and shook.

  “I’m Jack Bennett—I’m not sure you remember me. We graduated together—”

  “Mary Claire’s husband, right? Congratulations. Karma told me you two got married.” He hoped he’d sounded sincere.

  “Thanks—but we should be the ones congratulating you on winning The Cup and on an amazing season.”

  Stryker shrugged. “Thanks, but I had a great team, and we got some lucky breaks.” He hadn’t expected it so he was shocked when Mary Claire gave him a big hug and a kiss on the cheek.

  “It’s so good of you to come and support Karma after all this time. I know it means the world to her.”

  “I’m happy to do it.” He looked around what he figured was the main showroom, and he had to admit, it was impressive—like something you’d see in one of those decorating magazines.

  Mary Claire stepped back to her husband’s side, “I freshened up the apartment this afternoon, so you should have everything you need. There are clean sheets on the bed, towels in the bathroom, and more in the linen closet if you should need them. There’s a washer and dryer and I left some soap, so you don’t have to buy any dish or laundry detergent. Trish will show you around. If you have any questions or need anything, feel free to give us a call. I put all our cell and home numbers on the table.”

  “Thanks, I’m sure it will be fine, it’s really nice of you to allow me to crash here.”

  Trish gave Stryker a nudge, “The steps are right through here and to the right.”

  Stryker thanked them again, said his goodbyes, and followed Trish to the steps leading out of the shop.

  “That was weird.” But then this whole scenario was a little strange. And so were the steps they were climbing. Each stair tread was painted to look like a book cover, and each riser was painted to look like the spine of a book. It was cool if you were into books. He guessed they were girly books. Pride and Prejudice was one of the ones he recognized, and remembered one of the women he spent time with forcing him to watch the movie version. It was a good thing they’d been in bed at the time, since he’d fallen asleep—he couldn’t remember what it had been about, but he did remember he’d just come back from a long stint on the road which always left him half dead after back-to-back games.

  There was a door at the top of the steps that Trish stopped to unlock, and he took the time to admire her from the back. And yes, there was quite a bit to admire while she struggled with the lock.

  “Here, let me.” He stood on the step below her, making them about the same height, reached around, gave the key a jiggle, and it caught. The door swung open.

  Trish let out a long, slow breath. “Thanks.”

  She still hadn’t taken a step, so he waited, and turned his head toward her. They were face to face. He wished his other hand weren’t holding his duffel bag, because he itched to wrap his arm around her waist and bury his nose in her hair for starters. She smelled good enough to eat. “My pleasure.”

  Maybe it was the way he croaked out his response, but whatever it was, she shot forward as if he’d hit her with a cattle prod. “Mary Claire decorated the place, so I’m sorry if it’s a bit… feminine.”

  It even smelled feminine, but not like Trish. The walls were painted a rich cream, a neutral backdrop for the artwork and hand-painted furniture, shelves, and mirrors that made the place a kaleidoscope of color and warmth. It was beautiful, bright, light, and inviting—a home. “I thought she didn’t live here anymore.”

  “She doesn’t. She’s making all new things for the cabin she and Jack share. We were thinking of renting the place out, but it’s been nice having a spot for friends and family to land when they’re in town. The bedroom and bathroom are just down that hall.”

  He slid past her, careful not to let his bags smack into her, and when he turned into the bedroom, he held back a groan. There before him was a four-poster bed—just like the one he’d imagined Trish tied to.

  3

  Trish waited in the hall for Stryker to drop his bags in the bedroom, doing her best to practice mindfulness and not kick herself for everything she’d said and done since she slipped on her new dress that morning.

  Karma’s idea of Trish acting as Stryker’s handler was obviously a huge mistake. First, he hadn’t even recognized her. Even after she’d spent seven-and-a-half semesters meeting with him on a daily basis, well, except for when he traveled with the team, but even then they’d done a few tutoring sessions by Skype. As if that weren’t bad enough, there was the whole dress discussion. Maybe she’d overdone it when she not only wore a bright color, but a dress that accentuated her body ever so slightly without being the least bit slutty. The way he’d sounded, you’d think she’d gone from wearing potato sacks every time they’d seen each other in college to a see-through dress requiring nipple covers, fashion tape, and strategically placed double or triple layers of lace. When he’d gathered her hair behind her head, she’d been so stunned, she could hardly breathe. Add to that the shock of his closeness, his scent, and the sensation of his rough fingers massaging her scalp and neck, and she’d gone from a serious, mature business owner, to behaving like the sex-starved twenty-something on hormone overload that she was, and practically melted into a puddle of goo at his feet. Maybe it had been her imagination, Lord knew, she’d spent enough time imagining him, but she never imagined him touching her—at least not while she was awake anyway. Still, the feel of his hands on her… well, she’d swear his touch was almost a caress. She sooo wasn’t prepared for that or the visceral reaction that came with it. Her hair stylist, Jean Paul, gave her a scalp and neck massage when he trimmed her hair, every three months like clockwork, and she’d never once felt like her scalp was hot-wired to her nipples (or other things that were supposed to respond to sexual stimuli). Of course, Jean Paul was gay and even if he weren’t, he was not at all her physical type. Stryker’s touch had felt so intimate, and threw her so
far off her game, that things went from bad to worse. She came off sounding like the damn Encyclopedia Britannica, mumbling about the nine kinds of intelligence, and then practically giving him an oral dissertation on the subject. God, it was no wonder he spent the entire drive from the airport groaning and growling. She was a sexual pariah—not to mention the worst mindfulness practitioner on the entire planet—possibly the universe.

  “Trish?” Someone shook her shoulder—her bare shoulder. She opened her eyes and found Stryker staring at her with concern. “Are you okay?”

  His hand was still on her shoulder and it was hot and dry and rough, not that it hurt or anything—just the opposite. “I’m fine, why do you ask?”

  “I don’t know, maybe because I’ve said your name three times and you just stood there with your eyes shut tight looking like you’re in some kind of strange trance. Do you need to sit down or something? You look kind of pale. Are you feeling all right? When was the last time you ate or drank anything? Are you on medication?”

  She was having a problem formulating the answer to the first question because he stood so close, invading her personal space, and staring at her. His hand, which had been on her shoulder, had moved and was now making slow concentric circles over her bare upper back—distracting to say the least, not to mention the fact that he continued to bombard her with question after question. She struggled to answer, while simultaneously reeling from the embarrassment of being caught trying, and failing, yet again, to be mindful. “I… I…” And just like that, her head spun and she felt herself lifted off her feet like she weighed no more than a blowup doll wearing a painted-on bikini, held tight across Stryker’s chest, and after a few steps—the guy was tall with a capital T—laid gently on a soft mattress.

  “I’ll go down and get Mary Claire. She’ll know what to do.”

  “No.” She grabbed the front of his shirt—pulling his face just inches from hers. “I’m fine, really.”

  “No you’re not.”

  He tugged to get away, but she refused to release his shirt.

  Dark blue eyes stared into hers. “You looked like you were in pain.”

  “I was trying to be present.”

  “What?” He put his weight on his hands and bracketed her head, his hip pressed against hers.

  She fought the urge to slide her hand around his neck and tug him closer. “It’s like meditating but not. I was just trying to be present. Trying not to think about the past or the future—just concentrate on the here and now—pay attention to my breathing, that kind of thing.”

  “Is it painful?” He bent his elbows, lowering himself over her, taking some of the pressure off the seams of his shirt. His chest, a centimeter from hers, radiated heat through the thin cotton of her dress.

  “I’m not very good at it.”

  “So, that look on your face, that’s you concentrating?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Do I look like I’m in pain when I’m concentrating?”

  “On math and reading you do. Hockey, not so much. Then you’re just determined, driven, hyper-focused, and a little on the feral side. You look scary.”

  “You’ve watched my games? I never took you for a hockey fan.”

  Heat crawled from her chest to her cheeks—the ones on her face—and she knew she would be the color of a fire engine in a second or two. Her throat was dry and she licked her lips—or tried to.

  Stryker’s gaze went from her eyes, to her reddening chest, to her lips, and back to her eyes—obviously waiting for the answer to his last question.

  “I might have caught a game or two. For curiosity’s sake.”

  “Right.” He took her hand, removing it from his shirt-front, and pressed it down against the bed beside her head, but he didn’t release it. He held it like a manacle—putting the slightest pressure on the bones of her wrist, before letting go and pushing himself off the bed, leaving her lying there alone.

  Stryker stood, arms up, holding on for dear life to the doorjamb of what would be his bedroom for the next week. He watched Trish splayed out on the bed he’d pictured her tied to just moments before. Aw hell, who was he kidding? That picture had been in his head since the second he saw her. But seeing it in person—even clothed—was better than he’d envisioned. Just a moment before he’d been practically on top of her, holding her wrist down, and watching the pulse in her throat flutter like hummingbird wings.

  He dug his nails into the wood to keep himself from taking the two steps to her and doing something crazy like tying her up and kissing her everywhere, and that was before the real fun would begin. Yeah, when she licked her lips, his dick jumped so hard in his suddenly tight pants, it might be bruised. “Are you sure you’re okay? Do you want me to get you some water?”

  “I told you I’m fine.” Trish sat, slid her legs off the side of the bed, and stood. “We should go and pick up groceries. There’s a Whole Foods, a Trader Joe’s, the Boise Co-op, and the old standbys Albertsons and Winco—which do you prefer?”

  “I’d prefer a trip to Guido’s or Flying Pie—whichever pizza place you like better. As for grocery stores, I couldn’t care less, whichever is closest would be fine.” And a men’s store. Someplace they sold ties. Silk ties. Maybe he should go alone, because buying five ties with Trish in tow might require an explanation.

  Trish was bright red now, her pulse still fluttered and she stared at him—the longer she stared, the harder he got, and the darker and larger her eyes seemed. Her gaze swept from him to the bed and back again. “I didn’t faint, you know.”

  “Sure, okay.”

  “I’ve never fainted in my life.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “So, stop looking at me like that.”

  “Like what?” He released his grip on the doorjamb and crossed his arms over his chest, keeping himself in check.

  “Like I’m about to fall over and you might be stuck catching me.”

  Wow, she couldn’t have been farther off. He opened his mouth to tell her and then shut it. What was he supposed to say, that he’d been thinking of tying her to the bed with illicit silk ties and having his way with her? No, he couldn’t say that. She’d think he was a pig. Hell, he thought he was a pig. Besides, he didn’t date, he certainly didn’t date nice girls like Trish, and there was no way he would even be with a woman who would want the hat-trick of a lifetime—marriage, a home, and kids. And Trish Reynolds was the type of woman who would want it all. She’d want everything he would never give anyone. She’d taught him enough about genetics to know he’d never risk having a child. There was no way he’d ever take the chance of passing on his genes to any kid—no kid should have to go through what he went through growing up. A phone rang—it sounded like an old-fashioned phone, like his grandmother’s avocado green kitchen wall phone—the one with a cord and buttons.

  “That’s mine.” Trish slid past him out of the bedroom and hightailed it down the hall where she’d left her purse. She pulled a huge iPhone out and there on the screen was Karma’s face. “Karma.”

  Yeah, Karma was a bitch all right—but right now, her timing was impeccable.

  “Hi Karma.”

  She tapped the toe of her matching orange shoe, her toenails were painted black with white polka dots. Damn, leave it to Trish to have polka-dotted toenails. They should have looked ridiculous, but the way they peeked out of the little toes of her shoes, they just looked hot, not to mention suckable. Damn. What the hell was with him today? He’d never had the urge to suck on a woman’s toes before. Maybe this dry spell was affecting him more than even he imagined. Or maybe he had taken one too many hits as The Enforcer during the final game.

  “Yes, I have him. No. Karma—” Trish rolled her eyes and then wrapped her other arm around her waist which did nothing but accentuate the little bit of cleavage he could make out and put a serious strain on the ties holding the top of the dress together. She turned her back to him. “We’re going out for a pizza apparently, then to the gro—“r />
  The speed of her toe tapping increased while she listened. “Karma. No, Karma. Karma?” She pulled the phone away from her face to see a blank screen. Apparently Karma had hung up on her.

  He’d never pictured Trish as a very muscular woman—okay, hell, he’d never pictured Trish—until today. But when she’d tugged her hair to hang over one shoulder, she’d given him the perfect view of her bare back, and when she strode away to drop her phone in her purse, he saw every muscle of her back, shoulders, and arms delineated. Trish was obviously pissed, but she also was in pretty damn good shape. It made him wonder what kind of workout she did and what, exactly, Karma had said or done to piss her off.

  He took a step in her direction and she stayed stock still—just breathing. Maybe she was doing that thing again. What did she call it? Trying to be present? Whatever the hell that meant. Either way, she looked so tied in knots, he bet her knots had knots.

  “Trish?” He rested his hands on her bare shoulders and gave them a squeeze. Balls of tension seemed to vibrate beneath his hands. He ran his thumbs along the sides of her neck. Just as he’d suspected, her upper trapezius muscles felt as if they had been carved out of marble. “If you keep this up, you’re going to give yourself a nasty headache.”

  “Too late. I already have one.”

  “This will help.” He ran both thumbs from the top of her middle trapezius, down either side of her spine, feeling the hard balls of contraction knots in her muscles, and doing his best not to enjoy himself too much. Here he was luxuriating in her warm, incredibly soft skin beneath his, while she was wrapped so tightly, her muscles felt as if they were about ready to snap. He found a very large knot and put pressure on it.