by Lynda Aicher
“I see he needs no introduction,” the announcer joked. “However, in his third season with the Glaciers, Dylan Rylie is a key player in their defensive strategy and a strong component on their penalty-killing team, having played in thirty-six games this season with eleven points.” Another round of cheers went up, and Sam withheld her groan at the hundred-watt grin he shot the fans. Let him preen. He’d be singing a different tune very soon.
She tucked her hair beneath her jersey, did a few quick stretches to loosen her legs and back then got into position. The drone of the crowd had risen as two camps inevitably formed. Surprisingly, the one supporting her was almost evenly pitted against the overdose of Rylie admirers. “You ready, Cowboy?”
He shook his bangs off his forehead and grinned. “I was born ready.”
She snorted, ignoring the flash of desire that twisted deep in her core. “Really? You have nothing better than that?”
“Whatever.” He shrugged and lowered his stance, ready to defend. “Let’s do this.”
Yeah, let’s do this.
She left the puck at center ice and skated back to circle around and pick up speed. The wind whipped at her hair and plastered her jersey to her chest. They were playing without full equipment, just hockey gloves, but that didn’t worry her. She could take a hit if he wanted to dole one out. However, most men shied away from playing rough with a female and that was something she had no problem exploiting.
She picked up the puck, eyes focused down the ice. Rylie paced her, stick down, feet moving. This wasn’t going to be easy. She had more respect for his skills than to expect that.
Her concentration narrowed as she approached him. The crowd disappeared until all she saw was the net. A series of attacks formed in her mind in a shuffling line of possibilities. Her final play would depend on his reaction. Would he be aggressive? Fade back and wait for her to shoot? Ride her side and try to steal the puck?
She came at him straight-on, only to cut to the right to stay away from his stick hand. He was weaker on the left, not as apt at switching to his non-dominant side. He sidestepped and kept up with her, skating backward with quick strides. There was no way she’d beat him to the net on a straight line.
With a sudden stop that had ice shavings flying, she whipped around and made a tight arc in front of him. He was at her back and his transition was just slow enough for her to gain the advantage. She broke away, thighs screaming at her burst of speed, set the puck up and flicked it toward the net with a solid wrist shot.
Rylie dove to block the puck, stick extended in a last gust of hope to stop the inevitable. The silence extended in Sam’s head as she watched the black disk skim by Rylie’s stick to sail into the goal. It nailed the back of the net and dropped to the ice with a wobbly spin.
The roar hit her then, the cheers rushing in to solidify her victory.
“Score!” the announcer boomed, drawing out the word like it was the winning point in a championship game.
Yes. She pumped her fist in the air and glided around the back of the net, her speed slowing. Satisfaction fired her blood and she absorbed the rush for as long as it took her to skate back to Rylie. It didn’t matter how much she wanted to rub the win in. She would never do it in front of a crowd like this.
She took her glove off and held out her hand when she came to a stop before him. “Good try. Thanks for playing against me.”
The smile plastered on the man’s face was all media charm. He took her hand though, the shake firm. The heat of his touch seared through her bare palm, shocking her cold fingers and rushing up her arm. He tugged her in until their clasped hands were tucked between them. His gaze traveled over her face then drifted lower before coming back up. The rich copper color of his eyes trapped her when the unfamiliar urge to flee shuddered down her stiff spine.
“You ever want to do that again, give me a call.” The light scent of spearmint teased her nose when he spoke in a low tone, drawl gone.
Her breath came fast and matched the racing beat of her heart that had nothing to do with the skating. He was too close and too dangerous. She let a slow smile curl over her lips, refusing to back down or give away how much his closeness affected her.
“One, you owe me a drink and two, I believe it’s you who should be calling me.” She paused to rake her gaze over him as he’d done to her. It was impossible not to appreciate his wide shoulders and the tight stretch of his jeans over solid thighs. Ones she knew would be all hard muscle from his years on skates.
She inhaled at the thought of the power hidden beneath his clothes and how hot sex would be with him. Damn. She flicked her eyes up to peer at him through her lashes, thankful he wasn’t a mind reader. His heated gaze smoldered down at her, laying doubt to her assumption. His grip tightened around her hand and he tugged her closer, their legs colliding. She sucked in a shallow breath through parted lips when the friction shot straight up her thighs to clench her sex.
What am I doing? She was playing with a fire she knew would burn her if she didn’t stop. “That is, if you want to improve your game,” she managed to add, determined to finish the taunt she’d started. One hard push and she shoved away, gliding backward. Thankfully, he let her go.
“Way to go, Sam!” The shout from somewhere behind her brought the rest of the world back into focus. She spun around to smile and wave at the crowd, grateful for the distraction.
“You let her win, didn’t you, Rylie?”
“We still love you, Cowboy!”
Sam ignored the rest of the calls and skated back to her friend, taking the time to get her sudden jitters under control. Her hand was shaking in a familiar yet abnormal way. Her reaction had to be pure adrenaline burn-off, nothing more. Even if the challenge itself hadn’t amped her up that much. Not like a game used to.
“It looks like that’s it,” the announcer said. “Thanks again for coming out tonight. The pros will be doing a brief signing in thirty minutes at the tables inside the warming house.” The music came back on after that, and the circular parade around the ice restarted.
Rylie was at her side when she stopped by Meg and the other two Glaciers players. Her awareness of him was too high, washing down her side in a wave of heat that had sweat forming on her nape despite the chill of the air.
“So?” she asked Meg, proud that none of her internal turmoil showed in her voice. She motioned to the phone Meg held. Sam already knew the answer. Her internal clock was finely honed to count down minutes in a power play or period.
Megan flipped her phone around to show the stopped timer. Eighteen seconds. Not bad.
“Those were some nice moves,” Walters said, a gleam of teasing in his eyes when he looked to Rylie. “She got around you without a problem.” His praise had her smiling even if it was more about ribbing his teammate than complimenting her skills.
“What can I say?” Rylie spread his arms, his expression all apology. “I couldn’t beat a girl like that in public.” He winked at Sam before swiping his cowboy hat off Feeney’s head.
“I call bullshit,” Sam scoffed, giving him a shove that was half-fun, half-annoyance. It also served to put some distance between them. “I beat you fair and square.” This kind of razzing was so common and part of the game it was impossible not to return his grin. The banter was familiar and comfortable. And missed.
Feeney barked out a deep laugh, his beat-up face looking somewhat strange with the wide grin on it. “She schooled you good, Cowboy.”
Meg poked Rylie in the shoulder. “And I bet she could do it again.”
“Anytime,” Sam agreed, loving every second of his discomfort. She had no problem gloating within the small group. It was all part of winning the bet. “Just let me know when you’re ready.”
Rylie heaved a sigh, head shaking. “This is what I get for being nice.”
Sam’s laugh burst from her chest before she could even think to retain it. “Bull—”
“Miss Sam?”
She swung around, grimac
ing at her almost curse being overheard by a kid. She’d forgotten where she was.
The same young girl who’d passed the puck to her earlier was waiting a few feet away. Her freckled face lit up when they all turned to her. “Can you show me how you did that cut-and-spin move that gave you the open lane to the net? That was sweet!”
Sam let the gratification warm in her chest at being singled out and skated over to place her arm around the girl. She ignored the rumbled laughter from the group when Rylie grumbled something inarticulate. “No problem. Being quick and having moves like that is a great asset against the clumsy boys.” She shot a wink over her shoulder at the others, loving the pinched line of Rylie’s mouth. She leaned down to the girl and said in a conspiratorial tone that was loud enough to be overheard, “We just let them think they’re better, right? Makes getting past them easier.”
The girl giggled and they skated away before she heard if Rylie had a comeback.
“What position do you play?” she asked the girl.
“Center. Like you.” Her grin was so big Sam wondered if her teeth would freeze. “And I want to play for the USA too.”
It was great that this girl had the opportunity to dream like that. Skip back twenty years and very few women were recognized as having the skills to play hockey at a competitive level. At least some things had changed. Now there were plenty of excellent girl leagues for kids her age. That was something Sam hadn’t had the benefit of until she’d reach her teens, but then maybe she wouldn’t be where she was if she hadn’t had the extra challenge of competing against the boys when she was younger.
“Let’s go,” Sam said, letting the rest of the crap go, including her confusing reaction to Dylan Rylie. Helping this girl was one of the few things she could still do in the sport, and this little hotshot deserved her attention. Whether Sam wished to be or not, she was a role model for every young girl who wanted nothing more than the chance to play a sport she loved. Even if most of society seemed to believe it was a man’s game.
Chapter Three
Clumsy boy, my ass, Dylan grumbled to himself, still chewing on Samantha’s comment over an hour later. No one had ever called him that. There were a lot of terms he’d gladly own up to, but “clumsy” wasn’t one of them.
He penned his signature onto a jersey and handed it back to the boy, grin in place. The kid turned away and he let his attention go to the source of his annoyance, where she sat behind a table signing autographs like him.
Samantha Yates. Star of last year’s USA team, former Minnesota Gopher standout player and recipient of numerous national hockey awards. The only daughter of a respected youth hockey coach known for developing excellent players. Yeah, he knew all about her. But letting her know that would’ve given away an advantage.
Not that it’d made a difference.
She’d bested him in the one-on-one, a challenge he’d tossed out on a whim. Damn his big mouth and shortsighted brain for not thinking that through. He shifted on his seat. He should add his dick to the damning list for loving every second of it, even if he had lost. There was something incredibly hot about a girl as cute as her who could also play that well.
Her blond hair fell in straight strands that framed her round face in a golden glow. Her wide smile spread as she signed a stick, glancing up to talk with two girls. She caught him staring then winked before she turned her attention back to the chattering fans.
The simple action shot a flash of desire straight to his already damned member. Son of a bitch. He definitely wasn’t mistaken about the heat he’d seen in her eyes when he’d pulled her close after she’d scored. It was a stark contrast to the innocent, friendly charm she exuded now with her big blue eyes and girl-next-door appeal. Right. She’d been ruthless with him on the ice.
His dick hardened at the thought of all that merciless drive wrapped around him in bed. Or against a wall. Or—
“Will you sign my stick, Mr. Rylie?”
Dylan buried an inappropriate snort behind his fist and cleared his throat as he scooted forward, guilt burning his skin. This was not the time to be thinking about getting laid.
The dark-haired, chubby-cheeked boy who stood on the other side of the table couldn’t be more than ten. Hope and excitement gleamed in his eyes, and that still surprised Dylan. It seemed like yesterday when he was one of those boys working his butt off to get to the next level with the dream of landing exactly where he was—playing in the pros.
“I’d love to.” He took the stick and laid it across the table. “What’s your name?”
“John,” the kid answered. “I play defense, but I’m not very good at it.”
Dylan snapped his head up, halting his signature. “Hey. You can’t talk like that.”
A frown overtook John’s face and for a second, Dylan thought the kid might cry. “But it’s true. My feet are too big and I trip over them all the time.”
“That just means you have some growing to do.” He leaned over the table. “Show me those feet you think are too big.”
John lifted a foot, and Dylan worked to keep his shock from showing. They were huge for his height. Possibly bigger than his own. “Now see, those just give you a good base,” Dylan reassured with a smile. “And think of how ahead of everyone you’ll be when you grow into those. You’ll already know how to maneuver them.”
The kid shook his head. “Doesn’t help me now.” Dejection lined every word. “I barely get any ice time because I’m always stumbling.”
Dylan sat back and tried to think of something to help the kid out. The chance of any boy making the pros was statistically low, but that shouldn’t stop him from dreaming and enjoying the sport. “Can I tell you something I’ve learned?”
John’s head was bobbing before he said, “Yes.”
He waved the kid in, glancing around to make it seem like he was divulging a secret. “There are two things you can do to improve your game. One—” He held up a finger. “Practice. Every chance you get. On and off the ice, practice. And two—” He waited for John to nod. “Believe in yourself. No one else will if you don’t.” He sat back and finished signing the kid’s stick before he handed it over. “And remember it should be fun.”
John took his stick back. “Thanks, Mr. Rylie.” He shuffled away, shoulders slumped.
Dylan groaned silently. His words of wisdom had obviously fallen flat for the poor kid. Great.
“That’s it, everyone.” A busty woman wearing a bright pink knit hat and bulky winter boots stood in the middle of the small room, smiling. “Time to clear out so these nice ladies and gentlemen can get on home.” A round of groans went up. She gave a shrug at the grumbling kids. “Sorry. There’ll be more players here next month.”
Dylan tossed the permanent marker on the table and stood, more than grateful for the escape. He tilted his hat down to shield his eyes and pretended not to see the gaggle of girls waving at him as they were herded from the room. He was officially done with the day, and that included the blushing teens and some of their flirting mothers who were way more persistent.
“Hey,” Feeney said once the room was emptied. “You ready to roll?”
“God, yes.” Dylan was already moving toward the door, his skate bag clenched in his fist.
“Are you bailing on your bet then, Cowboy?”
He whipped around at Samantha’s silky taunt. She grinned at him, brow arched over those damn blue eyes. Eyes he shouldn’t be noticing but couldn’t stop staring at. Frustration at being called on his attempt to ditch out on their bet—one he’d conveniently forgotten about—churned thick in his stomach. However, his smile was all practiced and instantaneous. “Why, I’d never sneak out on a pretty lady.”
She gave a slow head shake and timed the exaggerated action with a sigh. “Give me a break, Rylie.” She nudged his arm when she passed him, pausing to add under her breath, “I’m not a puck bunny, so you can stop treating me like one.” She moved on and called out to Walters. “Where’s the best place near
here for a beer?”
The brief press of her touch seemed to linger and spread over his arm. Her not being a puck bunny was the problem. She saw right through his bullshit and called him on it, something a bunny had never done. His aunt Bea would’ve loved Samantha.
Dylan ground his teeth at the twinge of pain that came with the last thought and tugged his hat down further. Another notch, and he’d be unable to see. He could almost hear his great-aunt chuckling from her grave. The woman had become his anchor after he’d been shuffled off the ranch and into her care when he was seven. Her approval had been the only one that had mattered after that.
“Let me think.” Scott scratched his jaw, and Dylan pretty much knew the man was just dragging the moment out. Loving it too. “There are a couple of sports bars. They’ll be full of fans if that’s what you’re looking for.”
“Please,” Sam said with an eye roll. “The last two hours was more than enough of that. Where do you go when you just want a beer and a burger? Rylie’s buying.”
“So I’m feeding you now, too?” Dylan’s brows winged up, not that she could see them under his hat. He’d sworn off women for just this reason. They consumed time and energy he didn’t have to spare.
She flashed a full smile and batted her eyes. “I figure you owe me for keeping your humiliation to a minimum.”
Feeney snorted out a laugh before covering it with his hand.
Jesus Christ. He could either argue with her or take the ribbing and let it roll off his back. The second option was hell on his ego but way better in the long run. If he was lucky, the stupid bet would be forgotten by tomorrow.
