by Lynda Aicher
“Come on.” He laced his fingers with hers and stood. “Enough of this serious talk. Let’s dance.”
She leaned back, head shaking. “I wasn’t joking. I told you, I don’t dance.”
He only tightened his hold and headed toward the dance floor, leaving her no choice but to follow unless she wanted to make a scene. Her begrudging laughter overrode the weightiness of their conversation. They’d settled nothing, but at least she’d been up-front with him. That in itself left her feeling lighter.
He spun her around when they reached the edge of the open area and somehow twirled her right into his arms. He caught her close, smiling down at her gasp of surprise.
“Just follow my lead.” He held her in a standard dance pose, right hand on her lower back, left holding her hand. “It’s an easy two-step. If you can skate, you can do this.”
“This is nothing like skating.” Her protest was flat though. Her head was still swirling from his spin move and the rush of desire that burst to life at being held so close to him.
“The lack of padding is nice.” His hand skimmed across her back just over the top of her jeans in a slow press that brought her closer. “And…” He dipped his head and made a long, tickling inhale by her neck. “We smell better.”
A shiver raced up her spine to meet the one coursing down her nape before they clashed somewhere near her heart. It shoved past the sore spot and settled into that new space he’d slowly created. His endless patience and understanding was the opposite of what she’d expected from him and was exactly what she needed.
“You’re a nut,” she said to cover her faltering heart.
“Maybe.” He grinned. “But you’re dancing.”
At some point he’d started moving and she’d instinctively followed along. The tune had a gentle beat that lent to the easy slide of their feet and sway of their bodies. He led her expertly and somehow managed to curb her urge to turn around and see where they were going.
The lights played over his features, shifting with every turn to highlight the shape of his cheekbones, the line of his nose and cut of his jaw under the shadow of his cowboy hat. And there, with the country music flowing around them, the rest of the world forgotten, he looked at home. His smile was more open and honest than she’d ever seen it, while his eyes burned green and molten with everything that swirled within her too.
That was when she tripped. Not literally, but inside she tripped right over the wall she’d erected so long ago to withstand the charms of every hockey player.
He pulled her closer until their hips nudged together with each step. A gentle brush and shift that carried its own erotic tune and spoke to her body instead of her mind. Her blood hummed along in a rush of heat that liquefied her muscles and enflamed her hunger for him.
“This is your song,” he said next to her ear, voice pitched low and sultry over the rhythm of the new melody. “I don’t dance,” he sang in tune with the rumbly tenor of the artist. “But here I am…” He continued through the chorus, wooing her so effectively she hoped the song never ended.
She was spellbound as he serenaded and spun her around the room. Spontaneous and unexpected, his voice was clear and rich. His earthy scent flooded her with longing, while his breath raised goose bumps on her neck. He was pressed against her from chest to hip, and she fought the urge to crawl closer.
He seemed to surround her, and she let go of her long-ingrained resistance to simply absorb him. His warmth and strength. His gentleness that coaxed her closer and eased her skittish heart. Her chest tightened and relaxed at the same time in some complex shifting of wants. And for once, she closed her eyes and let the moment be.
She floated in the quiet, trusting him to lead when she’d always had to drive. It was peaceful and for that little nugget of time, she stopped fighting. Stopped denying. Stopped resenting.
Too soon and long before she was ready, the song came to an end. She swallowed down her protest when the music shifted into something faster. They’d come to a stop, but she couldn’t get herself to step away.
“Hey,” he said, his soft voice rumbling near her ear. He let go of her hand to cup her neck, tilting her head up. He searched her eyes, his full of things she couldn’t process.
His descent was slow, his lips soft. They touched hers and held, the heat of his palm sinking into her neck to muddle her mind even further.
It was him who finally stepped away, her hand firmly clasped in his as he led her back to their table. Reality crashed over her then. Fast and hard with the reservations she’d outlined earlier.
“I’ll be right back,” she managed to say before she fled to the bathroom.
Her heart raced too fast and she sucked in short breaths in an effort to keep from fainting. She slammed the stall door closed and pressed her forehead to the cold metal, heedless of every disgusting germ that might be on it.
She blocked out everything and focused on taking long, slow breaths. Of finding her balance so she wouldn’t fall headlong into something so wrong. Like she already hadn’t.
It didn’t matter how nice he was or how good it felt to be held by him. They were on different paths that were never going to merge, even if she got over her envy and resentment.
She couldn’t let herself dance. Not with Dylan. And it didn’t matter how much she really wanted to.
*
Dylan stopped in front of the two-story faded white craftsman-style home with chipped gray trim. It reminded him of the house he’d shared during the three years he’d played at the University of Wisconsin. A typical rental inhabited by college students.
Samantha had been quiet the whole way home. Or should he call it what it really was? Retreating. He’d seen the panic on her face before she’d fled to the bathroom.
The fun had fled after that too. Their dance had been amazing and God, so damn right. He would’ve spun her around the room all night just to hold her close, inhale her scent. Bringing her dancing had been the best idea he’d ever had—until it wasn’t.
She’d been cordial after she’d returned, but the withdrawal had started and there’d been no more dancing.
He shifted his truck into park and grabbed her wrist before she could bolt from the cab. “Hey,” he said for lack of anything better. He turned the radio off, the noise suddenly intrusive. “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”
The streetlights provided enough light for him to catch the quick shot of fear that flashed across her face. What was going on? She wet her lips, a prelude to the coming excuse, so he beat her to the punch.
“Still fighting me?”
Her chin snapped up. “What do you mean?”
“I get too close, and you kick back. Now you’re running.” He had nothing to lose by calling it as he saw it.
She stared at him for a few hard moments before her shoulders slumped and her gaze dropped to her hands. “I told you, there’s nowhere for this to go.”
“What to go?”
“Us,” she said, looking up. “We have different paths. You need to focus on hockey, and I have my own career that doesn’t involve me staying here.”
He shifted to face her better. “So that means what? We can’t have anything else? That whatever this is between us isn’t worth exploring?”
“What’s it going to get us?” She blasted the question so fast he jerked back from the verbal force.
Wow. He couldn’t think past that for a second. “So sex was okay, but anything more is out? Is that what you’re saying?”
Her sigh was heavy, and he vindictively hoped it was weighted with a bit of the pain that cut through him. “I’m not trying to hurt you.”
“Yet you keep doing it.”
“I’m trying not to,” she insisted.
He shook his head and rubbed a hand over his mouth to keep from saying something he’d regret. “And you love to imply that I’m the playboy.” He couldn’t hold that one back. She’d made digs about his nickname, yet she was the one scrambling away when he
pushed for more.
“We’ve become good friends,” she said softly, the fight gone from her voice. “I don’t want to ruin that.”
“And what? Going out with me will?”
“I don’t know.” She dragged her hand through her hair and stared out the windshield into the empty street. “I don’t know,” she repeated. “But I don’t want to be the one you blame if you don’t get the contract you want.”
“Why would I blame you?” What he heard was another excuse. Her reasoning had no validity.
“Because I was supposed to help you, and now I’m distracting you.”
His fingers tapped silently on the edge of the steering wheel, his flagging frustration decreased to that sole release. Was there a reason to keep pushing? Her logic was completely screwed up and he didn’t agree with it. She was right on one thing though. He did need to focus on his game.
“Maybe you’re right,” he conceded, even though it went against his instincts. He dropped the walls down around his emotions and did his granddad proud. “It’s probably better if we let this go.”
The woman was always right—one of those southern gentlemen tips the stern man had somehow managed to plow into Dylan’s head. It didn’t matter if Dylan believed it to be true. He couldn’t force Sam to be with him and he still had his pride. If she didn’t think they were worth the effort, then he was done getting his heart stomped on.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. She glanced at him, her bottom lip trapped by her teeth in that telling display of vulnerability.
So am I. He ignored the flutter of her lashes and stubbornly refused to reach for her when she shifted to open the door this time. She slid out of the cab with barely a sound. The light of the cab caught the shine in her eyes, the tear on her cheek before she turned away. The vibration of the slammed door resounded in his head.
Damn it. No. He couldn’t let her go, not like that.
He vaulted out of his truck before he second-guessed himself. He’d done that with his game and it hadn’t helped. This might not help them, but it was better than doing nothing.
Than not even trying.
She spun around, and he caught her up in a hold that crushed her to him. He cupped the back of her head and searched her startled eyes for a hint of what he felt. That building desire to be near her, see her, laugh with her.
Her blue eyes shimmered dark in the night, a mysterious beacon that kept calling him back. There was her hurt and confusion, but right next to it was hope and the growing feelings she refused to let free.
“Better or not, you can’t deny this.” He poured everything into his kiss. His restraint was lost to his sudden desperation to get her to admit that this was different. They were different.
His blood burned hot as he searched her mouth, swept his tongue into every crevice he could reach then dipped back in for another pass. She seemed to understand that. The hard and fast, and he’d take it for now. Give her what she demanded, even though she denied it.
She grappled at his back then found a hold that had her pushing into him. Their tongues waged a battle for what, he didn’t know. Didn’t care. His heart flew with each nip and bruise that battered his lips.
Her whimper was a high note that pierced his need for what she was withholding. Her.
Damn it. He jerked back to suck in a breath and she sagged into him, her forehead coming to rest on his shoulder. Their chests heaved in counterpoint that somehow was a balance for them.
He nuzzled his nose into her hair and kept his arms wrapped around her. Her response was proof that there was more to them. Something worth searching out. Exploring.
“Remember that, Samantha.” His voice was rough with the restraint he used to keep from taking more of that wild, frantic passion she unleashed within him. His erection strained against his jeans in a demand for him to continue, to take what she offered. He dragged his hand up her back to cup her face. He lifted it, searching once again for a breath of what stirred within him. “And think on this.”
He took her lips in a gentle insistence of what they could also have. He skimmed over their wet smoothness, savoring what could be. What he’d never allowed into his thoughts, yet couldn’t banish now.
Her breath hitched, and he slid his tongue over the soft plumpness of her bottom lip. Another peck, touch, ghost of a pass over her mouth, and he backed off. He allowed himself one more brush of his knuckles down her cheek before he stepped away.
The loss was a tangible ache that warred with his conviction. Chasing her had gotten him nowhere. It was time to walk away.
“You know how to find me,” he said before he turned and strode back to his truck.
He looked back, braced in the open door of his truck. She was gone. Her front door swung shut, and he stared at it for a long moment before shaking his head and slipping inside the cab.
He’d made his play. It was up to her now.
Chapter Fifteen
Coach O’s door was open, the conversation going on inside carrying into the hallway. Assistant Coach John Gregg’s deep Canadian-laced accent was as recognizable as Coach O’s raspy baritone and blended with the well-known sound of sportscaster commentary.
It was tempting to eavesdrop on their discussion since Dylan had heard his name when he’d approached. Given he’d been called to the office, it was no surprise. He gave a quick knock and ducked his head through the doorway. “You wanted to see me, Coach?”
“Rylie. Come in.” Coach O waved him inside. He paused the game that’d been playing on the flat screen mounted on the wall. Dylan recognized it as a clip from last night’s game. He also caught his jersey number on the figures frozen on the screen.
He took a seat in the empty guest chair and ignored the sharp stab of pain that laced up his back and down his leg. The bruise from the Vancouver game weeks ago continued to bug him, but he’d made sure it hadn’t affected his game.
“What can I do for you?” His gaze shifted between the two coaches.
“How did those practice sessions go with Yates?” Coach O rested his elbows on his desk and laced his fingers together as he studied Dylan.
It took another dose of effort to keep his expression blank, despite the new hitch of pain that stabbed his chest at hearing her name. “Good.”
Coach O raised a questioning brow and gave Coach Gregg a quick glance. “Care to expand on that?”
Right. Dylan had kept his answer short on purpose. “I think my recent game play says enough.” He noted the edge of defensiveness in his voice and regretted it. Coach wasn’t his enemy. “Sorry,” he mumbled and rubbed at his groin before he thought about it. He winced when the tight knot of muscles fired off another flash of fiery protest.
“What’d Doc say about that?” Coach Gregg nailed him with a knowing look. With round cheeks and heavy-lidded eyes, the man had a laid-back impression that he used to his advantage. It hadn’t taken Dylan long to learn that very little got by the man.
“Just a bruise.” He shifted in his seat and dropped his hand. “I have a date with an ice pack and the masseuse after this.”
“Anything else bothering you?”
Dylan instantly thought of the blonde viper who’d helped his game and messed with his life at the same time. “Nope,” he answered. “Feeling pretty damn good right now.” He’d had years of practice maintaining that front, and it’d held strong in the three weeks since he’d last seen or heard from Samantha.
“Well, your game has noticeably improved.” Coach O rubbed his chin over his clasped knuckles. “Rather suddenly, too.”
Warning prickles flashed over his nape and had him straightening in his chair. “Are you implying something?”
“You do have a party image,” Coach Gregg said. “One you seem to go out of your way to propagate. Even if you have been quiet lately, it’s not unheard of for an athlete to let the party stuff go too far.”
Down the hall a door slammed, followed by the receding voices of some of his teammates. Would the coache
s be accusing any of them of drug use if their game improved, or was that reserved for him because of his image?
A cold anger sank into Dylan. He was playing his best game ever, and the first assumption made was he’d doped himself up to get there. Fuck that. He fisted his hands and looked each man in the eye.
“Give me a cup. I’ll pee in it right now.” He shoved his sleeve up to expose his inner elbow. “Or take my blood. Whatever you want. I’m not on anything illegal or banned, nor am I stupid enough to risk my career doing something that idiotic.” He’d grown up with a mom who was at best a functioning alcoholic. At worst, a stumbling drunk. There was no way he’d ever end up dependent on something that would ultimately destroy his life.
He didn’t so much as blink as he stared down Coach O. The man didn’t flinch or even look guilty for accusing him of something so asinine.
Finally, Coach O lowered his hands and sat back. “We had to ask. We also have to test.”
Dylan clenched his teeth and managed to grit out, “Fine.” What he really wanted to say was “fuck you.” He respected the man too much to do that.
“It’s to protect you too, Rylie,” Coach Gregg said. “We need to be prepared for any accusations or speculation. You’ve scored more points in the last nine games than in the entire first half of the season. Stats like that draw attention—good and bad.”
“I’m not on drugs or steroids or any other performance-enhancing crap.” Dylan bounced his leg in an effort to drain off some of his annoyance. “You don’t have to worry about that with me.” He took a slow breath and slowly conceded to the coaches. If they were concerned, there was likely a reason behind it. “I’ll head over to Doc’s office when we’re done.”
“Good.” Coach O inclined his head, an indication that the matter was settled with him. “So do you want to let us in on what the hell Yates did to make such a fast and dramatic turnaround in your game?” A hint of a smile took the edge off the remaining contention.
It didn’t help Dylan though. The new subject wasn’t any less stressful or irritating for him. He rubbed his palms together, his calluses catching in a rough scrape against each other. Sharing anything about Samantha pricked him as wrong, but he’d gone to Coach to get her help and owed the man an answer.
