Body Check: Blades Hockey

by Luis, Maria

  When he flashes me a grin, I can’t help but shift my weight and steady myself on the seat opposite his, which is blessedly empty. “Your cards are safe with me.” My tone, despite an attempt for dry and witty, comes out breathy instead.

  Any lingering hope that he won’t notice that I sound like I’ve inhaled helium goes out the window when he lowers his lids, giving my basic yoga pants and even blander white top a slow onceover. In that classic Jackson way of his, he draws his thumb over his bottom lip and simultaneously makes my knees clack together.

  “But am I safe with you?”

  It’s not an innocent question. Does he mean his heart? His happiness?

  I’m not given time to answer.

  “Holly!” Carmen calls out, about seven rows separating us. “You want to get us started?”

  Right. Yes.

  I nod, then swallow down that airy, breathy voice that’s a total giveaway as to how much I want Jackson right here, right now. “Everyone with diamonds, you’re up first. We’ll go around a few times to make sure no one’s left out, so if you’re still thinking on your answer feel free to sit this round out.”

  The guys jostle each other as they all decide who’s up first.

  Ultimately, it’s Sylas, Cain, and the rookie, Kammer, who rise from their seats and sort of slouch in place to avoid hitting their heads on the overhead bins.

  I try to hold back a snort and end up hacking out a cough. “Y’all, this isn’t the classroom. You don’t have to stand when spoken to.” I wave a free hand toward my team. “Carmen and Adam will take care of making sure you’re within the frame. Take a seat, gentlemen.”

  They all sit as one, and then the fun begins.

  24

  Jackson

  “I once had this fan who tattooed my face on her tits. We’re talking full on hairy ’stache inked over a left nipple—hold on, can I say nipple on TV?”

  Laughter rumbles in my throat as Tommy Kase, Harrison’s backup, looks to Holly for guidance, his brows drawn together in consternation.

  For her part, Holly only throws her head back with a feminine laugh that goes straight to my dick. Her hair is up in its customary messy bun, and while the rest of us goons are rocking suits for the short flight to D.C., as is team protocol, Holls is dressed for pure comfort.

  White, billowy T-shirt.

  Black leggings that cut off right below the knee.

  A pair of sensible tennis shoes that are such a neon pink they’re almost blinding.

  I want to pull her into the tiny-as-hell bathroom two feet behind me and strip her bare.

  Then again, I can barely fit my own frame into the restroom—add Holly into the mix and I’d be unlikely to even lock the door behind us.

  I eye the sweet curve of her ass again, which is inches away from my face, and swallow a groan.

  Yeah, joining the Mile-High Club is not much of an option when you’re topping six-four, weigh in at close to two-fifty, and are nicknamed the Beast of the Northeast.

  Damn airlines and their inclusive propaganda—I call bullshit.

  “On that note,” Holly says now, her fingers fluttering over the buttons on her camera as she catches a picture of what I’m assuming is Kase’s embarrassed expression, “we’re moving on. Hearts are up for our final round. Any takers?”

  I glance down at my hand.

  Three of Hearts.

  Seven of Hearts.

  Nine of Hearts.

  Clearly, the card gods are trying to tell me something.

  Up ahead, Henri Bordeaux, Beaumont, and left-wing Chandler Eden raise their respective cards in the air.

  Holly lifts her camera again. “Bordeaux, want to go first?”

  “Oui.” Nodding, he smiles at Carmen and waves to the camera like he’s the goddamn Queen of England. He ruffles his dark hair, then tugs sharply on the lapel of his black suit. “I was once fucked by a puck.”

  Pure.

  Unforgiving.

  Silence.

  Blinking slowly, I lean my weight forward and lift one finger in the air. My mouth opens. Closes. Parts halfway. I mean, really, I’ve got no words here. “Henri, man, I—” My fingers curl in a fist that I bounce on my knee, once, twice. “I’m sorry, did you say that you were fucked by a puck?”

  “And here I thought I couldn’t bring up nipples on TV,” Kase snickers loudly. “Keep going, Bordeaux. You’re making me look like a boy scout and I’m over here living my best life.”

  I hold up a hand, silencing the rumble of laughter. “No, but, really. Henri, dude, that can’t be—”

  “To the face!” Bordeaux thrusts a finger at his chin. “A puck to the face, épais. Osti de tabarnak de câlice.”

  I might not know French, Canadian or otherwise, but playing with French Canadians for as long as I have? Yeah, I’m fully aware of what words like “tabarnak” mean. And they aren’t all rainbows and unicorns. God knows what the rest of it all translates to.

  We’ll chalk this experience up to Lost in Translation, Hockey Edition, and call it a day.

  “Holls?”

  “Yeah, Captain?” She swings her blue eyes my way, humor making them appear that much brighter.

  “Let’s move on from the puck fucks, yeah?”

  She ducks her face, but I don’t miss the shit-eating grin that’s about as subtle as Bordeaux’s English faux pas.

  “Sure, yeah, we’ll move on.”

  Beaumont goes next, spouting off about some guy who once broke into his house during his rookie year with the Detroit Red Wings. “You think you’ve seen it all, honestly, until you come home one day to find a dude in a metal bathtub, fish heads all around him, holding up a sign that says, ‘You don’t deserve the ‘pus.’ And by pus, he was referring to octopuses . . . octopi?” Beaumont shakes his head, big shoulders lifting. “Whatever. Either way, he was pissed that we lost and he was naked, and that is a sight I’ll never be able to un-see. Now all of you have to suffer with me—you’re welcome.”

  Collective groaning ensues, just as Holly asks, “Anyone else wondering how all those fish scales feel against a man’s . . . sensitive bits?”

  “Oh, c’mon, Mrs. Carter!”

  “My balls are itchy just thinking about it.”

  “Honestly, could be like a massage. I bet it’s a luxury in some parts of the world. Give a man a fish, and he’ll find some way to masturbate with it.”

  The last one comes from Russell Allen, a right wing on our second line, and we all erupt in boos—and, if I’m not hearing shit, at least one fake-vomiting sprint.

  “Gentlemen!” says Matt the Hard-Ass over the speaker system. “And two women—sorry, Carmen, Holly. Anyway, we’ll be starting our descent in approximately three minutes. One last answer for that commercial of yours, Ms. Carter. Perhaps the good Captain might do us the honor of responding to the question?”

  As though that was subtle, by any means.

  Matt, as his nickname suggests, is anything but subtle. Since my divorce from Holly, he’s been a routine figure on the sidelines, questioning what I did wrong that made a “good woman like her” leave me.

  He’s not wrong in his assumption.

  Good news, I’m on a mission to rectify the leaving bit.

  Thwapping the cards along the center of my thigh, I drawl, “Just one story? Y’all are making this difficult for me to choose.”

  Carmen and Adam inch down the aisle toward me, no doubt trying to keep me in frame and within earshot, considering that I sat myself in the very last row of the plane. Holly sits down opposite me, her petite body twisting so that she can keep me in her visual line.

  Caving to the need to touch her, I stretch out my right leg—and softly touch her pink sneaker with my brown leather loafer. When she doesn’t pull back immediately, I stifle a satisfied grin.

  “I’m gonna break protocol here—go for a story from my Cornell days, way before I was drafted to the NHL.”

  Across the aisle, I catch Holly’s narrowing gaze, and I flash her
a slow, shit-eating grin.

  I loop one arm around the seat back in front of me, fingers tapping the side of the cushion. “I had this shitty car back then. A Chevy Silverado with the paint damn-near chipped off completely. We’d lost a game that day, not that I hadn’t done my best.” I pause, then jut my chin toward my teammates. “Hunt’s not the only one around here who knows how to score a hat trick. I’ve been dangling pucks since he still had acne.”

  Amid my guys’ catcalls of “ooh, feel the burn!” and raucous laughter, I finger-salute our center, where he’s sitting three rows up. “Love ya, Marshey!”

  He flashes me the middle finger.

  I make a point of catching it like he’s blown me a kiss instead, then mime putting it in a slingshot and sending it into the crowd.

  “Anyway,” I go on, “I’m beat, right? I’ve had my marbles rattled—especially since I subbed for a guy on the D-line during the third period—and I skipped out on all the parties to head back to the house and hit the sack. Only—”

  “Jackson.” I feel Holly’s fingers prod me in the side. She’s moved in close, eclipsing any space between us, and I’d put good money on the fact that she’s this close from clapping a hand over my mouth to keep me from talking. She pokes me again, her body shielding the movement from view.

  I one-up her, leveraging my size so that she’s standing in front of me. My palm skims the indent of the back of her knee, and I don’t miss the way she twitches at the contact.

  And then sinks back into my touch.

  God, I love how responsive she is.

  “Only,” I repeat, my hand now on her quads, “there was this girl standing near my shitty-ass car, and she was standing there with a paintbrush. White paint, too, against the chipped blue of my car. ‘You S-U-C’ was written on my windshield in bold, block letters. I busted her before she managed to work the K on there too.” I squeeze the back of Holly’s thigh, and she releases the softest moan I’ve ever heard in my life.

  So sexy, the sound is barely leashed as she looks back at me.

  Her expression is set like she’d enjoy nothing more than to bash her camera over my head.

  Her blue eyes, on the other hand, are pure liquid fire, molten and hot and eyeing me up like she’s considering the miniscule bathroom behind us.

  I tear my gaze from hers. “Turns out, Holly here thought my car belonged to the team’s goalie, who gave up four shots on the net. She’s always been passionate about hockey, and that’s officially the craziest thing a fan has ever done.”

  “I wasn’t a fan,” she quips, her ass now in my palm and her fingers digging into the seat in front of mine.

  “Nah, you weren’t.” I feather my touch down the back seam of her yoga pants. “Yet.”

  Shaking her head, she chokes out a raspy laugh. “You’re trouble.”

  “Always have been,” I husk. “Now take a seat before Matt has something to say about you holding up the plane from landing.” Folding up the aisle-side arm rest, I stretch my long legs out so that Holly can scoot past me. “I promise I won’t bite.”

  A snort greets my ears as she bats my legs out of the way, calls out a quick, “Carmen, Adam, take a seat!” before settling into the window seat beside me. I don’t even have the opportunity to appreciate her close proximity before she’s whipping toward me, index finger stiff and at the ready to do some serious damage to my bicep.

  “You,” she growls, and it’s such a cute attempt at being all aggressive and feisty that I grab her hand in mine and press a kiss to her palm. Then murmur, “On a scale of one to ten, how much do you want to throw me out of the plane right now?”

  Her nose scrunches in deliberation. “Twelve.” She tugs on her captured hand to no avail. “I’m at a twelve, which is the equivalent of someone’s mood after being force-fed anything you’ve cooked for at least three days in a row.”

  Amusement spreads like wildfire through my veins. I love it when she’s all about the quick comebacks. Gently, I wrap my hand around the back of her neck and touch our foreheads together. “Low blow,” I mutter, “but well-deserved. Payback officially has been served.”

  Her blue eyes dart from my gaze down to my lips and then back again.

  Christ.

  My grasp tightens ever so slightly, and my slacks feel incrementally tighter in the crotch than they did two minutes earlier. I open my mouth, voice rumbling out, “No crime in these guys knowing how we met. They’re family and you’re . . .”

  She tilts her head to the side, as though silently daring me to finish that thought. “I’m what?”

  Beautiful. Funny.

  Mine.

  “You’re the kickass queen of Carter Photography, wielder of cameras and the sole heiress to—”

  Her small fist collides with my bicep.

  It barely registers.

  “What?” I fold up the armrest between us, eliminating the remaining barrier. “I thought you’d appreciate that more than what I was going to say, considering that you’re still in your thinking about us phase. Plus, I know how much you secretly love your fantasy books.”

  The pressure in the plane increases as we make our final descent into Washington. I’ve tried to avoid thinking about what Dr. Mebowitz said earlier this week in the lead up to tomorrow’s game. Today, I feel like Beast of the Northeast—the relentless pounding in my head has eased, and my muscles feel limber and ready to put the Capitals into an early, hockey-induced grave.

  And then there’s Holly, leaning back against the drawn-shut oval window, one knee raised so that it rests lazily against my left thigh. She watches me like I’m the man she’s always known: the hockey player who can make magic happen out of nothing; a team captain who’s at the height of his game and shows no sign of slowing down; a guy who, once upon a time, she loved more than anyone else.

  She watches me like I’m capable of anything, and sees nothing of the fears, the pain, the increasing worry that fate might have other plans for me aside from taking the Cup and memorializing my name one more time in hockey history.

  The heat and familiarity in her blue eyes gives me a more addicting high than any win on the ice ever has.

  The seat belt signs ping! and Matt’s voice echoes through the cabin. “Looks like we’re about to land, ladies and gents. I hope you’re ready to take on the Capitals—between us, I can’t wait to see their smug faces go slack the minute you guys step on the ice.”

  I clap and shout, along with the rest of my teammates, only to feel Holly’s fingers dig into my thigh. At the slight pinch of her nails, my hands land on the seat back and I raise a brow in question.

  She licks her lips. “What were you going to say? A minute ago, before Matt . . . you were going to say something.”

  My gaze flicks between hers. In the last week, I’ve tried to give her time to think, more for her sake than mine—because that’s what she wanted. I know that we can’t jump into things and expect them to go back to the way they were before we went our separate ways—nor would I want them to.

  A year ago, I divorced a woman who I loved but who felt like a stranger all the same.

  No, I wouldn’t want a repeat of what used to be. But I sure as hell want the chance to reconnect and build something new. Something better.

  Giving her the time to say no if she’s opposed to it, I slowly fold my hand over her knee, my thumb flirting along the hem of her yoga pants. Her skin is hot to the touch, despite the chill from the overhead vents.

  “I was going to say that they’re family”—I slip my thumb under the fabric of her pants, drawing small circles over the smooth skin—“and you’re Holly. Beautiful, live-life-to-the-fullest, Holly.” I squeeze her leg and meet her gaze. “The rest of what I wanted to say can wait for our weekend away . . . if you’ll want to hear it.”

  She visibly swallows, and I catch the sight of her bright pink shoe flexing like she’s enjoying my touch more than she’ll ever admit.

  Then she’s leaning forward, her fingers curl
ing under my chin—her quiet, gentle way of making me look at her. Her blue eyes are large in her face when she sets my heart on fire with six little words.

  “Don’t leave out a single word.”

  25

  Holly

  There’s no other way to put it: the fans are pissed.

  In a sea of red, Carmen, Adam, and I are a solitary navy-blue blip on the Jumbotron whenever the camera swerves past us. The legendary Kiss Cam is being met with blank stares; poster boards with enthusiastic, pun-tastic catchphrases are inching farther and farther down with each blow-out period that trickles past; and if all that wasn’t enough to prove that the D.C. fans are sore losers tonight, then the jerk duo seated behind us are doing a good enough job proving it for the rest of the arena.

  “Fucking Carter!” shouts one of the jerks as Jackson dekes a Caps player.

  My breath lodges in my throat as Jackson slips the puck between his legs, out of position to be stolen away, and then cuts its trajectory toward the boards short with the blade of his stick. My camera hangs loosely around my neck, forgotten, my fists jutting up into the air as I stand on my tiptoes to see around the guy in front of me.

  “Go, baby, go!” The words are out before I can put a lid on them.

  I’ve never been so thankful that hockey fans are a rowdy bunch because no one hears me—and, if they do, no one gives me a second look, mistaking me for just another rabid Blades groupie.

  Cutting short on his skates, Jackson swivels his massive weight like he’s nothing heavier than a feather.

  I look from the ice rows below me to the Jumbotron, where the camera is locked on my ex-husband’s face. He’s sweating profusely. His dark eyes are sharp as he tracks the ice, looking for his chance, and I know the minute he’s found what he’s searching for.

  His lips curve in that same wicked grin he always wears seconds before he strips off my panties and hunkers down between my thighs.