Body Check: Blades Hockey

by Luis, Maria

  The irony isn’t lost on me—giving me pleasure has always existed in the same playing field as the joy he reaps from outsmarting the enemy on the ice.

  The puck shoots like a dart from Jackson to Marshall Hunt, who’s waiting in the slot.

  “Shit!” one guy hollers at my back. “C’mon, miss, you motherfucker! Miss the shot!”

  Hunt doesn’t miss.

  He aims.

  He shoots.

  He scores.

  The lamp lights, and I can just imagine the long-time Sports 24/7 announcer, Justin Daily, chuckling into the microphone as the TV cameras cut his way. “And wouldya look at that? The Blades are on fire tonight.”

  Fire doesn’t even begin to cover it.

  By the time the buzzer echoes in Capital One Arena, signaling the end of the game, the Blades take the W with a final score of 4-1.

  Adam cups his hand around his mouth to be overheard over the din, “What’s the game plan, Holls?”

  Inching my backpack toward my front, like a kangaroo pouch, I slide the camera strap from around my neck. My hair falls forward as I unzip the bag and tuck my camera safely inside.

  For the first time in years, I didn’t take a single picture while being technically on the clock. At every game in the last month, I’ve used the time in the stands to snap photos of fans cheering on their favorite players or children perched on their parents’ shoulders as they watch their heroes fight for the win.

  Some of those photos have gone on a dedicated Fans Only page on the Blades website—the team’s way of showing how much all the support means. Others went on the Instagram page for Carter Photography, racking up thousands of likes while local fans tried to find themselves in the posted photos.

  If they did, I sent them the picture free of charge—and included a card for a discounted photo session should they ever be interested.

  Hey, business is business.

  “Holly?” Carmen’s fingers circle my wrist and give a sharp pull. “Earth to Holly.”

  I sling my backpack over my shoulder. “We’re taking the night off.”

  Carmen and Adam exchange a glance.

  “We are?” they ask in unison, each looking respectively bewildered.

  “Yup!” When was the last time the three of us relaxed? When we’re not with the Blades and trailing them all over the eastern seaboard like a pack of desperate puppies, we’ve been at the office holding down the fort. Hell, even Adam’s wife has visited him at the office with his newborn after a long night of editing sound clips—twice. They need some time to let loose, and I . . . I glance back up at the Jumbotron, where they’re replaying the clip of Jackson’s amazing fake out.

  Truth is, I need this too.

  “Y’all are free to go,” I tell them with a genuine pep to my tone. “We’re in D.C.—or, I mean, we’re right next to D.C. Adam, haven’t you said that you’ve always wanted to see the Georgetown area?”

  He stares at me, brows pulled together. “Well, yeah.”

  “Now’s the chance! Or I’m sure the guys will all go to a local pub, if that’s more your flavor.”

  “I’m going to sleep.”

  Adam and I both look to Carmen.

  Sheepishly, she shrugs. “I love working for you, Holls, but you’ve got endless energy and I feel old.”

  That makes me laugh. “You do realize I’m older than you are, right?”

  “Semantics.” She waves me off with an exaggerated yawn. “Either way, if you’re giving us the night off, that means my three-day weekend just turned into a four-day weekend, and you’d be crazy if you think I won’t take full advantage of a hotel stay where I don’t even have to wash the sheets or towels after I use them.”

  Adam nudges me in the arm. “I’m going for a beer with the team. Maybe the Mountain can give me fitness tips.”

  I think of Adam’s wife photoshopping his face onto Duke Harrison’s body, and barely leash in my laughter. “I think . . .” I clap Adam on the shoulder, squeezing briefly. “I’m sure Harrison will have a specific fitness regimen for you to follow. How do you feel about hard-boiled eggs?”

  “Hate ’em.”

  I hoist my backpack higher on my shoulder, evenly distributing its heavy weight. “Sit-ups?”

  Adam shakes his head. “It’s the devil’s work.”

  “Eh, well, maybe if you go to bed wishing you were Harrison every night, one day you’ll wake up and find out dreams really do come true.”

  My sound guy grins, his slightly crooked teeth making an appearance. “Now that’s the kind of workout I’m talking about.”

  Funny, because after watching Jackson play with his heart on his sleeve tonight, I’m thinking of a different workout entirely. I pull out my phone, thumb my way to his contact number, and send a single text.

  Me: Interested in meeting at the hotel bar for cocktails? It’s on me.

  We’re nearing the team bus when I finally feel my phone vibrate with what I’m hoping is a reply from Jackson. Slipping the smooth case out from my pocket, I glance down at the glass screen and feel the happy thud-thud, thud-thud of my heart go into overdrive.

  Jackson: You know I never did do well with rejecting propositions like that.

  Jackson: First round’s on you. But the rest of the night . . . that’s all on me, sweetheart. All. On. Me.

  My gaze shoots from my phone to the rows of seats behind the driver as I step onto the bus.

  Most of the guys are already seated—and Jackson is front and center, long legs spilling into the aisle, so that I’m forced to step over him or trip and fall flat on my face. Next to him, in the window seat, is Coach Hall.

  Their heads are tilted towards one another, like they’re in deep discussion, probably regarding the game, and I duck my head to skirt past them for the empty row three behind theirs.

  Familiar, blunt-tipped fingers tangle with mine as I step past.

  The touch is so brief, so lighting fast, that my head whips to the right to stare at Jackson.

  He’s still facing forward, big shoulders hunched as he discusses who-knows-what with Hall. My gaze skims down his broad, muscular form, over his shoulders and the heavy, corded muscles of his arms, to his right hand which is held straight down at his side.

  It’s balled in a fist, his thumb rubbing slowly against his other fingers.

  And I grin.

  I grin so hard as I fall into an empty seat and plop my backpack down in my lap.

  To the world, Jackson Carter is an enigma. A stone-faced enigma who sees what he wants and conquers it all in the same breath. He’s ice and confidence, cool reserve, and domineering in the face of adversity.

  But long before we fell apart, he was something else to me entirely: a man who sought affection and gave it in return with no barriers held, a man who held my hand without worry as to who might question his masculinity or “toughness,” and a man who, when we went our separate ways for the day, would touch me and then ball his hand in a fist as he did just now. Only to make a joke about needing to keep me with him.

  We had our own language, then.

  My grin widens as I rest my head on the seat cushion, then bring my hand to my mouth, curled in a fist. I kiss my first knuckle, as I always used to do.

  On our drive back to the hotel, for the first time in months, I allow myself to dream.

  26

  Jackson

  “What can I get you to drink, my man?”

  Giving a quick, cursory glance over my shoulder, I turn back around and make a move to grab my wallet before popping my credit card on the bar. “Just some soda—Coke, Pepsi. Whatever y’all got on hand. You can open a tab for me.”

  If the bartender thinks it’s a little odd that I’m seated at the hotel bar and ordering a soda, he doesn’t say a word. After picking up my black Amex, he turns on his heel and takes another order from a guy a few barstools down who looks like the love child of Will Ferrell and Mark Wahlberg.

  If Will and Marky Mark were to ever beat the o
dds and procreate together, that is.

  As though sensing my stare, he swivels on his stool and meets my gaze. “You lookin’ at something?”

  I go for broke. “You ever get told you look like—”

  “Chris Hemsworth?” He shakes his curly brown hair, giving it some added fluff in the back. “Only every day.”

  My mouth opens, and I’m seconds away from asking in what universe does he think he would ever look like Chris-Thor-Hemsworth when a blur of blue sinks down onto the stool next to mine, effectively blocking my view of Mr. I’m-Almost-Famous.

  “Did I miss anything?” Holly asks, her elbows landing on the bar as she settles herself on the stool.

  I blink.

  Then blink again.

  No, I’m seeing things right. She’s definitely changed out of the clothes she wore to the game tonight. Gone are the light denim jeans and black top. She’s in blue now, the same hue as her beautiful eyes. A dress, not jeans. It hugs her slim frame, cupping her small breasts and gliding over the curve of her hips and ass.

  When she places her high heels on the stool’s metal rung, the dress’s hem drags up her thighs.

  My mouth turns as dry as the Sahara.

  The bartender chooses that moment to return with my drink, just in time to hear the groan that steals into my throat and escapes on a heavy exhale. He quirks a single eyebrow, then slides his gaze over to Holly. “What’s your poison, beautiful?”

  Almost immediately, she wraps an arm across her chest, her nails biting into the shoulder closest to me. “Um . . . hot tea, if you have it?”

  The bartender glances between us, shakes his head, and heads down the length of the bar again.

  Her slender fingers touch my bare forearm. “What are you having?”

  “Vodka.”

  At my deadpan tone, her gaze snaps up to meet mine. “Liar.” A smile widens her mouth, and she wraps a hand around my cup to peer dramatically inside it. Soft, feminine laughter greets my ears like a lover’s caress. “Coke, huh? What’s happening to us?”

  I pluck my soda out of her hand and take a long pull. “Old age, Holls. We hit thirty and it went downhill straight from there.”

  “Pretty sure they call it the ‘dirty thirties’ for a reason.”

  Setting the glass back down, I take her all in. The loose, blond hair blown out in soft waves. The smoky eye that’s smudged to perfection. The damn-near-killed-me blue dress that keeps hiking up the length of her thighs to the promised land.

  “If that’s what they’re callin’ it,” I drawl, “then you’re doing it right.” With a little gesture at her getup, I add, “I’m only sorry I didn’t get the memo that this was a no-basketball-shorts kinda night.”

  She squirms on her stool. “No, you look good. I mean . . .” All her squirming is doing nothing to halt the slow climb of her dress, and she must know because her fingers yank relentlessly at the fabric. It doesn’t help. If anything, each sharp pull only manages to have the opposite effect. Not that I’m complaining. “I don’t ever dress up anymore, honestly,” she tacks on and then snaps the hem back into place with a soft, barely audible curse.

  “And you just happened to have this dress on hand?” Propping one forearm on the bar, I lower my voice and lean in close to her. “No complaints over here. You look . . . stunning.”

  More squirming. The corners of her lips turn up in thanks when the bartender drops off her tea and heads back down to Mr. I-Look-Like-Thor. Finally, she murmurs, “I put it in my suitcase at the start of preseason. I had no idea where we’d be asked to go.” She offers a delicate shrug. “Figured it was better safe than sorry. Thank God for hotel rooms having irons nowadays.”

  I’m not sorry at all.

  I swallow down a mouthful of soda, trying to get my brain back in working gear. But it’s almost impossible to scrub her in that dress from my retina. In a raspy voice, I grind out, “No bra?”

  She visibly swallows, and I almost die right then and there. It doesn’t take a lot of imagination to see the hard peaks of her nipples through the fabric of the dress.

  Resolutely, I keep my eyes on her face. “You’re not denying it.”

  With her cheeks awash with color, she spoons some sugar into her tea. “Seems I forgot one of those when I was packing yesterday.” Her blues flick to mine. “Oops.”

  She.

  Is.

  Killing.

  Me.

  I hook a finger over the collar of my T-shirt, needing cool air on my hot skin. Or cubes of ice down the front of my shorts. I’m not wearing briefs, so that’d be self-torture at its finest. Then again, there’s something about feeling this on edge, without us having even stripped off our clothes, that’s a turn-on in and of itself.

  Shock slicks through my system when Holly nabs a napkin from the bar, sets one hand on my upper thigh, her fingers dancing mighty damn close to my erection, and drops the black linen over my lap.

  Then, porcelain mug to her mouth, she blows away the curling steam and takes a long, purposeful sip. “Rookie move there, Captain.” She juts her chin toward my crotch. “Never wear white to a bar.”

  I feel my brows shoot up in question, even as my fingers are already wrapping around the edge of the linen—

  “I wouldn’t.”

  My hand locks in place. “No?”

  Another slow sip of her tea—and maybe I’m losing my mind, but she really shouldn’t look as hot as she does while doing so—before she shrugs all blasé and murmurs, “Maybe that particular wet spot is spilled soda . . . or maybe you’re just that turned on? Either way, this is for your own good.”

  Her blue eyes drop to my crotch, then linger long enough that my cock takes it as a sign to swell some more.

  Christ.

  I hunch my shoulders, dropping one elbow to my right knee to shield the tented napkin in my lap from plain view. Nobody, especially one of my teammates, needs to know how hard I am right now. When I’ve regained enough of my I’m-in-public-and-trying-to-behave composure, I look back up and catch Holly trying to wipe the huge grin off her face.

  I rake my fingers through my hair, pulling on the strands. Heave a big, dramatic sigh as I ask, “Pleased with yourself, Mrs. Carter?”

  The Mrs. slips out on habit alone, but Holly merely sends a wink in my direction. “Aw, does the big, bad captain not like having the tables turned?” She skips a finger from the bend of my knee up, up, up, until she’s reached the linen. “It didn’t seem fair that I be the only one with hard . . . peaks, if you know what I mean.”

  When she drops her chin to stare briefly at her nipples, my cock jumps right back to attention again because he’s nothing if not a mutineer.

  “Holly.” Her name rolls off my tongue, thick, with heavy emphasis on the first syllable. I say it again because I like the way her tongue comes out to flick across her bottom lip when I speak. My hand goes to her naked shoulder, my thumb caressing the jut of her collarbone. Just like that, I have her in the palm of my hands, her blue eyes dark with arousal, knees bouncing up and down with pent-up energy.

  “Tell me, Holls . . . did you wear this dress because you wanted me to spend the next hour admiring you in it?” I finger the thin strap that encircles her neck and dips down to her back, not missing the sharp lift of her shoulders as I play. “Or did you wear it because you wanted me to strip you naked?”

  “Neither.”

  Just like that, my limbs lock in place. I want what she wants, and I would never, ever push her past that. This woman . . . fuck, she means so much to me—more than she’ll probably ever realize—and I could never, in good conscious, take what she’s not offering.

  Even if it feels as though she’s just made a slapshot to my groin.

  Slowly, as not to spook her, I pull away.

  Keep it together, man. Don’t let her see how much you want this.

  Her small fingers wrapping around my wrist keep me in place, and her breathy voice damn-near makes me lose my mind.

  “I said
neither, Jackson, because I don’t want to sit here and objectively be admired.” She tugs my hand until it’s gripping her hip, my fingers splayed along the upper curve of her ass. I suck in a deep breath.

  She smiles, then, and it’s pure seduction.

  It slays me with its flirtatiousness.

  Sabotages every hope that I’ve got still kicking around to do the gentlemanly thing and leave her be—to not drudge up all our old wounds and heartaches and all the damn love, simply so I can feel her against me again.

  When she speaks, it’s nothing but a purr that sets my skin aflame. “I didn’t wear it because I wanted to see it slung across the room either.” The smallest pause. “I wore it because I want it yanked around my hips while you make me come all over your dick. After all, you promised that every other round would be on you.”

  Glass shatters.

  My jaw drops.

  “Holy shit.”

  The last bit didn’t come from me—neither did the glass breaking—although I’m sure as hell two seconds away from doing both.

  I swing my gaze toward the bartender, who’s standing there with a slack jaw, wide eyes, and a tent in his jeans that’s got nothing to do with me and everything to do with Holly.

  Not happening.

  “We’ll take the check.”

  “Please,” Holly supplies for me, a quick smile in my direction. She glances back over at the bartender, who’s yet to move an inch. “But thank you for that tea. Whatever it was”—she fans her face, whistling low—“has me so worked up right now.”

  It takes another round of prodding on my part for the bartender to come back with the check. As soon as he does, I slip a hand around Holly’s elbow and pull her close enough that I can touch my nose to her ear and mutter, “You’re trouble.”

  She presses a kiss to my cheek. “There’s nothing I like more than seeing you come undone.”

  Then she’s in luck.

  Because tonight, I plan to return the favor until the only thing she’s begging for me to do is make her come again.

  27

  Jackson