Body Check: Blades Hockey

by Luis, Maria

  “That’s exactly what I am.”

  Funny how I’ve thought the same thing for years but never really put it into exact words. A junkie. Hockey is my vice: the thrill of a goal, the high of faking out an opponent and nailing the puck to my teammate, the satisfaction that thrives in my veins with every good play that’s made.

  “Trust me,” Holly says lightly, her shoulder bumping mine, “I’m fully aware.”

  The soles of my tennis shoes scrape along the stone as I turn to stare at her profile. “What’s brought this on?”

  Sunlight kisses her features. Already her nose is turning pink, despite the fact that we’re now long into fall. She shields the top half of her face from the sun, which is directly overhead, and I miss the chance to get a full read on her now that I can’t see her blue eyes. “I don’t think I have that same rush with photography.” She says it with no hint of frustration in her tone, and I’m struck momentarily speechless.

  Which I guess works fine for her because she keeps talking anyway.

  “Please don’t take this in a creepy way or anything, but I couldn’t help but watch you over the last month that Getting Pucked has been filming. I’m not even sure if you realize it or not, but you light up when you’re on the ice.” Her hand falls from its spot at her temple to gesture through the air in that Holly way of hers that I know so well. “You’re always on. Even when you’re not playing, you’re talking with the team, keeping everything in line.”

  “It’s my job, Holls. Everything you’ve just said . . . I mean, I’m paid to be that guy. As captain, I lead the pack.”

  She shakes her head. “You’re not paid to go out of your way to sit at hotel bars to keep the rookies from partying too hard. You’re not paid to stay so late at the rink that you’re there past the security guards’ clock out time. It isn’t like I’m realizing any of this for the first time. I mean”—she sends me a quick, furtive smile—“we were married for eleven years. I guess that it’s just . . . I love what I do, and I’ve always thought that it truly fulfills me. It does, to a certain degree. But I’m missing the high that hockey gives you.” Almost shyly, she tucks her hair behind her ears. “I’m no junkie, I guess is what I’m trying to say, not when it comes to taking pictures.”

  It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her that my junkie days may be over soon enough. But she’s opening up—baring her soul—and this moment is hers alone. The fact that she even trusts me enough to talk about it? Damn, but it feels so good.

  So right.

  “Do you trust me?”

  The question comes at her from left field, but she doesn’t waste a second in answering. “Yes.”

  I’ve seen enough signs along the Cliff Walk to know that this is against the rules, but I promised Holly that we would change the game this weekend. No time like the present to make it happen. My hands skim along her sides until they’re tucked under her ass and I’m lifting her up onto the stone wall.

  There’s no guardrail behind her, nothing to stop her from tumbling down to the beach below.

  Except for me.

  I loop my arms around her back, one hand nestled between her shoulder blades and the other above the curve of her backside.

  “Oh, sh—”

  The rest of her sentence cuts off as I tighten my hold, proving without words that I’ve got her back. I won’t let her fall.

  “There are different types of adrenaline highs,” I tell her, raising my voice just enough to be heard over the gust of wind whipping through her blond strands. The tips smack me across the face, sticking on my mouth, and she’s forced to shake her head in order to free me again.

  A flirty smile on her lips, she urges, “Go on, O Captain my Captain.”

  I laugh hard at that.

  Then I loosen my hold, just enough for her eyes to grow round in her face and her nails to claw into my biceps, holding on.

  “There’s the adrenaline that comes from tumblin’ into the unknown.” My fingers bite into her back as I lower her, inch by inch, until she’s nearly reclining horizontal, her hair dancing wildly in the breeze. My hips press into her pelvis, her legs looped around my waist, as I hold her in place. Keeping her safe. “I could drop you, let you fall, but it feels freeing in that space where you’re almost lettin’ go but still holding on.”

  She lets her head drop back, the column of her neck completely elongated, and I know she’s taking in the expanse of the ocean. It’s bigger than her, it’s bigger than us. “My heart is racing a mile a minute.”

  “No faster than mine.” Slowly, I bring her back up until her weight is completely on the wall. Her cheeks are flushed pink, lips parted on a heavy breath. Beautiful. Cutting my gaze from hers, I take her hand and fold it over my heart. “I like to think of this as the Titanic Adrenaline High, where Leo’s holding Rose on the bow of the ship.”

  “Jack.”

  “What?”

  “It’s Jack in the movie. That’s his name. Leo’s his real name.” She eyes me for a second, then laughs softly. “Never mind, continue.”

  Jack . . . Leonardo DiCaprio. Shit, right. Well, doesn’t matter. Not like he’ll be banging on my door anytime soon to get his comeuppance. Unlike our football counterparts, pro hockey players tend to stay out of Hollywood for the most apart.

  Although if TMZ keeps up their elite-level of stalking, that might not be the case for long.

  The thought alone makes my dick shrivel in dread.

  “Babe?”

  It’s the second time she’s used the endearment today, and it feels no less sweet than the first time around.

  “Kiss me.”

  Holly visibly swallows at my soft demand. Her blue eyes skirt to the right, to the left, before zeroing in on my mouth. One slender hand smooths up to cradle the back of my head, while the other remains firmly planted on my chest over my heart.

  “Never let it be said I wasn’t a rule follower,” she whispers, then closes the distance between us.

  The first taste rocks me to my core. It teases more than it satisfies. I let her take the lead, willing to go where she blazes the trail she desires, knowing I’ll still go up in flames no matter what pace she sets.

  And the pace is slow.

  Heart-wrenching, like she’s trying to deliver some secret message only for me to find out she’s used invisible ink. But I follow anyway, opening my mouth when she touches her tongue to my bottom lip, letting her wrestle all control from me.

  With the sounds of the waves crashing over the shore and the wind whistling past us, I let Holly steal my breath and give me back some of the man I used to be. The man only she had access to.

  I groan into her mouth.

  Then pull away.

  She protests with a whimper.

  My hard-on protests just by existing when there’s not a damn thing I can do to come.

  I swallow, hard, and mutter, “The second type of adrenaline high.” I sink one hand under the hem of her T-shirt solely so I can feel her naked skin. “A junkie who knows what’s coming next. It’s choreography that’s been done before.” For fourteen years, it’s a choreography I’ve only ever known with Holly. My gaze latches on to the rise and fall of her chest. “The thrill isn’t in the unknown but in the familiar, the sense that you’re coming home.”

  Her fingers curl into the fabric of my shirt. “Is there a third?” she asks, voice raspy with need.

  I nod. “Yes.”

  “Show me.”

  As gently as I can, I drag her off her perch atop the stone wall and let her slide down the length of my body. When my cock collides with the apex of her thighs, we both release a groan.

  Not now, man. Not right now.

  Once she’s on the ground, I step back and unzip the backpack she’s brought with her. The one I’ve seen hooked over her shoulder for so many years that, to see her without it, feels abnormal.

  Fingers brushing over the white tab on the interior of the bag, my gaze lingers on the now faded black writing.

/>   Dream big, sweetheart. Love, Jackson.

  In the rink, I may as well be composed of ice. No one gets through me. No one breaks through my outer wall, not a heckler, not an asshole on the other team, no one.

  Off it, Holly is my weakness.

  Something that clearly rings true when my heart squeezes and my lungs feel too tight to breathe as it hits me: she still carries around the same backpack I bought for her when she first started Carter Photography.

  Pushing away the emotion so I can slam my final point home, I cup the back of her prized camera and lift it from the bag. Straightening to my full height, I turn to Holly and lay it all out on the line.

  “Sometimes the high doesn’t feel like a rush of emotions.” I slip the camera strap over her head. “Sometimes it feels like it’s only job is to soothe you. It’s the place where you go when you need to breathe. It’s how you work out your stress and how you bring your own blend of creativity into the world. That’s the high, sweetheart. It’s not about the fear of the unknown or the warmth that comes from the familiar—it’s all about fulfillment.”

  A single tear splashes onto her cheekbone.

  She doesn’t make a move to wipe it away.

  Neither do I.

  “Thank you.”

  The two words emerge as a hoarse whisper, but I hear the level of gratitude behind it. “Always.” My voice is pure gravel, but she doesn’t point it out.

  Instead, she presses a button on the camera and the little beast whirs to life. She lifts it, holding it to her face, and I hear the telltale click of a picture being captured.

  “You,” she says after a moment, “you’re my high.”

  31

  Holly

  “Anymore wine, miss?”

  I’m two glasses in already, which is honestly one glass past my usual limit.

  That’s what happens when you stop going out all the time and spend your evenings with Chip and Joanna Gaines on HGTV’s Fixer Upper—the wine gets pushed aside for other, more delectable treats. Like ice cream.

  Across the wooden table, Jackson meets my gaze, then jerks his chin toward the waiter. “Want another?”

  Considering the fact that I’m drinking alone tonight, it’s probably best that I don’t end up the only drunk. See? Adulthood in its purest form—knowing when to stop imbibing before you end up belting out lyrics to a song no one else in the restaurant knows.

  Off a quick assumption, as we walked through to our table, I’m harboring a guess that the clientele here wouldn’t know a Rihanna song if it bit them in the butt.

  “I think I’m okay for now, thank you.”

  The server’s twin dimples appear briefly with a smile before he heads off to help guests at another table.

  We’re seated on a veranda, small tables situated throughout the open floor plan. The ocean lies off to our right, as black as the evening sky. When we were first seated, I counted the number of boats I saw bobbing along the open waters: five, maybe six. Their lit windows do little to illuminate the sky, just as the trio of candles on the table offer a romantic feel but are hardly potent enough to stave off the nippy October night.

  I nuzzle in the soft, warm fabric of my cardigan. “You never mentioned why you don’t drink anymore.”

  Jackson is mid-soda sip when I speak.

  He coughs—splutters, more like—into a balled fist before setting down his drink. “I, uh . . .” Drawing in a deep breath, he picks up his knife and twirls it over the backs of his knuckles—a nervous habit he’s had since I’ve known him. Interesting. “Sorry, wasn’t expecting that question.”

  I sip what’s left of my wine. “Take your time.”

  In the last day, Jackson and I have taken to Newport like newlyweds on a honeymoon. For every touristy activity we do about town, we’ve hooked up back at The Ruby Slipper. We’ve gone toe-for-toe, have baptized every space of our guestroom, and other than our talk along the Cliff Walk, we’ve stuck to safe, surface-level conversation.

  If we’re going to really do this, I need more than sex.

  And it should start with him opening up as to why he’s ditched his preferred Beam and Coke when we go out for plain, old Coke.

  Like me, Jackson took the time to dress up tonight. His hair is slicked back, his face completely smooth of any hint of stubble. He’s wearing black from head to toe, and when I stepped out of the bathroom after curling my hair, I nearly demanded that we stay in and go right back to our competing tally of Outdoor Activities vs Sexy-times All Over Our Guestroom.

  Only the fact that we caught Ginger creeping outside our door kept us from ordering in.

  Not that I’m complaining.

  The food, the ocean, even the nip in the air have made the evening out worth it.

  If only Jackson would just—

  “I’m old, Holls.”

  Is he kidding me right now? Rolling my eyes, I tease, “You’re a real geriatric, all right.” At his mute silence, I raise a brow. “You’re pulling my leg, aren’t you?”

  Lips flatlining, he reaches up to run his fingers through his hair, only to stop halfway and drop his hand to the table. “Thirty-four in hockey years might as well put me in the prehistoric category,” he mutters. His dark eyes narrow, but not on me—they lock on my hands, which are fiddling with the stem of my wineglass. “I gave up alcohol after we divorced. I had two important things in my life, and I’d just lost one.”

  His gaze snaps up to meet mine, pinning me in place with the complete intensity that I see swirling in the brown depths. “There wasn’t a shot in hell that I’d lose hockey, too. Guys my age become victims to injuries,” he says thickly, like even the thought of turning out like any one of them has him up at night, “the career-ending kind, though.”

  “I was going to say, you’ve had your own fair share of almost-career ending injuries.” I gesture to his reconstructed cheek bone, which Andre Beaumont broke some years back when he still played for the Detroit Red Wings.

  My attempt to lighten the mood falls on deaf ears.

  Jackson’s lips don’t turn up in a smile. “I never want the team I play for to think they could do better without me.” His bulky shoulders lift in a casual shrug. “I can’t stop what happens on the ice. On any day I could go out there and come wheeling back out on a stretcher. But I can keep myself healthy—that’s all in my power.”

  “So, no alcohol.”

  Now, his mouth curves ever-so-slightly, and my heart thrums in triple time at the sight. “No fast food either,” he corrects. “Although I can’t help but make an exception for Coke.”

  I mock-smother my shock with a hand over my mouth. “How terrible for you. And here I was thinking about how many bags of chips I devour weekly. Here’s a clue—way too many.”

  He’s all masculine confidence when he pats his flat stomach and rests an arm on the walled barrier that separates us from the craggy rocks ten or fifteen feet below the veranda. “This body’s a temple, sweetheart.”

  Laughter sticks in my throat. “Oh, my God, you did not just say that.”

  “What?” He holds out his arms, all the better for me to check him out, I’m sure. “These are the same arms that carried you over the Cliff Walk yesterday, when—”

  “You nearly fed me to the seagulls by throwing me over the side?”

  He slicks his thumb over his bottom lip, laughter finally easing his tense expression. “Better than the alternative, at least.”

  “Which is?”

  Elbows on the table, he leans forward. “Pigeons.”

  I nearly cough on my own spit, he’s caught me so off-guard. “I won’t lie, I thought you were going to suggest alligators or, well, I don’t know. Something less . . . horrid.”

  “Being thrown to the gators is less horrid?” He doesn’t sound convinced. “Tell me more.”

  “You’re out of your mind.”

  “With lust.”

  “With all that Coke you’re drinking.” I point at the offending drink. “Sugar’s goin
g to your head.”

  “What can I say?” he drawls, eyes bright with humor. “I like sweet things.”

  At his wink, I bring the sleeve of my cardigan up to hide my growing grin. The soft fabric is warm against my face, and I burrow deeper in the cashmere. “You sure there’s no liquor in that drink of yours?” Raising a brow, I watch him steadily. “You’re acting . . . frisky.”

  “Frisky, huh?” He laughs low and hard at that, and my entire body heats with appreciation. God, he’s so handsome. His blunt-tipped fingers wrap around his glass. “Tell me something that happened to you this year.” He pauses, rotating his wrist so that the soda swirls in the glass. “Something that made you want to pick up the phone and call me.”

  I strive for a neutral expression despite the quickening of my heart. “You’re assuming that something actually happened.”

  Glass to his mouth, he drains the rest of the soda in a single swallow. “It’s been three-hundred-and-fifty-something days, Holls.” Glancing at me over the rim of the glass, he murmurs, “That’s a long time for nothing to happen.”

  I lean back in my chair.

  No doubt he’s expecting me to take the easy route. Maybe mention the time that I accidentally tumbled off the ladder when I changed a light bulb in my fourteen-foot-tall room. Or maybe that one time I ate so much pizza by myself that I didn’t move from my couch for twenty-four hours except to pee and drink water.

  I could go the easy way.

  But the point of this weekend is to open up and let down our walls, and giving him BS anecdotes doesn’t help either of us.

  Clasping the wineglass between my hands, I opt to tell him the one time that I nearly did break down and reach out. I’d needed to hear his voice. I’d needed his comfort. It’s been months since, but the ache hasn’t left my heart.

  I rip the proverbial bandage off with six little words: “I found out about my parents.”

  Jackson’s easygoing smile flatlines, concern lining his features. “Tell me, sweetheart.”

  A breeze lifts my curled hair, and I wrap my fist around the chaotic strands to keep them under control. All around, diners laugh and drink and make merry. At our table, my information drop has thrown everything out of whack.