Her sweater was inside out, her hair was a mess, and she had whisker burn on her face.
Chelsea grinned stupidly at her reflection as she began the descent to the lobby.
Best. Night. Ever.
Chapter Five
Brett hit the ice that morning like a man possessed. He told himself it was because he wanted to make a good impression, but mostly it was to burn off some of the pissed-that-Red-had-snuck-out-of-his-room-after-a-spectacular-second-round feeling that was still lingering in the back of his brain.
She just up and left in the middle of the night. He couldn’t believe it.
He’d awoken with a monster boner and a stomach full of nerves. And he’d been hoping to take care of both via an encore performance with the woman who’d wound him up with her sweet smile and sexy red lingerie, followed by some breakfast in bed. With Red gone, he’d had nothing to distract him from either the boner or the nerves, so he’d rubbed one out in the shower, remembering her all over him, and then the nerves and room service had taken up the rest of the time.
It was weird being on the ice—he’d played in this building a bunch of times, twice already this season, but always as a visitor. In the other dressing room. Using the other entrance to the ice. Sitting on the other bench.
For the first time in his career, he was suited up in something other than the Portland Storm’s navy and teal. And as if that wasn’t enough of a change, this was also his first day skating in any number other than forty-two. And that was fucking with his head a little, too. His father had worn it during his time in the league, his sister Lainey had worn forty-two on the back of her American jersey at the Olympics, and from the moment he’d stepped on the ice at four years old, it had been his number, too.
But the Wolfpack’s veteran right winger, Yevgeni Orlov, had already laid claim to the number. There were only two other guys in the entire league who wore number forty-two, and Brett had to get picked up by a team with one of them.
Cursed.
Despite all those strikes against him, the warm-up went well. His body felt good—probably a result of his two stellar orgasms the night before…three if you counted the shower that morning—and he settled into the rhythm of the practice.
He knew a couple of the guys on the team, but most he’d never officially met, unless you counted opposing-team trash talk.
Still, he knew them. Hockey teams were like boybands and sports movies that way. Everyone had a schtick—from grizzled veteran (the aforementioned Yevgeni Orlov) to wide-eyed rookie (he should really learn that kid’s name), the stereotypes were pretty accurate. An hour in the dressing room, and Brett had already started to get a handle on them.
The cocky womanizer, that was Jason Decker for sure.
The consummate professional who ate, slept and breathed the game? Centerman Nik Ehrhoff.
Goalie Lincoln Kennedy was the lone wolf, while the dumb jock role was being played by Chase Hawkins.
And the team screw-up…well, it might only be his first day, but Brett definitely had that position locked in.
Still, they seemed like a decent bunch of guys, and some of the nerves burned off as he started to move. The smell of concrete and ice and sweat soothed him. Hockey always smelled like hockey, no matter what building you were in. There was familiarity in the echoing sound of pucks hitting the boards, the tap of sticks and the scrape of skates. He could do this. It was in his blood, regardless of what the back of his jersey said.
Still, Brett was doing his best to make number nineteen his own, and he thought his first practice had gone pretty well. He felt solid. Focused. Except for the one time during the breakout drill when he’d gotten sidetracked recalling Red and all the wicked things he’d done to her body.
And that memory had inevitably led to the one of discovering her bra when he’d moved all the pillows in his quest to find his T-shirt so he could get dressed. And despite his round of self-love in the shower, his body had stirred the second his fingers touched the lace.
He told himself she hadn’t left it for him, that she’d probably just forgotten it in her nighttime exodus or hadn’t been able to find it in the dark. But there was something unique and sweet about leaving the bra behind that had driven him crazy from the moment she sat down beside him, and he sort of hoped she’d left it on purpose. He’d even checked it in case she’d pinned her phone number in it or something—women had done weirder shit than that to get his attention—but there was nothing.
He felt like a pervert for taking it with him. Even now, knowing that it was back in the dressing room, tucked in the pocket of his leather jacket, was like a jolt to his dick.
Nik “I’m serious about hockey and you should be, too” Ehrhoff had capitalized on his distracted state and taken him to the boards with enough force to get Brett’s head back in the drill. He owed the big centerman a drink for dialing him in, and he’d managed to keep it together for the rest of practice.
“Nice work out there today, Sillinger. You keep that up, you’re gonna fit in just fine around here.”
“Thanks, Coach.”
George Freeson stared at him intensely enough to make him uncomfortable. Brett caught his right glove under his left arm and tugged his hand free, so he could grab the bottom of his practice jersey and wipe the sweat from his forehead while he waited for the man to say his piece.
“I want you on my team, Brett.”
Brett nodded, swallowing the bone-headed urge to tell the man it was his lucky day, and here he was. Attitude was what had gotten him in trouble in Portland. Instead, he wiped some melting snow off his visor and readjusted his helmet over his sweaty hair before shoving his hand back in his glove.
“Don’t make me regret fighting to get you here.”
“No, sir.”
“Take a lap and hit the showers.”
Brett didn’t need to be told twice. Far away from Freeson was exactly where he wanted to be. He pushed off his back blade, settling into an easy rhythm.
Despite all the bullshit and the eyes on him, it did feel good to be back on the ice, ready to play. His hockey had definitely been suffering at the hands of his personal life for a long time, but this was a chance for a fresh start.
He snagged an abandoned puck by the blue line, alternating between stickhandling and bouncing it off the boards as he circled the end of the rink.
“Sillinger! Wait up.”
Brett flung the puck toward the far net. It ricocheted off another puck near the crease and both of them slid neatly into the empty net.
He glanced over his shoulder as Jason Decker skated up beside him. He and JD had played together in the AHL for a season, before they’d both made it to the big show. That felt like a million years ago now, but it was nice to have an ally on the team. So far, his reception had been all business. Not much chatter in the dressing room before an early skate.
“You comin’ to this silent auction thing tonight?”
“Yeah.” Not willingly, but he’d be there. Charity work was part of the gig. He just wished he could have started off with the good stuff—hanging out with the kids at the children’s hospital or sitting around with his teammates and signing a truckload of hats so the proceeds could make a difference for some worthy cause.
But no, he’d shown up just in time to put on a suit and listen to a dozen boring speeches while he ate some fancy dinner that involved way too much silverware. The rest of the evening would consist of schmoozing rich donors in some hotel ballroom and counting down the hours until it ended. And yeah, he was sure it would bring in a shit-ton of money for some deserving local charities, but he always felt these gala things were a little removed from the cause at the heart of them.
But he’d do it with a big damn smile on his face. This was his first chance to prove that he could play nice. Let the reputation makeover begin.
“Sweet. Chelsea’s sending a car for me.”
“Your girlfriends have to send cars for you now? Guess it’s true. Chivalry
is dead.”
Jason shook his head. “First of all, I resent the implication that I don’t know how to treat a lady. And secondly, chivalry is so alive and well that before you started being a dick, I was gallantly trying to offer you a ride to this shindig.”
Brett scooped a wayward puck onto the blade of his stick and bounced it a couple of times before he flung it toward the net. He and Decker were the only ones still on the ice. “I’ll take you up on that.”
“Cool. I’ll have the driver swing by your place.”
“I’m at Hotel Burke.”
As they rounded the far end of the rink, Decker gave him the kind of look that made a guy wonder if he wasn’t keeping it together quite as well as he thought he’d been.
“Listen, man. All the tabloid garbage that brought you to Montana? It doesn’t matter anymore. You know that, right? No one gives a shit. We’ve all been there.”
That made Brett laugh. “There’s something I never thought I’d witness: Jason Decker, ladies’ man extraordinaire, commiserating about the heartache of divorce.”
“I was trying to be supportive and shit.” He gave Brett a hard shove into the boards. “Besides, I told you not to get married.”
Brett nodded, tugging his shoulder pads back into place. “Yeah, you did.”
“You’re gonna like it here. It’s a good group of guys.”
Brett forced a smile. “Yeah. First day nerves. It’s all good.”
“Damn right it is. You on D, me down the right wing, just like the good ol’ days. We’re going to take this team all the way to the prize. And when I’m done guzzling Dom from Lord Stanley’s Cup, I’m going to remind you of this moment, and what a moody asshole you were being.”
Brett’s smile was real this time as the two of them hopped the boards and headed for the dressing room. “You’re all class, Decker.”
“Fucking A.”
…
“So? Tell me everything! I assume an eggplant followed by a thumbs-up is emoji for mission accomplished?”
Chelsea shoved a final pin in her hair, waggled her head to make sure the elegant low bun she’d just spent an hour creating wasn’t going to move anytime soon, and walked out of her en suite. Shanna was sitting on Chelsea’s bed wearing a bathrobe, a full face of makeup, and a fancy up-do—the pre-game wardrobe of all good event facilitators. Chelsea glanced down at her similar outfit—also the pre-game wardrobe of event coordinators. Because that’s officially what she was now. Instead of the Ice Gala Silent Auction being her inaugural event as director of the Wolfpack Charity Foundation, the meticulously planned event was going to be the perfect backdrop for her brother’s unofficial coronation. The official announcement about Andrew’s promotion would happen Monday, for maximum media exposure. Not that she was bitter, she reminded herself with a sigh, making her way to the garment bag hanging on the back of her bedroom door.
“What was he like? What was his name?”
Chelsea unzipped the bag to reveal the ice blue dress she’d picked up for tonight’s gala. It had seemed prettier in the store. “We decided that going with no names was best,” she explained, with a glance over her shoulder.
Shanna stared at her, agape. “He wouldn’t even tell you his name?”
He would have. She remembered his deep voice, asking her.
“Let’s keep things simple then. What’s your name?”
And she’d been tempted for a moment. To make it more. To get to know him at the bar. Give him her number. Let him ask her out. But that’s what the old Chelsea would have done.
Not telling him her name was the moment she’d decided. The moment she’d fully realized that she was going to go through with her plan. Give in to the warmth in her belly. Stop fighting the way her body leaned toward his whenever she stopped actively trying not to. The moment she let the flush of arousal blaze along her skin unchecked.
“I didn’t want to tell him my name. That wasn’t part of the plan.”
“I can’t believe you slept with a man whose name you don’t know. That’s so…badass. I honestly thought you were going to flake.”
Chelsea laughed. “I was. I almost did. I’d basically given up when I found him. But he was so gorgeous and sexy… I’ve never felt anything like that before. That instant attraction. He was the only guy in the bar not in a suit. He had tattoos, and stubble, and just looking at him turned me on more than Dustin ever did.”
“What?”
Chelsea turned back to the dress at the censure in her friend’s voice.
“I’m sorry, but after all that recon, picking a classy hotel and a marketing conference, you picked up the only biker in the place?”
Chelsea tugged the straps off the hanger and lifted the silky fabric from its confines.
“He wasn’t a biker,” she protested, knowing nothing of the sort. She had a sudden vision of her hair blowing in the wind, her arms wrapped around him, the front of her body plastered to the back of his as they hit the open road.
Mmmm. Maybe he was a biker…
She headed back over to her bed.
“So? Are you going to see him again?” Shanna grabbed the closest pillow and hugged it in her lap. Her expectant, dreamy look made Chelsea grin. Shanna was a romantic, through and through. Trying to explain last night to her was…difficult.
Because it hadn’t been about being romanced.
It had been about being wanted. About wanting.
Taking a walk on the wild side, a peek through the looking glass. But Shanna was content with the life that she had. Getting her MBA, working part-time at the campus bookstore, and moonlighting with the foundation, assisting Chelsea with some of the bigger events. She didn’t understand that Chelsea chafed against the boundaries of her life. And how could she, when Chelsea didn’t quite understand it herself?
She was good at her job. She got to meet amazing people. She got to work with her family, whom she loved despite their copious faults, and she got to make a difference in the community—a real difference, thanks to the high profile of the Wolfpack and the support of the NHL in their philanthropic endeavours.
There was nothing amiss on the checklist. She should be happy.
There was no reason not to be.
And yet…last night, she’d felt alive for the first time in…well, ever.
“I don’t even know his name, remember? That was the whole point of this. One night.”
One amazing night of misbehaving, of not worrying about the consequences, of the thrill of doing something she shouldn’t.
It was everything.
“Well, yeah, but that’s before you met Mr. Right.”
Chelsea laughed as she doffed her housecoat and stepped into the blue dress, pulling it up her body. “He was definitely not Mr. Right. Mr. Right Now, maybe.” That’s what she was telling herself, anyway.
Without being asked, Shanna got to her knees and tugged the zipper closed. “How do you know? Did you ask him?”
Heat prickled up Chelsea’s neck and settled in her cheeks. “We didn’t spend much time talking.”
Shanna put her hands on her hips. “You’re pretty stone cold for someone who may have just lost her future husband.”
“He is not the marrying type. Believe me.” Cocky, hard-bodied demigods with magic tongues who hung out in hotel lounges granting sex wishes were almost certainly not in the market for picket fences. “And he might be in a biker gang, remember?”
Chelsea smoothed the silky blue fabric down her hips, trying not to think about his hands on her body. “Besides, who says I’m looking for marriage?”
Shanna actually gasped. “What? I thought you wanted a family, a couple kids, a dog. Just because Dustin was the wrong guy doesn’t mean you’re never going to find the right one. Tell me you know that.”
“Who says there is a right guy? The divorce rate is staggering. My mother bailed on marriage after almost twenty years with my dad.”
“Well, this is careening into a dark place.” Shanna dr
opped back into a sitting position on the bed. “I just want you to know that it’s okay if you liked this guy. You don’t have to cling to this wild woman persona with me.”
Chelsea forced a smile. “I know. But I promise you, I’m fine. He was exactly what I needed. One night of fun and great sex. I’m hardly pining over him.” And to prove it, she changed the subject to something completely unrelated. “What do you think of this dress?” Chelsea turned in front of the mirror, inspecting herself from every angle. “I’m not sure about it.”
Something wasn’t quite right, though Chelsea couldn’t quite put her finger on it.
Shanna nodded. “It’s gorgeous on you. Brings out your eyes. Maybe you’ll like it more if you try it with the shoes?”
But when Chelsea glanced at the shoe rack, her gaze snagged on her closet doors and her mind veered to the white garment bag she knew was hidden behind them. “You know what? I think I’m going to wear the dress I got last time we went shopping together.”
She caught Shanna’s slight frown in the reflection. “I thought you bought this dress especially for tonight?”
“I did.” Chelsea walked over to her closet to retrieve the sweetheart-necked column dress that felt like the right choice for the evening ahead. “But in this line of work, there’s always another gala. I’ll wear it next time.”
Shanna shrugged at her. “Your choice. I mean, you’ll look awesome in that one, too.”
Chelsea hung the bag on the back of her door and this time when she lowered the zipper to reveal the contents of the garment bag, her skin tingled with excitement.
She ran her fingers down the striking crepe silk garment.
Just looking at the dress made her feel confident. In control.
Tonight, she would wear red.
Chapter Six
Chelsea didn’t feel quite so in control an hour and a half later, tapping her pen against her clipboard and prioritizing the fires she had to put out.
Taking a Shot Page 4
