Taking a Shot

by Taryn Leigh Taylor

  Chelsea hurried down the hallway to her room, shedding her sweatpants and oversized T-shirt so she could exchange them for a matching black bra and panty set.

  She stood in front of the mirror. Too much? Maybe a little too blatant…

  “Geez, Chelsea. Could you be any more blatant? You can’t flounce around the house in your underwear! What if I’d brought home a colleague instead of Indian food?”

  “I thought maybe we could spice things up a little.”

  “Were you reading Cosmo at the grocery store or something? What brought this on?”

  “I just…miss you. I miss how we used to be. I miss your body, and your—”

  “I’ve got a ton of essays to mark tonight. We can have sex this weekend, like always. Now go get dressed. The food’s getting cold.”

  The memory blindsided her. She could hear Dustin’s voice so clearly. Feel the shame of his rejection. Over time, those dismissals had made her feel small. Made her retreat into herself. Made it hard to put herself out there.

  No. This wasn’t the same.

  This was Brett. He looked at her with more warmth and passion when she was fully clothed than Dustin had when she was naked.

  But she was definitely not wearing this lingerie. Why the hell she’d kept it after that debacle, she had no idea. There was something freeing about throwing the ensemble into the garbage. Except that she was now officially out of sexy underthings.

  She tugged on some red cotton panties, hoping that the color would offset the sensible fabric choice and rifled through her drawer for one of the two-dozen Montana Wolfpack T-shirts she’d accumulated from various charity events over the years, opting for the black one she’d cut the neck out of one day when she’d fallen into a DIY Pinterest hole.

  Chelsea pulled it over her head and adjusted it so her right shoulder was bare and stepped back in front of the mirror.

  “Oh hey, Brett. I was just casually lounging around in my T-shirt and panties when you texted.”

  Ugh.

  She couldn’t answer the door without pants, so she pulled her sweats back on.

  Did she have time for makeup? Or would it look like she was trying too hard? She had strawberry lip balm in her purse. She rushed into the living room to grab it. Oh, and Brett said he liked her hair down, she remembered, just as headlights lit up the street and a black SUV rolled to a stop in front of her house.

  She froze in the act of Chapsticking.

  Oh, God. He was here.

  …

  By the time Brett pulled up to her house, he was practically vibrating with barely leashed energy. He ran a hand through his hair and got out of the SUV. His dress shoes crunched on the snow, and he could see his breath as he pushed the door closed. The sound echoed in the stillness of the night.

  The vehicle beeped as he locked the doors before shoving his keys, and his hands, in the pockets of his black wool pea coat, and starting up the walkway to her place.

  He rapped on the door, shifting his weight back and forth between the balls of his feet as he waited.

  He didn’t know why he was nervous. It was stupid. They’d already slept together. She’d invited him over. There was no reason his heart should be pounding. Except that last time, she’d been some stranger. And this time, she was Chelsea.

  The light behind the door flicked on, and Brett exhaled, schooling his features into what he hoped was a neutral expression as the locks clicked. Then she pulled open the door, and he wasn’t nervous anymore.

  She looked adorable in a Montana Wolfpack T-shirt that hung off one shoulder, and a pair of sweatpants, with her hair piled up on top of her head in a messy knot. He tried to remember if he’d ever seen a woman wear sweatpants in front of him. His sister, sure, but aside from Lainey, he couldn’t remember anyone. Usually when women greeted him at the door, they were wearing lingerie.

  What did it say about him that he found Chelsea’s choice of attire refreshing?

  “Hey.” Master of words.

  “Hey.” She stepped back, signalling that he should come in, and he did, but now the nerves were back.

  One thing he’d say about lingerie—it was a much clearer signal than sweats.

  “Can I take your coat?”

  “Sure, yeah.” Brett pulled it off and handed it over.

  Even as she draped it over the back of the chair closest to the door, her gaze skimmed him from head to foot, pulling him out of his brain and back into his body, as she took in his blue suit, white shirt, and black tie.

  His tongue darted out to wet his lips, an involuntary response to having her eyes on him.

  “Guess I’m a little underdressed.”

  He smiled at the joke and followed Chelsea into the living room, even as his heart started to thud with awareness.

  He was pretty damn sure she wasn’t wearing a bra, and he was desperate to get her even more underdressed and under him, if he could manage it.

  “Standard issue. They make us wear them,” he said by way of explanation, smoothing his free hand down his tie.

  “Well, you’re totally pulling it off.” She thumbed behind her. “I was making popcorn.”

  “It smells great.”

  “I’ll just go finish up. Make yourself at home.”

  Brett shoved his hands in his pockets and sauntered deeper into the living room.

  He found himself drawn to a framed photograph on the mantel. A family of four, dad, mom, son, and daughter, dressed for summer vacation and taking in the beach under a brilliant blue sky, their hair ruffling in the breeze.

  Younger Craig London was still barrel-chested and formidable, without any of the gray speckling his brown hair. Chelsea’s mom was a knockout. She was almost a dead ringer for her daughter, a beautiful brunette with blue eyes, though her smile lacked the radiance of Chelsea’s. It was more reserved, less genuine. The kind of smile you put on for the camera. Brett was a master of that particular smile, so it was easy to recognize it.

  Big brother Andrew looked like a mini-version of the man he’d met briefly at the fundraiser the other night. The guy was still wearing his brown hair in the same future-businessman-of-America haircut he was sporting in the photo, but the grin on his face warned that the clean-cut exterior shouldn’t deceive you—he was definitely trouble…or at the very least, he was looking for it.

  And then there was little Chelsea. She was an adorable kid, chubby-cheeked and wide-eyed. Her hair had been lighter back then, more dark blond than light brown, but her smile hadn’t changed at all. Well, except that she had all her teeth now, he noticed with a grin of his own.

  She appeared in the doorway, clutching a blue plastic bowl full of popcorn, and stopped abruptly when he looked up from the photo in his hand. It didn’t escape his notice that she’d removed the elastic while she was in the kitchen, so her hair fell in loose waves around her face. Brushing her shoulders. The way he’d said he liked it.

  “Looks like a good day,” he said, holding up the photo before setting it back on the mantel, angling it so that Craig London was facing the front window.

  “Proof that we were mostly happy once. That not all my memories are deceiving me.”

  Yeah, he got that. He turned more fully toward her. He had a few carefully curated photos of his own from back in the day. His dad’s hand on his head, each of them holding hockey sticks as they smiled eerily similar smiles from in front of the shoddy net Brett used to set up in the driveway to practice his slapshot. A young him, decked out in NHL pyjamas, asleep in his mom’s arms as she brushed a dark curl off his forehead. The one shot he’d found where Lainey wasn’t scowling, but instead, was trying to outdo him as they pulled faces at whoever was holding the camera.

  None of them were accurate, or at least not indicative of his real childhood.

  His dad had either been high on Vicodin and cursing hockey for leaving him in pain, or down at the failing bar he’d invested a large chunk of the family’s dwindling savings into.

  His mother was oft
en absent and rarely maternal.

  And back then, Lainey was only a visiting figure in his life, forced to spend part of her summers with the annoying little brother ten years her junior. She’d mostly avoided him.

  Still, they always provided a false sense of security, which was usually what he needed to believe when things felt bad enough that he was pulling them out and going through them.

  “That was kinda deep, huh?” Her laugh was self-conscious. “Sometimes I get philosophical after midnight. Just ignore it.”

  “I was a little surprised you were still up.”

  “I always get a bit turned around after a big event.” She took a seat toward the middle of the couch and settled the big plastic bowl on her lap. “Lots of late nights to get things set up. It takes me a little while to wind down, get back on a normal schedule. I was going to watch a movie.”

  Brett nodded in understanding. “I get that. I’m always keyed up after a game. Mind some company?”

  She motioned to the available couch space in affirmation and reached for the remote control.

  He slung his big body out next to her, propping his feet on the coffee table, their shoulders touching as he reached over to grab a handful of popcorn.

  “Your suit’s going to get all wrinkled,” she chastised, angling her legs under her before she grabbed the blanket off the back of the couch and tucked it around her lower body. When she was done, he could feel her knees against his thigh, and he wondered if the contact was deliberate or incidental. Not that he minded, either way.

  “I’ve got other suits.”

  By the end of the movie, they were barely paying attention. He’d shed his suit jacket about ten minutes in and loosened his tie. She’d picked a stupid horror flick, and they’d spent most of it yelling at the screen to warn the fictional characters of their impending bad life choices even as said characters walked right into the killer’s traps. Once they’d given up on paying attention to the movie, the evening had devolved into throwing popcorn in the air and trying to catch it in their mouths, which had deteriorated into trying to throw popcorn into each other’s mouths. Currently, they were camped out on opposite ends of the couch, with Brett on his back, and Chelsea on her knees on the far cushion, between his feet.

  Brett wedged a throw pillow between his shoulders and the armrest of the couch. “If I’d known your aim was this bad, I would have brought my helmet,” he joked, as another fluffy kernel bounced off his forehead and rolled down his chest. “This tie cost a lot of money, you know. And now it’s covered in butter stains.”

  “Okay, one more,” she promised, screwing up her nose in concentration, and he dutifully opened his mouth as a target. Her toss was high enough, but a little wide, so he helped her out by leaning left and snatching the projectile out of the air.

  “Yes!” She lifted both hands in the air, laughing. She was about the prettiest thing he’d ever seen in that moment, and he felt kind of dumb for thinking it, even though he couldn’t stop. “I did it!”

  “You did it?” he asked with mock-affront, wondering what this weird, light feeling in his chest was all about. “I deserve at least an assist on that play.”

  Then, to his surprise, she crawled forward to lie beside him, wedging herself between his body and the back of the couch.

  “Fine. I’ll share the credit with you. But only if you’ll share your shirt popcorn.”

  Her fingers danced over his torso, and when she lifted her hand, she had a few kernels to show for it. He grinned as she actually ate a piece, before holding one out to him. He accepted it, inadvertently catching the tip of her finger between his lips, reveling in the mellow hum of contentment buzzing through him.

  It felt…nice, to have her tucked up against him, laughing, feeding him popcorn.

  He’s always thought nice was a bland word. Synonymous with boring. Why would anyone want that when they could have something wild, or mind-blowing, or naughty, or even outright bad?

  The women he dated, and the woman he’d married in particular, usually wanted to be out on the town, seeing and being seen. And he’d never really minded. But this quiet moment with Chelsea tucked up against him eating popcorn off his shirt was better than the parties, better than the premieres.

  He’d spent so much time moving, he’d never realized the value of stillness before.

  No, nice wasn’t usually what he was after, but the casual intimacy of just hanging out with Chelsea was awesome, and calm, and sweet, and so damn nice, and he found he kind of liked it.

  And that was no good at all.

  Because he’d come over to have sex, not feelings. Feelings were the part of the equation he sucked at. The part he didn’t trust himself not to screw up again. And he didn’t have time for feelings right now anyway. Hockey was his priority. Hockey was what he needed to focus on.

  Not on how much fun Chelsea was, not on how perfectly she fit when she was snuggled up against him, and definitely not on how he felt that way even though they were both still wearing all their clothes.

  Shit.

  He needed to get the hell out of there.

  “It’s getting pretty late.”

  Chelsea lifted her head from his shoulder at the announcement.

  “I should probably head out. Let you get some sleep.”

  “Oh, okay.” She pushed herself up into a sitting position.

  Brett extricated his arm from behind her and was off the couch and on his feet in record time. “The movie was fun. Thanks for letting me stop by.”

  “Yeah, of course.” Confusion still colored her voice, even as she got to her feet.

  Brett turned to leave, but her hand on his arm stopped him.

  “Wait. No. You can’t go yet. I need to ask you something first.”

  He raised an expectant eyebrow, not liking the way his skin buzzed beneath her fingertips.

  Chelsea took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. The way she notched her chin up gave her a look of determination that didn’t quite track with her couch-mussed hair and the way her Wolfpack T-shirt was sliding off her shoulder. “Did you booty text me earlier, or not?”

  Chapter Eleven

  Oh shit.

  Okay. This was obviously a trick question because it didn’t necessarily mean she wanted to have sex, but Brett could handle this.

  Don’t ruin all the good decision making you did just because you’re getting a hard-on.

  Chelsea worried that plump bottom lip of hers between her teeth, and he took a step back from temptation.

  “I guess I thought…” She blew out a breath. “I mean, I might have misread the subtext, but I guess I thought this was kind of a Netflix and chill situation.”

  Blood surged to his cock at the realization that she wanted him. It made it way harder to think.

  “But the Netflix ended over an hour ago, and I’ve been waiting for the and chill to kick in. But you haven’t made a move. And now you’re leaving. So I was just wondering…”

  She licked her lips. It was more nervous than sexy, but it went straight to his gut anyway.

  “Was it the sweatpants? Because I considered ditching them before I came in with the popcorn, but then I totally chickened out. I thought it might be too…blatant.”

  That was the moment that his good intentions took a bullet straight to the heart. Dead on impact. He was a goner. And he was about to get laid.

  “Actually, ditching the sweatpants would have really helped. Drawstrings are tricky and I’m working with an injured hand.”

  In a shameless sympathy grab, Brett held it out so she could see his roughed-up knuckles.

  She didn’t disappoint, cradling his hand in both of hers, and the skin-on-skin contact jacked up his heart rate.

  “I’m not sure if the highlight reel fully captured the epicness of the battle, but the guy I was fighting slammed his face into my fist several times.”

  When she raised her gaze from his hand, her blue eyes sparkled with fake compassion. “Does it hurt
?”

  “I’m not going to lie to you, it stings pretty bad.”

  Her sympathetic moue was a nice touch, and he bit back a smile.

  “A lot of guys in my position would have opted for a Band-Aid, maybe two.”

  “You’re so brave.” Chelsea lifted his hand, pressed a kiss to his knuckles, and even though they were kidding around, he realized how long it had been since he’d had someone to share his day with.

  Then she shimmied her sweatpants down the thighs that had been haunting his dreams. Her panties were red. “If only there was something I could do to make you feel better.”

  “Funny you should mention that, because I’ve got a couple ideas. I’m probably gonna need some help with my tie, though.”

  Chelsea stepped close, reached for the Windsor knot, biting her lip with concentration and driving him wild as she tugged it loose.

  “And my shirt.”

  When she started on his buttons, he was lost. She had the power to completely undo him, and for some reason, he couldn’t help but let her.

  Moments later, he was sitting naked on her couch, hard as a pike and trying not to come undone as she rolled a condom down the length of him.

  “How’s your hand doing?”

  He stared up at her, standing mostly clothed between his legs. “Still sore.”

  She shot him a shy smile as she inched her panties down over her hips.

  This Chelsea was a revelation to him. Still sweet and sexy, but with none of the bravado of their previous encounter. He liked that she’d dropped the act almost as much as he liked that she was standing there wearing nothing but a Wolfpack T-shirt.

  “And I’m cured. You’re a really good nurse,” he complimented, grabbing her hand and tugging her forward so she straddled him on the couch.

  “I took a first aid course once. And practice makes perfect.”

  Brett closed his arms around her waist, pulling her body closer so he could feel her everywhere. “Well, if there’s a chance in hell this can get more perfect, then feel free to practice all over me.”

  She was laughing when he caught her mouth with his. He kept at it, licking into her mouth until Chelsea tightened her arms around his neck and pressed against him. When they finally came up for air, she looked as dazed as he felt.