With gargantuan willpower I didn’t know I possessed, I grabbed her ever-traveling hands before I could change my mind. Forcing myself to take a sizable step back, I gave her a gentle squeeze and bent to retrieve the pathetic bouquet. My breath came out in uneven spurts, but I managed to get my voice back. “Okay. Pumpkin pie.” I didn’t wait for her response. For my own sanity, I quickly put more distance between us and walked into the kitchen.
Jennie caught up and stood before me, her hands moving with deliberate slashes. What the hell was that? Judging by her frown and her flushed cheeks, she was mad and unsatisfied. Or maybe just mad. Hell, we were both unsatisfied. In this instance, her anger was a good thing. It would keep her coming back for more—of me.
That, dear Jennie, was the kiss of a lifetime. Two aprons hung on the back of a stool at the counter. I picked them up, handing her a yellow one with pink and blue flowers while keeping the plain, navy blue apron for myself. Don’t you agree? Or was I lost by myself in that kiss?
Oh, I agree, it’s just that I thought…
Her hand briefly waved in the air before she let it drop to her side. I didn’t know why I was egging her on. After all, I was the one who ended our incredible kiss. You thought what? My shaking hands belied the calm demeanor I was going for.
Hands on her hips, she shook her head at me. Not saying another word about it, she turned to gather bowls, a rolling pin, and other ingredients for the pie crust.
Have you made pie crust before?
I had not, but I pictured it like the pottery scene from Ghost. The scene was crystal clear in my mind. She and I stood with her back to my front while my arms wrapped around her from behind. We kneaded the dough together, our hands in constant contact. My lips brushed her ear as I told her about all of the things that I wanted to do with her—to her. I got lost in those thoughts for a moment or two. Jennie’s fingers snapped in front of my face. Have you?
Have I what, sweet Jennie?
Her face gave an adorable blush again, and she lowered her head a little, although I could still see her smile. Have you made pie crust before?
Oh, that. No. I wasn’t lying when I told you I can’t cook. I mean, I can throw a steak on the grill and a potato in the oven. I can even throw some vegetables in the microwave, but that’s about it. I’d never dream of trying this on my own.
She nodded at me and measured out some flour and other things in a bowl. Then she cut up two sticks of butter and placed them in the mixture. Here you go. She handed me a fork. Now you just cut the butter into the flour mix. You try it.
I stood there like a moron, holding the fork. Cut the butter? You just did.
No. I mean you cut it in with the fork.
Ah, yes. That’s so much clearer. I put the fork down, not understanding what I needed it for anyway. I have no idea what you mean.
Jennie picked up the fork and proceeded to show me how to cut butter. Why she didn’t just tell me to mash it into the flour with the fork, I didn’t know. I stopped her when she was about halfway done.
“I can do it.” I got a little overzealous in my mashing. There was a particularly large pat of butter that I pushed up against the side of the bowl. Instead of it breaking down like the other pats did, my fork slipped and I tipped the bowl, almost dropping it to the floor. Obviously I didn’t know my own strength.
Jennie and I both got a flour bath. It was the second time I’d seen her with flour in her hair, and she looked just as fetching as the first time. “You can do it, huh?”
We burst out laughing together. “I guess I really can’t. Can we salvage this?” I already knew the answer.
“No, but we can start over.”
“How about if I just sit over there and keep you company?”
She agreed immediately. “Great idea. You want a beer or something?”
“No thanks. I’ll just get some water if that’s okay.”
“Of course, help yourself.” She pointed to the cabinet to the left of the stove. There were plenty of water glasses to pick from, but what drew my attention was the large grouping of shot glasses. I touched Jennie on the sleeve.
“Do you collect these?”
For whatever reason, my question brought a flash of sadness to her eyes. She shook her head. “No. Not really. They were my mom’s. I’m not sure why I kept them all. She had them displayed proudly over the wet bar in our family room. Funny thing is, she didn’t even drink. Sometimes when I’m missing my family, I take one out and do a shot in their honor.”
She reached past me to open the freezer door. Pulling out a bottle of ice-cold Patron Silver, she raised a questioning eyebrow. “Interested?”
I knew I had an early game tomorrow, but one shot wouldn’t do me any harm. “Sure. One shot for your family.”
I reached for the bottle and placed it on the counter. Shot glasses came next. I filled them both to the top and turned to find Jennie had taken a lime out of the fridge and grabbed a salt shaker. We were going to do this shot right. Her next step was my favorite. She took my hand and with a wicked smile, she licked the back so the salt she shook on it stuck.
“Allow me.” I took the salt shaker from Jennie’s hand and leisurely did her the same favor. The sexual tension between us was of a level I’d never experienced before. It only hardened my resolve to make our first time spectacular. And there would be a first time.
She swallowed hard, another flush rising to the forefront. Turning from me, she cut the lime into wedges and then handed me one. Not breaking eye contact with her, I lifted her hand again and licked the salt off of it. I then drank my shot and pulled her other hand holding her lime wedge to my mouth, making sure my lips covered her fingers. It was by far the best shot I’d ever had.
I could only describe her gaze as seductive. Her eyes flicked to the front of the house, and I was relatively certain she was thinking of our kiss again. She took a hesitant step toward me, but I cut her off at the pass. There was no way I could withstand the temptation if she kissed me. I was only a man, after all.
I held up her shot and offered her my hand. My groin tightened at the flick of her tongue, but I held steady. She swallowed her shot and I gave her the lime. She closed her eyes as she sucked at the lime and my fingers.
“Okay. Back to pie.”
Her eyes snapped open with shock. “Seriously? You’re thinking about pie? I’m losing my touch.”
I couldn’t have her thinking that. “Jennie.” My finger traced a line down her tender cheek. “I’m about two seconds away from taking you right here on the counter, flour and all. You’re not losing anything.” I stepped closer to her, willing her to see the desire and naked longing in my eyes. “But I like you. I really like you. Our first time isn’t going to be a quickie on the counter because I can’t control myself. It’s going to be special and perfect, just like you.”
She tilted her head down and I tipped it back up. “You make me feel like a tramp, Mags, because I have to be honest—I’m one-hundred percent willing to be thrown on the counter, flour and all. Right. Now.”
She killed me. I was seconds away from forgetting my resolve and burying myself deep inside her. I did the only thing I could. “Pie, Jennie. Pie now.”
Somehow I got through the night not learning a damn thing about how to make a pie, but learning a lot about myself. Women came and went in my world. I could have my pick. Not because those women were interested in me, but because I was a hockey player. I was just a notch on their post.
I’d always known that I was different from most of my teammates, who went through women like they did hockey sticks, but I had no idea I was strong enough to say no to a woman I desperately wanted. And for what? For the sole purpose of respecting her and wanting to make her feel the best I could. Jennie made me a better man.
Chapter 10
The locker room was in chaos before the game. Cage was out. We’d just been told he had the flu. Brody Kingston, Cage’s backup, was good, but Cage had been on a hot streak and yo
u never pulled the hot goalie. Add to that the fact that our backup for Kingston, who had to be called up from the minors at the last minute, hadn’t arrived at the arena yet. He was in transit, but it was going to be close.
Simard tapped my shoulder to let me know Coach Martin had walked into the room. Martin signed for me as he spoke to the room at large. Bad news. None of our AHL goalies can make it here on time to back up Brody so we’re getting a goalie from EBUG and he’ll be here soon. I don’t have to tell you that I want Brody to have an easy day today. You keep the puck away from him as much as humanly possible. I’m not saying someone on the Rangers would purposely try to take our goalie out, but I’m not saying it’s never happened either. Are we understood?
We all answered with some form of yes. EBUG. We’d never had to use the NHL’s emergency backup goalie unit before. I wondered what we were getting. The last time a team had to use a goalie from EBUG, he was a cop. He wasn’t half bad, but it wasn’t realistic to expect a goalie who’d never played professional hockey to be able to stand strong against the big-leaguers.
I raised my hand to get Coach’s attention. What are we getting, do you know?
He’s Stockton University’s hockey coach. Decent player. He stays active in a men’s league. I’ve played with him once or twice before.
It could have been worse. At least this guy was currently playing. We were damn lucky he was willing to put aside his holiday plans and come suit up for us. Most likely he’d only be warming the bench, but I had to imagine it was an exciting prospect for the man.
No sooner had we quit our discussion of the EBUG than he walked in. My first impression of him was favorable. He was a tank—tall and broad shouldered. If he was limber and could move quick as well, we couldn’t ask for more on such short notice.
Coach brought him over to my corner. “Magnus, this is Corey Brown, Brody’s backup for the night.”
Since I was the lead defenseman and an alternate captain, he wanted us to chat for a minute or two before the game. I stuck out my hand when he approached. “Magnus Eriksson. Nice to meet you.”
His eyes flew open wide. “I thought you were deaf.”
I laughed good-naturedly. “I am, but I can speak and I read lips. I wasn’t always deaf, so...”
“Cool.” As soon as the word came out of his mouth, he tried to take it back. “Oh wait, man. I didn’t mean cool-cool…I meant cool that you knew how to talk. I mean not that you’re stupid or anything—”
I held up a hand, my shoulders shaking with mirth. “I’m going to throw you a lifeline here, man. Just stop talking.” I laughed some more. “I know what you meant. It’s no problem. Now what you need to know is that I obviously can’t read your lips through your mask if it comes to that. So if you need me to move when we’re helping you defend the net, just give me a tap on my leg with your stick if you can. If you want me to move to the right, tap my left leg, got it? Just like you’re pushing me out of the way.”
“Got it. Thanks. I tend to speak without letting the words pass through my brain.”
“Must be a goalie thing. Cage does that all the time.”
I left Corey and the coach to go back to my cubby for my pre-game routine. I’d slept on my home game white sheets, I’d eaten my grilled cheese sandwich with ketchup, and now I kissed my stick, ran my hand over the taped end, and lightly hit my nameplate marking my cubby with my helmet. I was good to go, as was the rest of the team as we made our way down the tunnel to the ice.
***
The roar of the crowd. That explosion of noise was what got me and my teammates’ blood pumping the second our blades hit the ice. I couldn’t exactly hear the roar, of course, but I felt it. The air changed quality when there was so much noise—it felt thicker.
A unique energy manifested itself when a huge mass of people cheered, clapped, hooted, and hollered. For me it was a tangible thing. It surrounded my entire being when I entered a filled arena. With my eyes closed for a precious second, I sucked up that feeling like life-giving oxygen—until the spell was broken when my captain lightly checked me into the boards.
“Daydreaming about getting laid again, Eriksson?”
I wasn’t, actually. I was entirely caught up in my hockey world. And wasn’t that a first since I couldn’t get Jennie out of my mind? “Funny.”
Without looking down, O’Dell slid a puck my way and snatched it back just as I was going to take it. Alpha-male games at their best. “The guys and I were thinking that it’s been so long since you’ve done the deed that you might be a virgin again. It’s not good to keep that shit to yourself for so long. And now you’re seeing our very own Ms. Jennie Fields, so…”
I wasn’t a “kiss and tell” kind of guy. Even with O’Dell, whom I considered a friend. “So, what?”
“So did you hit that yet?”
Friend or not, I didn’t like his questioning. “I’m going to ask you once to speak respectfully of Jennie, okay?”
His eyebrows shot up as a smile crossed his face. “Holy shit. You really like her. I mean you really like her.”
I tried, and failed, to contain my own grin. “I do.”
He slapped his stick on my pad. “That’s great, Mags. I’m happy for you. I won’t joke about her again. Now, let’s get this game started. We have some Rags to bury.”
And bury them we did. The final score was five to two, and since coach was in a giving mood—and the refs allowed it—he put our EBUG in goal for the last sixty seconds of the game—which was how I got a nasty shiner.
The Rags were not happy with the loss, as I completely understood. Ours was a new rivalry, but a rivalry to be sure. No team wanted to be shown up by the new kids in town, and we’d beaten them two times before. This being our third meeting, they were out for blood, but there were good and bad ways to get satisfaction.
The game was all but over when coach put Brown in the net. It was a purely cosmetic twist. No one expected any action to be taking place down at that end of the ice anyway. Cooke thought otherwise.
Cooke was the Rangers’ resident dirtbag. The only reason he was ever put on the ice was to teach the opposing team a lesson; therefore, he never should have been put on the ice in a decidedly lost game.
“What the fuck,” O’Dell mouthed to me, pointing at Cooke.
I shook my head and pointed my stick at Brown, who was now stretching out in the net. “If Cooke’s out, we really need to cover Brown. Cooke’s out for kicks.”
There was no more conversation as the ref dropped the puck and play resumed. Smitty, one of the Rangers’ forwards, took the draw off the faceoff and got past our defensive line. It was a good play that I cursed out loud. He’d sailed right by me.
I took off after him, but I wasn’t quick enough and it was just him and Brown in a one-on-one—goalie versus one of the best scorers on New York’s team. I watched in amazement as Brown executed a superb poke check to strip the puck away from him.
Cooke, hot on the heels of Smitty, took issue with the play and pushed Brown into the net, causing Brown’s neck to hit the post at a dangerous angle. There was no reason for Cooke’s hit except that he was a douchebag headhunter. I lost my cool. I tossed my stick away and dropped my gloves. I’d been itching for a reason to go after that asshole, but he was rarely pitted against my line.
“Drop your gloves, dickhead.”
He didn’t, of course. I did it for him. Unbeknownst to me, one of his teammates was right behind me. Before I had a chance to make a fist, I was twirled around. Smitty’s huge, beefy hand landed right in the crevice between my nose and left eye. That was going to leave a mark. Next, my helmet went flying and the fucker landed a roundhouse to my temple. I’d had enough.
All bets were off. I didn’t care about fair fighting, hitting below the belt, or anything else. I grabbed Smitty’s jersey and pulled it over his head. It momentarily got stuck on his helmet, but with a strong tug, I got it free. With his jersey positioned in such a way, his arms were useless. I pummel
ed him with flying fists. I connected everywhere I sought. Knowing I had only precious seconds left before the refs pulled us apart, I ripped his helmet off and got a few retaliating punches in on his face. Let him have a fucking broken nose.
O’Dell was the one who finally got me to back off. His arm was around my neck as he pulled me back. I couldn’t hear what he said, but he spoke none the less, and as I was sure he knew, the vibrations coming from him were enough to clear the haze of my rage.
I put my hands up in surrender. O’Dell pulled me back, and I let him. In my last view of my attacker, I noticed the pleasing sight of blood streaming down his face.
Once we were in the locker room, Brown approached me. “You’re an animal!” His face was so contorted, I knew he was screaming. I also knew it was pent-up adrenaline he hadn’t been able to release during his sixty seconds in the NHL.
My belly jumped with laughter. “Hey—you did a great job, Brown. That poke check was spot on. There was no reason for that asshole to go after you.”
“Yeah, but still. Fucking awesome!” He raised his hand for a high five, and I indulged him. I’d never forgotten how much I admired the players in the NHL growing up. It had to be an epic night for Brown, and I was glad for him.
I wanted him to remember this night. “You were awesome too. I know you only played about a minute, but that save was epic. Great job.” His smile was off the charts. “And thanks, man.”
“Oh my, God. You’re thanking me? You saved me from a thrashing! You’re kind of like, my hero.”
Okay, that took it a bit far. “Not at all, man. We’re a team here.” I gave him one last fist bump and left to take my shower.
Jennie
“We’re never going to be ready.” Izzy was freaking out. It was only three thirty and the game had just ended. The turkey had an hour and a half left to go, the white potatoes were peeled, the sweet potatoes were brown-sugared and buttered, and the green bean casserole was all but ready to go into the oven.
Silent Defender (Boardwalk Breakers Book 1) Page 8
