by Maria Luis
Bribery among friends. I almost want to laugh. Instead, I watch as Marshall avoids being slammed into the boards down on the ice. His number, 22, flashes on his jersey as he turns away, shoulders pulled low. The Penguins’ enforcer comes barreling toward him, but Marshall is quick—the quickest player on the ice—and the next thing that I know, he’s skating down the length of the rink. His stick swings back and then sails down as he sends the puck skidding toward Jackson Carter, the Blades’ captain and the team’s right wing.
One push off Carter’s skates, and then another and another. Helmet ducked, black gloves clenched around his stick, the Jumbotron shows Jackson Carter hauling ass toward the Penguins’ net.
But then the play crumbles.
The Penguins’ D-men swoop in, an intimidating force that drives Carter into the boards.
My heart leaps. The arena erupts into jeers and cheers and enthusiastic chanting for both teams.
“Go!” Charlie shouts, her nachos all but forgotten as she thrusts one hand in the air like she’s angling to catch a steer. “Go, go, go!”
Zoe’s not much better, especially as she used to work as a publicist for both the Blades and the Detroit Red Wings. “Find a way out of the pocket, Jax! Let’s go!”
I don’t watch Carter.
I can’t.
I tear my gaze away from the Jumbotron, which is focused solely on Carter’s plight to get the hell out of dodge.
Where is he?
I catch sight of Beaumont jumping into the fray, his big body towering over the Penguins’ D-lineman as he works to get Carter free from the boards.
A hole opens.
I almost don’t believe it; I almost don’t believe it exists.
But it does, slight and small, and the puck squeaks out like a forgotten toy.
There he is.
My chest deflates with a holler and a happy shout as Marshall hooks his stick around the puck. His powerful legs erase the distance from the players huddled around Carter to Pittsburgh’s net where the goalie holds up his gloves in preparation.
Marshall doesn’t hesitate.
Like a scene from a movie, he fakes a left and the goalie falls for the ploy in a rare show of naivety from a pro-hockey player.
That split-second is all Marshall needs.
He aims.
He shoots.
He scores.
Hat trick.
The end of the game buzzer rings forty-five seconds later. Marshall’s three-goal performance isn’t enough to pull the Blades to victory, but it proves one thing quite clearly: when Marshall Hunt wants something, he goes for it.
All these years, he’s aimed for me.
Now it’s time to prove that I can return the favor—I plan to score the guy. And for the first time in my life, I’m going all in.
10
Hunt
Given the fact that we lost tonight, you’d think that we would be a hell of a lot more pissed off. Yeah, Coach is stomping around like he wouldn’t mind trading us all. Everyone else, though . . . we’ve accepted our fate.
The win wasn’t in our cards tonight. Maybe if Andre hadn’t decided to illegally elbow someone, he wouldn’t have ended up in the sin bin for a second stint. One power play later, the Penguins had scored the one goal we hadn’t been able to overcome.
Not even my epic goal during the final minutes on the clock could do the trick.
New game. New chances.
It’s the motto I live by most days.
“Hunt, your phone just went off.”
I pull my lightweight sweater over my head in a heartbeat, already reaching for where I left my phone on the bench. Henri Bordeaux, a left wing from Montreal, inches it close to me.
“Thanks, man,” I mutter, already swiping my finger across the touch screen.
Gwen.
Just the sight of her name on my phone brings a ridiculous smile to my face.
“Your wifer?”
I lift my gaze to Bordeaux’s open expression. “What?”
He dips his chin, pointing to my cell. “Your wifer. Isn’t that what they call it?”
Beaumont snaps his locker shut to my right, dragging a ball cap onto his head in a smooth motion as he turns around. “Pretty sure he meant wifey. You know, what all the kids are calling their girls these days?”
“That’s the stupidest shit I’ve ever heard,” I mutter, only to crack a grin when Duke Harrison throws out, “That’s what I said about that smizing shit. We’re getting old.”
I loop the strap of my duffel bag over my shoulder and across my chest. “Speak for yourself, old man. I’m ten years younger than you.”
Harrison rubs his middle finger along the side of his face. “Don’t forget that goalies have long life spans. Forwards, on the other hand? How do you like the prospect of retirement by the age of thirty?”
Like Cam Neely for the Bruins in the 90s or Mark Messier for the Edmonton Oilers, I’m what the NHL fondly calls a power forward. In layman’s terms, I’m a center that kicks ass on the ice. In reality, Harrison’s probably right—unless I pull a page out of Messier’s Hall of Famer book and end up having a twenty-five-year long career. I wouldn’t be opposed to that.
Still, I flash the veteran goalie the bird just to keep the joke going. There’s been some talk that Harrison plans to retire this year. I really hope that’s not the case. It’s not often that you get along with every guy on a team, and this season’s roster is top notch, all A-plus quality players. Beyond that, I consider these douchebags to be actual friends of mine. Brothers in uniform, if you will.
In all honesty, they’re more family to me than I’ve ever had myself.
While my teammates rag each other about sagging balls and gray hair growing out of their ears, I swipe my phone again, hesitating only briefly before opening Gwen’s text. You never know what you’ll get with her—not that I’m complaining.
I didn’t need to worry.
It’s a photo of her leaning against my truck. She’s decked out in a female Blades jersey that’s trimmed tight at the waist, along with a Blades ball cap pulled down low. Her red hair is long and straight, and I’ll be damned if I haven’t been imagining it spread across my pillow for weeks now.
Years, really.
The caption of the photo reads, Want to go on an adventure with me?
Is that even a question?
Hell yes I do.
I clap my teammates on the shoulders, issuing an encouraging “we’ll do better on the road this weekend” before I’m palming open the locker-room door and escaping into the dimly lit hallway.
If I had known turning Gwen down would light a fire under her ass to actually see me, I would have done it years ago. Six years ago, to be precise. But maybe life was supposed to happen this way—fate and all that other shit.
For a moment, I let myself consider the alternative: of Gwen and I getting together way back when. I wanted it then just as much as I do now. Doesn’t mean it would have worked out. A three-year age gap is nothing once you’re past college. But a three-year age difference while Gwen would have been diving into the workforce as I sat at a classroom desk? Yeah, maybe fate did play a heavy hand.
By the time I make it to the parking garage, I don’t waste any more time. Feeling like some meathead out of a cheesy rom-com movie, I push my sleeves to my elbows and break into a light jog, ready to get my girl. My duffel bag slaps the outside of my right thigh as I cut over to where I left my truck.
There she is.
And there—
I slam to a stop, my bag swinging forward with the abrupt change in momentum.
No, she didn’t.
Laughter floods my chest, and it sure as hell doesn’t die down when Gwen rearranges her massive poster and lifts her chin to see me over the lightweight white cardboard.
“You didn’t,” I say, still struggling not to laugh.
She flashes me a bright grin, so genuinely pleased with herself that she looks like the kid who hasn’t just
stolen the candy, but the kid who’s stolen everyone else’s candy too. “I did,” she confirms with a short nod. I can’t make out her eyes, thanks to the Blades baseball hat that she’s got on, but I sure as hell don’t miss her dimples winking at me, nor the way she bounces from one foot to the other. “I wasn’t sure if it was over the top.”
“Oh, it is,” I drawl, dragging my gaze down to where the words Will u puck me 4 lyfe? are scrawled in pink, glittery script. Cartoon-like rabbits fill in the white space, and they’re all gripping pucks in their tiny little paws. The question mark is a misshapen hockey stick on drugs. And, hell, at least one of the rabbits is wearing a pink tutu, overlaid with more glitter.
It’s awful.
There really isn’t any other word for it.
My thumb hooks under my duffel’s strap, and I lift it over my head and down by my side. “Your spelling needs some work.”
Gwen glances down at her masterpiece. “That was the plan. I was hoping to distract you from my pitiful bunnies.”
Stepping close to her, I trace one of the tutus, enjoying the way Gwen’s gaze follows the path of my fingers. In a husky voice, I say, “Were you trying to tell me something?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Like maybe that you’re the only puck bunny I’ll ever want?”
The brim of her hat is shoved up with one finger, and then she’s meeting my gaze head-on. “That’s a given,” she says with a small smile. “I’m turning a new leaf.”
“Yeah?” I can’t stop myself. I take another step closer to her. She retreats on instinct—I’m nearly double her size—and her back presses against the bed of my truck. “What sort of leaf are we talking here?”
With the poster stuck in between us, I can’t feel her body. The poster crinkles as I lean into her, one hand going to the truck’s tailgate, the other still holding onto my duffel bag at my side. Guileless blue eyes blink up at me, and the desire I see there nearly brings me to my knees.
“The leaf,” I grunt, trying to remember where the hell this conversation started, as opposed to all the places I’d love for it to go.
Namely, some kind of flat surface.
I’m not picky.
Gwen swallows audibly. The shyness she’s radiating is not nearly the kickass publicist I’ve seen put my teammates in place after they’ve acted out of turn. This Gwen is for me, I know it—only me.
“The poster is a joke,” she says, her fingers tightening on the flimsy poster-board. “I’m not looking to be a puck bunny, yours or anyone else’s. I want to . . .” The poster inches upward, as though she’s nervous to admit the truth.
“Tell me, Gwen.” I swipe off her hat, and it clatters to the cement with hardly a sound. Neither of us move to grab it. I’m not interested in the hat. I need to hear what she has to say. “What is it?”
She shakes her head, and her red strands catch on her lip.
Fuck it.
My fingers brush that hair back, tucking it behind her ear before returning to her full mouth. “I’ve been dying to kiss you for years now,” I growl, dropping my lips to the shell of her ear. “Ever since you sat down in front of me, wearing that short denim skirt. You’ve been temptation for me ever since.”
Another swallow, but this time she tips back her head, exposing the column of her throat as though daring me to take a bite. And, fuck me, but I want to—I want to leave my mark, claim her as mine. A love bite that she’ll work hard to cover up in public while tracing it with her fingers when she’s alone. Jesus. “You drove me nuts. Every day for an entire semester, you pushed me to my limits.” I meet her gaze, then add, “Did you want me?”
Her lips part on a sharply drawn breath at my question, and I wish she’d drop the damn poster and let me in close.
“I was dating your teammate,” she says with a good dose of bitterness. “Mistake number one.”
“Mistakes can be forgiven.” I nudge her ear with my nose, my tongue flicking out to tease her. That’s all this will be—to get my fix until I can have her. All of her. Finally. “Tell me what you meant by turning over a new leaf.”
“Just that I . . . I don’t want to be a short-term girl. I’ve done it. I’ve been that girl for years. So no, I don’t want to be the quintessential puck bunny who’s down for a quick hookup and nothing else. I want more. I-I deserve more.”
She does. She deserves everything.
I step back and reach down to grab my duffel and then her hat in one smooth move. Gwen’s ridiculous poster is still plastered to her chest as she watches me carefully, as though uncertain of my next move.
“Take me on an adventure, Miss James.”
Her smile is slow, definitely not as flashy as the one she gifted me with earlier when I first walked up, but it’s no less powerful. No less mesmerizing.
“The girls picked me up today,” she says. “I’ll give you directions.”
11
Gwen
“And here I was thinking you were bringing me back to Cheers.”
“Not today,” I murmur, taking the two pairs of skates from the attendant. “Have you ever skated in the Boston Commons?”
Marshall’s pewter gaze darts to the ice rink behind me. Every year, the city decks out the gardens with a temporary rink. The trees are draped with vibrantly colored lights. Vendors line the pathways, offering everything from sugar cookies to hot chocolate to little holiday trinkets for purchase.
It’s enchanting, and, until tonight, my experience with the festivities has been relegated to only what I’ve read online.
With a firm hand, Marshall takes both pairs of skates from me. “Can’t say that I have. Anytime I play hockey, it’s for a team. Don’t think I’ve skated recreationally since my younger years.”
I lift a brow. “Younger years?”
He tips his head back with a laugh, and the sound is contagious, sexy-as-hell. “One of these days you’ll get over the age thing.” He gestures for me to take a seat at a bench near the open rink. “Just think, when we’re old and gray, you’ll be thankful I’m always younger and good-looking.”
Stealing the smaller-sized skates from him, I slip off my boots and draw on one cream-colored skate. “You are pretty.” I cast a quick glance his way to see if he caught my teasing comment.
His mouth flattens, just slightly, as he grunts, “I accept handsome, hot, sexy, and tear-off-my-panties-with-your-teeth-Marshall.”
The last option sends the skate lace missing its appropriate hook. Because with his words comes a very hot visual of him tearing my underwear off with his teeth. Not that I’ll admit to picturing him between my thighs—yet.
“You’re pretty, Marshall,” I repeat, eyes down on my lacing job. “Why deny it?”
His thigh presses against mine as he undoes his sneakers. “Makes me sound feminine.”
“There’s nothing feminine about you.”
“Is that a compliment?”
“Depends on whether you’ll let me tell you all the ways that you’re pretty.”
Marshall grins, his dimples indenting his cheeks as his blunt-tipped fingers string up his laces in the same amount of time it takes me to unzip my boot and cast it to the side. “How about this? You can tell me how pretty I am, but each time you do so, I have the option to remove a kiss from your tally.”
I whistle low. “You’re heartless.”
“Evil, honey.” He winks playfully. “Don’t be mistaken.”
Honey.
My heart stutters at the word. It feels . . . foreign, both off his tongue and also in general. I can’t even recall the last time I was on the receiving end of an endearment. Manny’s much too professional for any of that; calling me Teacup is the furthest he’ll go. My mother—well, we’ll save that for another day. As for the men I’ve . . . seen, endearments weren’t a part of those arrangements. I withhold a snort. Honestly, not much besides sex was involved. Casual to the very end.
It suited me, then. Back when I tried with every fiber of
my being to never let a man get close to my heart, to never be Adaline.
If only I’d realized that I didn’t have to go to the extremes to disprove the saying, like mother like daughter.
No doubt I would have saved myself a world of internal heartache.
“Ready?”
My shoulders twitch at the sound of Marshall’s husky baritone. Much like the night at Faneuil Hall, he’s on his feet (or skates, rather), and holding out his hand for me to take.
“Should we put our shoes somewhere?” I ask, eyeing my boots. They aren’t a favorite pair, but I’d rather not have to walk back to Marshall’s truck in socks. “They’ve got to have lockers or some sort of storage nearby.”
“Live a little.”
My gaze shoots to his. “What?”
Marshall releases my hand to shove our footwear beneath the bench. “You promised me an adventure. This is the first step.” With his knuckles, he edges our shoes farther beneath the bench. “Think positive and we’ll be good.”
His logic is so optimistic. “Have you always thought the best of society?”
“Nah.”
He was in foster care, you dummy. Of course. And now I feel like a complete idiot. “Marshall, I—”
“It’s in the past, Gwen. Now show me how well you skate.”
The subject change is as subtle as an elephant rumbling along Boston’s ritzy Newbury Street. Not that I should be surprised. We’re still learning each other, trying to get beyond the outer shells we show the world. Everything else takes time.
Pushing to my feet, I give one last glance to our bench and then straighten my shoulders. Marshall is right. I promised him an adventure, and it’s past time that he get one.
“I should probably let you know,” I start as I penguin-walk over the narrow gravel pathway to where the rink awaits, “you may have to save me today. I’m not the best skater, but I figured you’d be willing to step in and make sure I don’t land on my butt.”
The blade of my left skate hits the ice, and I make a show of wobbling my knees and pinwheeling my arms.
