And there was that good sex ache. Bam. Pow. Right in the ovaries.
“He’s really hot.”
Chelsea couldn’t do more than nod at her friend’s assessment as he joined a knot of Wolfpack players who’d congregated on the far side of the bar. “He is. But it was a one-time thing.” A one-and-a-half-time thing, Chelsea amended, remembering the alcove.
“Of course it was. I mean, it has to be. Aside from the weird thing where your dad is his boss…and your boss, he’s totally not your type.”
Chelsea’s back stiffened at the forthright summation.
Not her type? And what made him so not her type?
The fact that he was ruggedly sexy?
His bad boy reputation?
Chelsea’s shoulders sagged.
More like C, all of the above.
So Brett wasn’t her type? He’d made her laugh. He’d turned her on.
Hell, she’d actually orgasmed with him, deep in—
“What are you ladies whispering about over here?”
Her father’s booming voice made Chelsea stiffen.
“Hey Mr. L. Great speech up there. Chelsea and I were just…uh, making some notes about the dessert order for casino night.”
Her father nodded, but his shrewd gaze was on Chelsea.
“What happened to your hair?”
Chelsea automatically reached up, tugging on a lock of it. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“It was up before.”
It seemed to Chelsea that the words were tinged with accusation. Or was it just her guilty conscience?
“Oh. Right. Chelsea was just saying it was giving her a headache. So she took it down. Isn’t this a great party, Mr. L? I think Chelsea really outdid herself.”
Craig London nodded. “She did. In fact, I was going to call you up on stage to mention it after I announced your brother’s promotion, but I didn’t see you.”
“I was…busy. Dealing with…something.”
Chelsea tried very hard not to blush.
“Have either of you seen Brett Sillinger?”
The question froze Chelsea’s blood. And despite her earlier vow to be at least a little cool, she lifted her gaze, homing in on Brett at the exact moment that he turned his head, as though he was looking for her, too.
“Who, us? Nope, we definitely haven’t seen him. Have we, Chelsea?”
Shanna elbowed her in the ribs, snapping Chelsea’s attention back to her father.
“Um, what? Brett? The new guy you mean? I don’t…no, not recently or anything. Why?”
Apparently, Shanna had been right on the mark earlier. They were definitely not cool.
“Just haven’t seen him in a while. Not since before the announcement. I wanted to make sure he’s behaving himself.”
Chelsea swallowed, remembering his hands on her body. The gut-punch of a kiss they’d shared before he’d sent her back to the party. How the restless feeling in her limbs made her kind of wish he hadn’t behaved quite so much and left her wondering what it would be like if they had, indeed, put that alcove to better use.
“Oh! There he is.” Shanna’s voice was too loud as she pointed at him, making it obvious that the two of them had been excruciatingly aware of his exact location the entire time. “I just noticed him,” she lied. “Over there.”
And the award for worst actress in a sex cover-up goes to…
Her father didn’t look, despite Shanna’s desperate pointing.
“Well, if you ladies will excuse me, I’m going to go say a few words to Brett. I like to touch base with all my employees during these events. See how they are, what they’ve been up to.”
Chelsea sagged back against the wall as her father walked across the ballroom. She was in the clear. For now.
…
“Where you been, man?” Decker asked. He and Chase Hawkins, Hawk to his teammates, made some room so Brett could join the group. He accepted the nod from goaltender Lincoln Kennedy, aka The President, with one of his own.
“Just looking around,” Brett lied. “This place has a lot of alcoves.”
“London was asking for you,” Hawk told him, his mouth full of whatever the waiters were circulating on trays.
Shit. He shoved his hands in his pockets. “That can’t be good.”
“It’s fine,” Lincoln assured him. It was the first time Brett had ever heard him speak. “He just likes to make the rounds near the end of events like this for some face time and a handshake.”
“He probably thinks I ran out early. I’m not his favorite person on the payroll.”
Lincoln chuckled. “Just do your thing on the ice. He’ll come around. But in the meantime, it probably wouldn’t hurt to find him.” The goalie gestured past Brett’s right shoulder with his beer bottle. “He’s over there with Shanna and Chelsea.”
Boom. Her name detonated like a bomb in his brain, and his dick twitched with interest.
Down boy.
Still, he couldn’t help but glance over his shoulder. His eyes found her immediately, almost as if he could sense exactly where she was. And then she looked up, her eyes locking with his, as if she could sense where he was, too, and his penis lurched like a goddamn divining rod.
He was stuck in that moment, just staring across the room at her, as if they hadn’t just fooled around like a couple of high school kids.
“Oh, hey.” Decker slapped him in the chest with the back of his hand, startling him. “Nik was telling me there’s a place for rent in his building.”
Brett turned back to the group, surreptitiously rubbing the bruise that had manifested on the back of his arm, in the gap of skin between his shoulder pad and his elbow pad after Ehrhoff had given him that hard shoulder into the boards earlier. “I don’t think Nik likes me very much.”
“He’s good people. You just need to get to know him. Don’t let the quiet intensity fool you. And besides, he offered the information after I said you were looking for a place.”
Brett was surprised to hear it.
Decker gave a sharp whistle that drew a lot of eyes, no doubt including Craig London’s. On the upside, Brett decided, at least he was present and accounted for now.
“Hoff! C’mere for a minute.”
Centerman Niklas Ehrhoff glanced over his shoulder at the summons. Pushing away from the bar, he ambled over to the group with a drink in his hand.
“What’s up, boys?”
“I was just telling Sills here about that vacancy in your building.”
Nik nodded. “Yeah, you should come check it out.” He pulled out his cell, and after a couple of swipes of the screen, handed it to Brett. “Give me your info. I’ll set something up.”
Brett added himself to Nik’s contacts and handed back the phone. “Thanks, man. Appreciate it. For this morning, too.”
The reference to the hit Ehrhoff had laid on him during practice got him an approving nod. Like he’d just earned some respect. “You can thank me by getting us to the playoffs.”
“That’s the plan.”
And it was a good reminder. Good enough that Brett ignored the urge to look over his shoulder to find her again. It was time to man up and keep his focus where it belonged. On hockey. On his team. On winning.
Brett’s phone buzzed against his hand. The sight of his ex-wife’s number—he might have deleted her from his contacts, but her number was still tattooed on his brain—pulled his eyebrows together, even as he declined the call.
What the hell was that about? Janelle hadn’t said a word to him in almost a year, and only with her lawyer present for the year before that. It was probably a misdial, he decided, shoving the phone back in his suit pocket.
“Incoming. Bossman at six o’clock.” Hawk’s warning landed with enough advance notice that Brett had time to smooth his tie and plaster a smile on his face before he turned to face the team owner. The rest of the guys dissipated, leaving him alone with the boss.
And when Craig London shook his hand, the hand that ha
d so recently mauled his daughter’s hair into a sexy, tangled mess, Brett managed to cross-check the memory into submission and keep the discussion focused and on topic.
“Sillinger. Are you enjoying yourself?”
“Of course. It’s a great party, sir.” This interaction felt stiffer than the one they’d shared earlier that evening.
“Not too much, I hope.” Craig London gestured to a passing waitress, grabbing a flute of champagne from her tray. He raised it in offering, but Brett waved it off.
“Sorry?”
London took a sip of bubbly. “I meant that I hope you’re not enjoying yourself too much. This is a work function, after all.”
Brett’s shoulders stiffened, and he tried his damnedest to ignore the sexy echo of Chelsea’s voice in his head.
I just molested you in an alcove during a work function.
Now was definitely not the time, he reminded himself, scratching his shoulder to erase the phantom press of her forehead against it.
“I just like to know the people I’ve hired are keeping their…focus where it belongs. I know you’ve had some issues in your past. Hell, the whole league knows it. And I hate to think what your prospects of getting picked up next season would be if the Wolfpack decided not to renew your contract.”
Anger pulsed in Brett’s chest at the warning, and he shoved his fists in his pockets.
Do not fuck this up, he reminded himself. This is only a test.
The man didn’t know what had happened between him and Chelsea, or his threats would be a hell of a lot more anatomically precise. But he suspected something, and Brett wasn’t about to validate this little fishing expedition.
“Well, it would be a real shame if you decided to cut me loose after I get your franchise into the post-season for the first time in your tenure as owner.”
London’s smile was cold. “That’s the kind of eye-on-the-prize mentality I like to hear from my employees. For a moment there, I thought we might have a problem.”
“No problem I can think of,” Brett said, and then he added, “sir,” even though it killed him to do it.
London reached out and squeezed his shoulder, a little too tight. “I’m glad we’re on the same page here, Brett,” he said, before he turned and walked away.
Sonofabitch. His entire hockey career was in jeopardy and he was still thinking with his dick. Brett shook his head, disgusted with himself. This was exactly the kind of stupidity that had landed him in Billings in the first place. He needed to get his shit together.
He was going to prove to London, to Ehrhoff, to the whole damn team, that taking a chance on Brett Sillinger was not a mistake. And then he was going to back that up on Tuesday night during his first game with the Wolfpack.
Because he was a goddamn professional.
Chapter Ten
Goal light. Buzzer. Roar of the crowd.
Yep, Brett decided, with a satisfying pump of his fist. So far, his first game with his new team was going pretty well.
“Yeah! That’s what I’m talking about!”
Decker skated up and slung his arm around Brett’s neck, punching him in the chest with his stick hand. A moment later, the rest of his line mates swarmed him, knocking him in the helmet, and poking him in the shin pads with their sticks to congratulate him on a booming slapshot from the point that had just beat Wyoming’s goalie glove-side and made it 4-3 for the Wolfpack.
He hadn’t scored a goal in months, and had almost forgotten how damn good it felt. He’d thought his earlier assist on Ehrhoff’s goal had been a rush.
Brett skated back to the bench, bumping gloves with his teammates before joining them. He grabbed a water bottle and took a swig, looking up when the assistant coach slapped him on the shoulder.
“Nice work tonight. Rest quick. I want you and Carter out there again when Pavelec’s line takes the ice. Keep him off the scoreboard.”
Brett accepted the praise and the match-up with a nod before he glanced up at the Jumbotron that was replaying his goal.
“Montana’s fourth goal, and his first as a member of the Wolfpack, scored by number nineteen, Brett Sillllllingerrrrr! Time of the goal, 3:23.”
The announcer leaned hard on his last name, drawing it out, and the home crowd went wild.
With the clock ticking down, the Wyoming Stallions made a good press to tie the game back up. They’d pulled their goalie for the extra attacker, and the pressure was high. So were tempers. After a messy scrum in front of their net, Lincoln Kennedy finally got a glove on the puck, covering it up for a whistle, and the Stallions’ douchebag winger, Jeff Leclerc, accidentally-on-purpose knocked him in the helmet with the butt end of his stick. Brett gave the guy a warning shove. Nobody messed with his goalie.
Leclerc didn’t take it well, judging by how quickly he dropped his stick and gloves, and Brett had just enough time to do the same before the bastard came at him.
He was big, but the guy lacked finesse. Leclerc launched right in with a big body swing, which Brett barely felt between the roar of the crowd in his ears and the pump of adrenaline and testosterone in his blood. He took the opportunity to get inside, grab Leclerc by the neck of his jersey, and yank him forward and down. Brett winced as he sliced the side of his finger on the guy’s helmet, but it popped off like it was supposed to, and he landed two good punches while Leclerc was still grabbing at his wrist, trying to dislodge Brett’s grip.
Leclerc reared back, overbalancing before he fell to the ice, dragging Brett down on top of him. They both managed a couple more jabs before the officials were on them, pulling them apart.
Leclerc was still chirping, swearing at him and calling him washed up, but Brett knew who’d won the fight. So did the crowd. He shot the bastard a smirk designed to piss him off as he adjusted his helmet over his sweaty hair.
Linc gave him a tap on the shin pad with the thick blade of his goal stick, a thank you for having his back, and then the linesman shoved his gloves and his stick against his chest.
“Let’s go, tough guy.”
Brett accepted them, obediently allowing himself to be escorted toward the Wolfpack bench.
One of the trainers handed him a towel and an icepack for his battered, bloody knuckles as he headed for the dressing room with a minute left on the clock—not enough time left in the game to bother with the penalty box. Brett couldn’t hold back his grin as he flexed his hand a few times, reveling in the ache that marked his first Gordie Howe hat trick. An assist, a goal, and a fight.
What a great fucking night.
By the time he’d been interviewed, hit the showers, changed into his suit, done a couple more interviews, and finally crawled into the Lincoln Navigator he’d rented, it was a little past midnight. Brett sat there for a moment, drumming his hands against the steering wheel.
He glanced at his phone, deleting the three texts from his ex-wife without reading them, and smiling like a doofus at the text message from his sister.
It’s about time you started playing hockey again. Next time, remember to tell the press I taught you everything you know.
And from Cooper—Good fight.
His brother-in-law had a pretty severe case of dyslexia, so the fact he’d taken the time to write anything meant a lot.
He didn’t let it bother him that Chelsea hadn’t texted.
It didn’t matter if she’d seen it.
He’d just had a good game. A great game, really.
And she certainly wasn’t the reason that the prospect of heading back to the hotel by himself to watch some TV seemed…unfulfilling.
He was amped up from the game, and the fight. Horny too, if he was being honest about it. It had been a long time since he’d walked off the ice feeling invincible. He’d forgotten how fucking awesome it was to be dialed into the play, in sync with his teammates, part of the win.
Brett tapped his sore hand against his thigh.
Some long dormant part of his brain was telling him not to do what he was thinking about
doing. True to form, he ignored it and opened a new message.
Don’t. Don’t type that. You’re being an idiot.
Brett stared at the words on the screen.
U still up?
Shit. He couldn’t send her that. It sounded like a booty text. Which wasn’t how he meant it. Well, it was exactly how he meant it, but he should be cooler about it. Ease into it a little. Maybe if he—
His phone buzzed in his hands, and he almost fumbled it.
Yay local sports team.
Chelsea had texted him. The doofus smile was back in full force. He deleted his original message and changed it to, U watched?
He kept a vigilant eye on the dancing text bubbles as she typed her answer.
Highlight reel. Does that count?
He could deal with that. He liked that she’d checked up on him. Liked it even more since they hadn’t talked in three days. His interaction with Craig London at the silent auction had been messing with his head since Saturday night. Not that Brett hadn’t thought about texting her roughly a thousand times between then and now, because he had. Even though he knew he shouldn’t. This entire situation was complicated as fu—
A message came in and he glanced down.
?
Crap. He typed a quick, It counts, and hit send. Her reply came back much quicker than his.
Took you a long time to decide.
Yeah. But it shouldn’t have, because the truth was, it wasn’t a tough decision. The girl, or the game? No contest, really. After all, Craig London only had leverage if he found out. Brett took a deep breath and went all in on subtext.
Sorry. All this texting is hell on my sore hand.
There. Booty text complete. She’d either tell him to go to hell, or she’d—
His phone buzzed again, and a grin split his face. He didn’t even care that his knuckles stung like a bitch as he plugged the address she’d pinned into the GPS and backed out of his parking spot.
…
Her first booty text.
The bag of popcorn Chelsea had shoved in the microwave had started to pop, an auditory representation of the nerves dancing in her stomach. It wouldn’t take him that long to get to her place from the arena.
Taking a Shot (Montana Wolfpack) Page 8
