“You absolutely should.”
“I do, and that means every time I fall short of the perfect season, I’m disappointed. Anytime I could’ve done better, I feel like I should have. I know me. I know what I’m capable of, and it’s better than some law of averages.”
“It’s Olympic gold,” she supplied.
“Yes,” Callie said emphatically. “It’s not about the hardware, though. It’s about the game. It’s about this game I love so much it hurts. It’s about being consumed, but not owned. It’s about chain reactions and building one brick on top of the other and climbing them like a set of self-made stairs all the way to the top of a mountain no one else has ever climbed. It’s putting all the pieces together in the right order at the right time, and then doing it again and again and again until I master passion and productivity in equal measure and prove to myself, more than anyone else, that I can do what only I believe I can do.”
The fire in her voice made the hair on Max’s arms stand on end, much as it had in the moment Callie said, “I didn’t choose any of it. This is who I am.” She’d begun to suspect truer words had never been spoken, and damned if she wasn’t getting sucked into that cool confidence once more. She wanted to get closer to it, and closer to the woman who stirred those emotions in her. “Are you going to the Patch tonight?”
Callie shook her head slowly. “I made a deal with Layla. I wouldn’t make her think about curling anymore tonight as long as she didn’t make me go pretend to be social or celebrate in a large, loud crowd.”
“Good trade,” she said, even as her heart sank and the cold seeped back into her skin. “I guess you earned a night to yourself.”
“How about you?” Callie asked. “I didn’t hear any of your commentary, but you looked more comfortable up there with Tim today.”
“Yeah. All in all, today went pretty well for me. I mean, I’m not up to your standards of perfection yet, but after the last few months, any performance that isn’t likely to get me mocked by my colleagues or fired feels like cause for celebration.”
“Don’t sell yourself short. I saw you got an interview with Ella. That’s a victory of sorts, right?”
Max’s chest puffed up with pride that Callie had not only noticed but cared about that massive step. “I won’t lie. I was pretty shocked she agreed, and even more so that it actually went really well.”
“Ella’s always good on camera.”
“I’ll remember that, but I suspect she might not ever have given me the chance if not for you, so thank you. Seems like I’m saying that phrase to you a lot lately.”
“You really are.” She grinned. “And while part of me enjoys the idea of your being indebted to me, it’s really not necessary. You’re a professional, and so am I. It’s in my team’s best interest to maintain good working relationships with the only reporter who’s given us any press in, well . . . ever.”
Some little barb twisted in Max’s chest at the purely utilitarian summation of her role here, but she couldn’t argue the facts. Friends or not, they both had a job to do, and they needed each other to do it. “Either way, Ella wouldn’t have spoken to me unless you’d pulled rank, and after everything you did for me and found out about me last week . . . well, yeah . . . I guess ‘thank you’ still fits.”
Callie’s smile grew as her eyes softened.
“What?”
“You’re usually so good with words. I kind of like it when you stumble over them.”
“Gee, thanks. I’m glad you find my bouts of ineptitude endearing.”
“And now you’re back on the big vocabulary bus.” Callie gave her a little nudge with her elbow. “You never slip for long, Max. You always bounce right back into this totally put-together package, but sometimes it’s good to see something human and fallible under your perfect head of hair.”
“I thought I made my fallibility abundantly clear last week. Can we spend more time talking about my perfect head of hair?”
Callie threw back her head and laughed. “See, that’s what I’m talking about. Right back into quick comeback mode.”
Max flashed her a wolfish grin. “You didn’t seem to mind that skill after the last tournament.”
Callie’s breath hitched and her cheeks flushed a faint shade of pink. “Oh, have we reached the teasing stage of this thing we’re doing?”
Max raised her eyebrows. “This thing we’re doing?”
“Sorry.” Callie shrugged. “I don’t share your superior grasp of the English language.”
“No, actually, thing works as well as anything I’ve got in my thesaurus. We’ve got a thing, and yes, it does seem that we’ve reached the stage where I get to playfully remind you I haven’t always been bumbling.”
“You have not,” Callie agreed, “but if we’re in the ‘we’re adults who can casually joke about these things’ phase, then I’m also in the ‘mussing up your perfect hair’ phase.”
Before Max could even process the statement, Callie’s hand shot out and tousled the front of her short and meticulously feathered layers.
“Whoa.” She laughed as she ducked away. “I do not consent. That is not a privilege earned in one night. What do you think I am, some kind of hair hussy?”
“I was sort of hoping,” Callie admitted. Her eyes which had burned only moments earlier now sparkled with amusement.
“Okay, well, maybe I could be loosened up, but not here in the arena for all the world to see. Hair mussing should be built up to—dinner, drinks, some low lighting and soft caresses.”
“That’s not how you felt last bonspiel, but never let it be said Callie Mulligan is a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am sort of hair musser.”
“I think we established that last time, and to be fair you did buy me two dinners last week. I think it might be my turn.”
“Well, I wasn’t going to mention it, Princess.”
“Princess?” She laughed. “Now it’s on. I saw a wing place down the street. Shall we?”
Callie grimaced. “That’s adorable, but people from Buffalo don’t eat wings in other places any more than people from Italy go to the Olive Garden.”
“I have so much to learn. What do people from Buffalo eat in Canada?”
“Poutine,” Callie said emphatically.
“You want me to eat your poutine for dinner? Wow. I mean, I thought we were slowing down, but after your princess comment, I think I’m about to rise to this challenge.”
Callie laughed so hard she could barely talk, but she managed to squeak out, “Not my poutine.”
“Someone else’s? You are either way kinkier than I thought, or I have misunderstood this euphemism.”
“The latter, or maybe both, but certainly in this context the latter. Poutine is a Canadian dish of awesomeness, protein and carbs.”
“Sounds like the perfect thing to eat before a night of athletic prowess. Where do we go to consume such a thing?”
“Well, you can purchase it at just about any mid-level restaurant in this country, so we shouldn’t have any trouble finding some, but when we do, let’s get it to go. With the way this conversation is going, I’m not sure either of us will make it through a whole meal in a restaurant.”
Max’s heart rate increased at all the wonderful possibilities ahead. “I know I seem to be saying this a lot lately, but please, by all means, lead the way, Skip.”
Chapter Seventeen
“Sweet mother of all things holy,” Max called as Callie stepped out of the shower. Sadly, the door to the bathroom was still closed so the reaction must have been to the poutine.
“Did you start eating without me?” she asked as she toweled off.
“I had to test it. I mean, you’re in my room. How could I serve you something I had never even tried? What if it was terrible or dangerous?”
“So you’re just protecting me by eating my poutine?”
She could make out Max’s snicker even through the door.
“That’s what the dish is called. It’s not dirt
y.”
“I know, I know, I saw the menu, but I’m just not mature enough to adjust to the phrase ‘eating my poutine’ on the spot.”
“So much for your chivalry argument. You’re just eating my . . . food because you wanted to see what all the fuss is about.”
“No. I’m just checking it. Curlers are celebrities in this country. What if some rabid fan tried to roofie you? I can’t have you keeling over in here. I’ve had all the scandals I can handle for one lifetime.”
She pulled on her yoga pants and a tight-fitting Curling USA T-shirt. “I see. You’re not protecting me so much as your reputation.”
“I don’t see why we have to put such a fine point on things. The good news is that the poutine is both not poisonous and delicious.”
“Good to know.” Callie opened the door. “Thanks for letting me use your shower.”
Max’s eyes went a little wide, then flicked down to her shirt before snapping back up. “I get that we aren’t overthinking this here, but I feel safe in saying you can use my shower anytime in the future.”
Callie glanced down at her own chest and then rolled her eyes. “It’s past bra o’clock. I didn’t think you’d mind.”
“I do not,” Max said, without quite managing to sound serious. “This night keeps getting better and better.”
Callie laughed. “You know, when you first showed up at the club, I thought you were a total hard-ass. If I’d known how easy you’d be to melt, I might have tried sooner.”
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that so I don’t have to face the sadness of missed opportunities, and I encourage you to steal your own bite of poutine while I go change.”
“Fair,” Callie said, then as Max grabbed some clothes off the dresser and closed the door to the bathroom, she shouted, “Remember, past bra o’clock.”
“How could I forget my new favorite time of day?”
Callie wandered over to the hotel room desk where Max had opened the takeout container of poutine and set out two hotel coffee mugs full of water and a couple of the paper plates they’d snagged from the communal continental breakfast area on their way in. It wasn’t quite a candlelit dinner in a four-star restaurant, but right now she wouldn’t have traded it for any meal anywhere. She snagged a gravy-coated French fry and sat back on the edge of the bed, testing the firmness of the mattress since that seemed to be where they were headed.
She smiled at the thought. She didn’t know what had come over her, or rather what Max seemed to inspire in her. She didn’t generally fall into bed with people. She’d had a few short-term girlfriends over the years, but everything hovered in that limbo between serious and not. She’d never had a real one-night stand, though if tonight went the way she now suspected, it would render their last encounter . . . what? A two-night stand? Or something more? The last time they’d ended up in Max’s hotel room, she hadn’t had time to think. The urge had been so sudden and overwhelming, she could only ride the wave, and she didn’t regret it, but tonight felt different. Not only were they going slower, giving her little pockets of time and flashes of awareness, she’d also come in here knowing exactly where they were headed. She could hardly call this a lapse in judgment or the work of a moment. So, what would she call it?
Certainly they’d spent more time together since the last time, and she’d gotten to know Max better, too, but they weren’t exactly dating. They might be colleagues with benefits, only they didn’t exactly work together so much as adjacent to one another, distant enough to avoid any blatant ethical conflicts that might arise from sleeping with a teammate or competitor, but close enough that it probably wasn’t a great idea for them to sleep together at all, much less with any regularity. Plus, they’d both been clear they prioritized their jobs over everything else in their lives. Why risk complicating them for someone they weren’t even seeing seriously?
The door opened, and Max stepped back into the room wearing black sweats with a snug black T-shirt that showcased the subtle swell of her chest and the gentle curve of her hips. Her bare feet stuck out at the bottom, and a single strand of her coal-colored hair hung down across her forehead. She looked relaxed and open and so damn sexy. In that moment, Callie knew for certain why she was about to complicate everything.
“OMG, that was amazing.” Max flopped back onto the bed, feeling warm and sated.
“Not going to lie,” Callie said, “that’s exactly the reaction I hope for when I go back to a woman’s hotel room, but generally I expect it to reference me rather than the cheese curds, fries, and gravy.”
Max rolled onto her side to stare at the woman in front of her. Callie was gorgeous as she propped herself up against the headboard, her long legs crisscrossed and her damp hair spiraling down over her shoulders.
“Well, to be fair, the night is young, but also you are the one who introduced me to poutine, so you get points for calling that shot as well.”
“Calling shots is sort of my thing,” Callie said with a grin.
“And you do it abundantly well. Something else that surprises me about the great game of curling—you all are way more commanding than anyone would expect from women who are largely doing housework on ice.”
“Housework on ice?” Callie laughed. “Are we really going there again?”
“No, I just meant, like, my mom used to sweep our kitchen occasionally, but no one ever yelled ‘harder, hard, yep, yes, hard’ at her while she did.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t suppose she had nearly as much fun as we do.”
Max shook her head. “Now that you mention it, I don’t think she did. No one cheered for her, either.”
“That’s a shame. The cheering and yelling go a long way toward building a sense of urgency and importance. That’s why I’ve gotten so good at it.”
“Among other things.” Max wrapped an arm around Callie’s waist and pulled her down beside her on the bed.
“Why do I get the sense you’re talking about a different skill set now?”
“I think they might be related,” Max teased, giving Callie’s side a little squeeze. “You were awfully commanding last time we were in this position, too.”
Callie’s eyes focused on hers, their lips only a few inches apart now. “You seemed to like me taking charge.”
“I think ‘like’ is an understatement,” Max whispered.
“Are you going to break out your thesaurus?”
“Who needs a thesaurus? I’m as good at words as you are at calling shots.”
“Hmm.” Callie gave a little hum of anticipation. “Prove it.”
“You are stunning.” Max kissed her forehead. “And alluring.” She kissed her temple. “And captivating.” She kissed her cheekbone and continued her way down, one kiss per descriptor until their lips met. Callie opened to her immediately as if she’d only been waiting for this moment all night. Max, on the other hand, had been anticipating this kiss since their last one. Even as they’d parted that night in the parking lot with an unspoken promise to focus on work, she’d known they’d be back here. The questions remaining between them now wouldn’t interfere with what would happen next. That decision lay with Callie.
Max refused to push. They’d already established that the woman against her had a much better knack for calling shots, and she’d yet to let them down. It was rare for her to rely on someone else’s instincts for once, but not unpleasant, as Callie’s mouth moved hot against her own. Their breathing increased, and she had to steal her inhales from Callie’s exhales.
Callie urged her flat onto her back, kissing her deeply before pulling away to stare down at her.
Max shivered at the intensity in those golden eyes. She’d seen it so many times during matches, but nothing compared to being the object of her attention. “You going to call a shot, Skip?”
The corners of Callie’s mouth twitched up, but her gaze never wavered. “A takeout shot, on the pants.”
“Yours or mine?”
“Yes.” She kissed her a
gain, and Max understood what her teammates must feel like in a high-pressure game. Callie’s confidence inspired a desire to follow her even as the edge of her own vision blurred and her heart hammered in her own ears. It would have been easy to succumb to the endorphins, but Callie had called a shot, and Max was determined to execute, for both of their sakes.
Thankfully, her own sweatpants were loose enough not to offer a challenge. She merely had to lift her hips off the bed, an act which brought them into exhilarating contact with Callie’s, albeit for much too short a time, before she lowered back to the bed and kicked her legs free. She allowed herself only the briefest of seconds to enjoy the slide of Callie’s skilled tongue along her own before turning at least part of her attention to the waistband of the yoga pants she’d been instructed to remove from the beautiful body above her.
The Lycra clung tightly to Callie’s flat stomach. Max decided that peeling would be more efficient and more fulfilling than pushing, and slipped her hands under the waistband. She slid her palms around and in, stopping to knead the perfect ass muscles contracting under her fingers.
“Magnificent,” she mumbled against the corner of Callie’s mouth, as she worked her hands lower, rolling back the pants as she did. Soon though, she reached the full extended length of her arms. Not wanting to stop, she broke away from the kiss and scooted lower on the bed. The shift allowed her to run her hand lower along the contracted thigh muscles helping to hold Callie perfectly in a plank position. It also put her mouth right in line with Callie’s breasts. The thin T-shirt did little to restrain the evidence of Callie’s arousal, and Max had never been one to waste such a blatant opportunity. Sucking through the thin cotton, she used her teeth to take hold of a nipple and thrilled at the gasp she pulled from Callie’s lips.
Dipping her body lower, Callie egged her on, and Max wished she had a hand free to cup the other breast. As it was, though, both her hands were busy, and not with a lesser task. She ran her fingers along Callie’s inner thighs, stripping away the yoga pants all the way down to her knees before realizing she’d have to go lower to finish the job. Thankfully, lower was exactly the direction she wanted to go.
Fire & Ice Page 22
