In It to Win It

by Kelly Jamieson

  “I’m not sleeping at your place.” Everly waves a hand. “Are you kidding me? You’d probably stab me in my sleep.”

  “Is that a euphemism?” He arches a brow. “ ’Cause I bet my stick would feel good in your crease.”

  My eyes bug out and my hands curl into fists. “Hey, man, that’s—”

  But Everly is laughing. “In your dreams,” she says. “And that’s why I’m not staying at your place.”

  Taylor squeezes my biceps and shoots me a warning look. Okay, I’m not gonna punch the guy, but Everly’s my aunt—I have to watch out for her.

  Oh hey, she can totally look after herself.

  “Okay then, problem solved.” I pick up Taylor. She squeals. “Good night, all.”

  I carry her into the bedroom and shut the door firmly behind us.

  She’s laughing and falls onto the bed. “I don’t know if drunk sex is going to be very good.”

  I follow her down onto the bed. “I’m not that drunk.”

  “No whisky dick?”

  “I wasn’t drinking whisky.” I kiss her mouth, her cheek, her jaw. She shivers beneath me and parts her legs so I can settle between them. I hitch her dress higher on her hips to allow her to open them wider and press my hard-on against her soft center. She sucks in a sharp breath and wraps her arms around me. “God, I love you.”

  “I love you too. I didn’t want to fall in love, but I did.”

  “Why didn’t you want to?” I inhale the scent of her skin where neck joins shoulder. Intoxicating.

  “Because of my parents. I figured what was the point. If they can’t make it, nobody can.”

  I lift my head and peer down at her. “No.”

  “That’s how I felt. But…” She strokes the back of my neck and sensation rolls down my spine. “After I talked to my dad on the way to San Diego, I…I realized I was falling for you. And I thought maybe…we could try. Then…”

  I kiss her quickly. “I’m sorry. So fucking sorry.”

  She gives a tiny nod. “I know. My dad told me how a relationship is made up of a million moments. Good ones and bad ones. There are no guarantees…but you have to treasure the good moments.”

  I swallow. “Yeah.”

  “You need to do that.” Her expression turns earnest. “You need to enjoy the moments. You’re too hard on yourself when you screw up. That causes you stress you don’t need. Remember the yoga classes? No judgment? Even of ourselves?”

  I gaze back at her. She’s so right. “Théo told me the same thing. In hockey, we have to learn to let our mistakes go. Sometimes I can do that…sometimes I can’t. I’m working on it. Off the ice…I need to work on that, too.”

  “Yes.”

  “I…I’ve had a hard time, lately.” My tongue feels thick as I reveal this to her. “It’s a lot of pressure. Being a Wynn…means being perfect.”

  “No.” Her eyes are full of acceptance and kindness. “It doesn’t. You put the pressure on yourself.”

  I let this turn over in my mind. “Um…maybe?”

  She smiles, a slow, sweet, seductive smile.

  “I could never be as good as Théo. My whole life. So I tried to be different. But that didn’t work out so well.”

  “You are different. You are two different people.” She digs her fingers into my shoulders. “And I love you. I love how you don’t want to disappoint the people you care about—your family. Your team. I love how you pretend to be so bad, but you teach kids how to skate, and buy them equipment, and you love Byron. You hated that you hurt your brother. You want your grandpa to be proud of you.”

  A rough shudder closes over my chest. I can’t breathe. Can’t speak.

  She knows me. She sees me. The real me. The me I want to be.

  We kiss again, long, open-mouthed, tongue-sliding kisses full of passion and gratitude, relief and hope. I slowly strip her out of that sexy dress, revealing a black lace bra and panties. She’s everything…my fantasy, my friend, my ally. She’ll support me when I make mistakes—but I vow to never again make a mistake that will hurt her. And I’ll support her, whatever life brings her. I never realized how incredible it would feel to have someone who gets me so completely, and the fear of opening up and being vulnerable and revealing all my stupid insecurities seems microscopic in comparison to the huge swell of love and joy I now feel.

  I kiss her throat, her collarbones, between her breasts. I slide my hands beneath her to unfasten her bra, toss it aside, then cup her breasts and squeeze them, desire rushing through my blood. I sweep my hands over her soft skin, taking the measure of her curves, following their path with my eyes to worship her with my touch, my gaze. My mouth. I want to taste her, lick her, make her come…She falls apart, crying my name, and I rip off my own clothes, grab a condom, and move back between her legs.

  I start to rip open the wrapper and she stops me with a soft touch. “We don’t have to use that…if you trust me.”

  “Christ. I trust you. Do you trust me?”

  She nods. “Yes.”

  My body throbs, heat mainlining through my veins, my cock an aching spike. I toss the condom over my shoulder and grip my shaft to run it through her folds, so soft and so wet.

  I let out a long groan as I ease inside her. Her body closes around me, gripping me so tightly from root to tip as I seat myself fully. I pause, meeting her eyes, and reach for her hands to twine my fingers through hers.

  “I want to be good enough for you,” I say hoarsely. “I may not be the best…but I want to be the best I can be.”

  “You’re not a bad guy if you’re trying to be better. That’s all any of us can do. Try to be our best selves.”

  I move inside her, clasping her hands. Sensation pours through me in waves, pressure building. Our eyes lock together and it’s excruciatingly intimate and yet…essential. I don’t care if she sees inside me, because she loves me. And I love her.

  “This moment,” she says softly. “Enjoy this beautiful moment.”

  “I want a million beautiful moments…with you.”

  Acknowledgments

  As always, huge thanks to the team that helps me in this crazy business—my assistant, Stacey Price; my publicist, Heather Robertson; my agent, Emily Sylvan Kim; my sister and my daughter for working the numbers, which I hate with a passion; and the entire Loveswept team. Also many thanks to my author friends who keep me sane, I am so grateful for such a supportive and understanding community.

  BY KELLY JAMIESON

  ACES HOCKEY

  Major Misconduct

  Off Limits

  Icing

  Top Shelf

  Back Check

  Slap Shot

  Playing Hurt

  Big Stick

  Game On

  BAYARD HOCKEY

  Shut Out

  Cross Check

  LAST SHOT

  Body Shot

  Hot Shot

  Long Shot

  WYNN HOCKEY

  Play to Win

  In It to Win It

  OTHER BOOKS

  Dancing in the Rain

  PHOTO: LANCE THOMPSON PHOTOGRAPHIC

  USA Today bestselling author KELLY JAMIESON is the author of more than fifty contemporary romance novels. She writes the kind of books she loves to read—sexy romance with heat, humor, and emotion. She likes coffee (black), wine (mostly white), and shoes (high!). She also loves watching hockey.

  kellyjamieson.com

  Twitter: @KellyJamieson

  Read on for an excerpt from

  Win Big

  A Wynn Hockey Novel

  by Kelly Jamieson

  Available soon from Loveswept

  Everly

  They say that everything happens for a reason.

/>   But sometimes that reason is you’re drunk and you make bad decisions.

  In my own defense, it was New Year’s Eve. Who doesn’t get drunk and make bad decisions on New Year’s Eve? Right?

  Not me. I never make bad decisions. Well, not anymore. Not since I was sixteen years old and broke my parents’ heart, destroyed their trust in me, and nearly wrecked a bunch of lives. Since then, it has been my life’s goal to never disappoint them again. That means never screwing up, working hard, being perfect. Easy peasy.

  I’m lying in Wyatt Bell’s bed.

  This is totally contrary to my life’s mission, on so many levels.

  At least I’m alone, thank fuck.

  Wyatt Bell. Six feet two inches, two hundred twenty pounds of sex on skates. Plays defense for the California Condors.

  I know we made out for a while with our clothes on. It was hot as hell and I was happily oblivious to all the reasons we shouldn’t have been doing that—chiefly the fact that I hate him—as my lady parts combusted in a feverish explosion of lust. Wow.

  I nearly have to wave a hand in front of my face as scorching heat rises to my cheeks.

  A hockey player. On the team my dad owns.

  God! How stupid could I be?

  Anyway, my clothes are still on—a body-con, short black dress, bra, and panties. Not like I had a lot to remove, but there’s comfort in the fact I’m still clothed. And alone.

  Where is he?

  A headache drums at my temples and I lift my hands to rub there, closing my eyes. My mouth tastes like I licked the inside of a dumpster, and my stomach is…iffy. I think I have a hangover.

  I’m not sure because it’s been that long since I had a hangover. I don’t get drunk enough to be hungover.

  I’m annoyed at myself.

  I crack open my eyes. Daylight brightens the edges of the window around the blinds. I have no idea what time it is, but obviously the sun is up. I lift my head, which makes it pound more, and peer at the bedside table. No clock.

  I go backward in my mind…pretty sure I brought my purse…which has my phone in it…it has to be here somewhere.

  And where is Wyatt?

  Welp. Best find out.

  I throw back the covers and swing my legs over the side of the bed. A sick wave washes over me, but it doesn’t last long. I think I’ll live.

  I eye the room. The open door appears to lead to an en suite bathroom. Excellent.

  Feet bare, I pad across the big bedroom to the bathroom. I barely note the gorgeous stone tiles, a massive shower with multiple heads, and the big granite vanity as I take care of business. As I wash my hands, I observe my reflection. Hair standing on end, mascara smudged beneath my eyes and…is that…whisker burn on my jaw? Dear God. I close my eyes.

  I leave the bathroom, then I draw in a deep breath and tiptoe across the bedroom to the other door. I’ve never been here before and even though this condo is in the same building as my nephew’s, where I’ve been many times, it’s a completely different layout. But I find my way to the kitchen/living area, which I now vaguely remember from last night.

  The place is empty.

  This is good. Great. I spy my purse on the coffee table and make a beeline for it. I can grab it and get the hell out of here before I have to face Wyatt.

  “Morning.”

  I jump, my feet literally leaving the floor, and whirl around toward the source of the deep, gritty voice.

  Oh sweet Jesus, he looks just as good the morning after. His dark gold hair is kind of long on top and right now it’s tousled all over. Dark gold stubble shadows his jaw. His eyes are hazel, and I know from seeing him close up they’re more green than brown, with gold flecks in them. I nearly whimper. “Morning,” I choke out.

  “Want some breakfast?” He stretches and the T-shirt he’s wearing rises and reveals skin between the hem and the top of the sweatpants that are sitting so indecently low on his hips they should be illegal. Not to mention the, uh, enticing bulge at his groin that is clearly recognizable. I swallow as I avert my gaze. “Or coffee?”

  “No! I’m good. I need to go. Uh…”

  “Yeah?” He heads to the kitchen and the Keurig on the counter, and pops in a K-Cup.

  “Where did you sleep?”

  He turns and flashes a wicked smile. “You don’t remember?”

  I trudge toward him, straightening my dress. “I don’t remember much. Ugh.”

  He purses his lips and studies me. “You feel okay?”

  I drop my purse on the counter and lean my elbows there. “If by okay you mean feeling like my brain is bleeding out my eyes, my stomach is full of battery acid, and I’m about to die in five minutes, then yes, I feel okay.”

  He bites down on the smile that tugs at his lips. “That good, huh?”

  “Okay, I’m exaggerating.”

  “Here.” He opens a cupboard and produces a small white bottle. He shakes out a gel cap and hands it to me. Then he reaches for a glass which he fills with water from the fridge dispenser.

  “Thank you.” I toss the pill into my mouth and swallow it. I guzzle that delicious cold water down until the glass is empty. “God, that’s good water.”

  His lips twitch again. “Sure you don’t want coffee? Some toast might help with the battery acid.”

  I sink onto a stool and rest my head in my hands. I want to leave, but I also want to feel better. “Okay.”

  “I slept in the spare room.” He busies himself at the Keurig again, then the toaster.

  “Oh.”

  “After you passed out, I figured I’d let you sleep it off alone.”

  I gasp in outrage. “I did not pass out!”

  He gives me a look, chin down, lips pursed. “Uh huh. Anyway, don’t worry, I didn’t take advantage of your state of inebriation.

  “You weren’t inebriated?”

  “Yeah, I was. I admit it.” He grins. “Not as much as you, judging from your condition this morning.”

  “Ugh. I haven’t been hungover since I was a teenager. I don’t really like it.”

  “No one does. By your age, you should have learned how to pace yourself.”

  I frown.

  He slides a mug of coffee across the counter. “Do you need milk and sugar?”

  “A little milk?”

  “Sure.” He opens the fridge and pulls out a carton.

  I splash a tiny bit into the dark brew and stir it with the spoon he provides, then pick up the cup and sip it.

  “What do you want on your toast? I have butter, peanut butter or…well, that’s it.”

  “Just butter.” I don’t usually eat bread, but I need something in my stomach. “Thanks.”

  While I eat mine, he makes himself toast, thickly spreading his with peanut butter.

  I don’t know what else to say to him. Last night we had plenty to say to each other…we argued about politics, hockey, and climate change, which he didn’t even take seriously! There’s something about him, a cocky confidence, that makes me want to poke holes in that self-assurance, disagree with everything that comes out of his mouth, and prove him wrong.

  One of the first times we met, we got into an argument about men being “showers” or “growers.” Wyatt was trying to tell me there was no such thing those labels and I concluded I needed to do some research on that, which seemed to piss him off.

  I enjoy pissing him off.

  Judging from the dick print in those soft sweats, he’s a “shower.”

  I normally try to avoid conflict, but there’s something about sparring with him that makes my blood sizzle and energy flow through me.

  As for kissing him…whoa. If I thought my blood sizzled just from talking to him, making out with him had me shorting out and melting down.

  “So, looks like JP and Taylor are a thing.
”

  “Yep.” I smile, my chest softening. My friend Taylor looked so happy last night after the guy she loves showed up to apologize for being a dick to her, and did it in style. She and I were supposed to share a room at Théo and Lacey’s place, who hosted the New Year’s Eve party, so we didn’t have to drive home, but after JP arrived and he and Taylor made up, how could I not let them have the room?

  Which is how I ended up at Wyatt’s place, in need of somewhere to park my drunken ass for the night. And how we somehow ended up rolling around on his bed, desperately kissing and groping each other.

  It was hot.

  I gulp some coffee.

  “I’m happy for them,” I say, not letting on how my heart swelled with tenderness watching the scene last night. “They’re good for each other.”

  “Can she keep him out of the penalty box?”

  I lift an eyebrow.

  JP is my nephew, and don’t think that makes me old. My dad remarried and had me when he was forty-eight, right around the time the kids from his first marriage, my half-brothers Mark and Matthew, were having kids. I’m twenty-seven, only a year older than JP. JP is also a hockey player, like Wyatt. JP plays for the Long Beach Golden Eagles—the enemy. Awkward, due to the fact that Matthew owns the team, Mark coaches it, another nephew and my brother play for their farm team, and my niece is the goalie coach for the farm team.

  Yep, we’re a hockey family.

  “Well, I don’t think it’s up to her,” I say, lifting my chin. “But she’s good at helping him manage his emotions, so that may be a benefit.”

  Wyatt shrugs and starts peeling an orange. “If you say so.”

  My family’s a bit messed up for a bunch of reasons, and I’m not very happy with the fact that my half-brothers are currently suing my dad for allegedly stealing money from them. I’m not happy with the fact that Matthew bought the Long Beach Golden Eagles as a way to get back at my dad for allegedly stealing their money. And I’m not happy with the fact that Matthew stole Mark from us. Mark was the Condors’ coach until Matthew hired him. (I say “us,” because even though I don’t actually work for the Condors, I do run the Condors Foundation.)