by Elise Faber
Fifteen
Monday
Angie: Thank you for the Star Wars bouquet. It’s freaking adorable.
Max: I’m glad you liked it.
Angie: That being said, if you send me confetti again, I will find a way to get you back.
Max: I like the sound of that. What would you do?
Angie: *squinty eyes* I’d start by paying off the refs in your game tonight.
Max: How would you do that?
Angie: I know people.
Max: Hopefully not important people because I may or may not have sent you a confetti super pack.
Angie: That better not actually be a thing.
Max: Oh, it’s a thing.
Angie: I hope you’ll enjoy spending the night in the penalty box.
Tuesday morning
Max: How much did you give them?
Angie: Give who what?
Max: The refs. Three penalties last night. WTF.
Angie: Don’t doubt my superpowers.
Max: I’ve canceled the confetti.
Angie: Good.
Max: Brayden has a school event tonight, but can I call you tomorrow?
Angie: I’ll think about it.
Max: Do I have to break out my Wookie again?
Angie: God, no. I have a late meeting, but I’ll be home by seven.
Max: Brayden’s usually in bed by eight-thirty, okay if I call you then?
Angie: No more confetti EVER.
Max: Deal.
Angie: Then eight thirty works for me.
Max: Talk to you then.
Sixteen
Max
It was midway through the third period when Max happened to glance up and see Devon Scott on the jumbotron. Devon was with his wife and others in his box. Max’s gaze started to slide back to the ice when he saw—
Holy shit. Was that Angie?
Fuck. It was.
She was grinning and waving at the camera, a blonde that he thought was Devon’s sister at her side and doing the same.
His eyes drank her in, desperate for any glance of her.
They’d managed to text for a few minutes every night and then had actually talked for a few hours last night, expanding on their favorite movies and TV shows, talking about comics and Marvel characters, what it was like to be a single dad, the projects Angie was working on at RoboTech. Unfortunately, it had been a crazy week for both of them at work, and Max hadn’t found time to pop in to her work with a special delivery of confetti—cough real flowers this time—as he’d planned. Which meant he was ramped almost to fever pitch, he was so looking forward to their date tomorrow.
Max had it all planned out.
Anna was taking Brayden to see a movie and then they were having a sleepover at her house.
Not that he was expecting anything—though frankly, he wasn’t opposed—but he just didn’t want to put any limits on where their date would go.
Or risk Brayden and Angie crossing paths.
The last thing he wanted to do was trigger his son’s ideas about getting a new mom. That wasn’t happening.
As far as he was concerned, love was the dirtiest four-letter word around.
Except, if he truly believed that, then why initiate the date?
Angie wasn’t a one-night stand. She was worth so much more.
Blane jabbed an elbow into his ribs. “What the fuck are you looking at?”
Max blinked, saw the screen was showing his team lined up and ready for the face-off. “Nothing,” he muttered, knowing he needed to concentrate on the last ten minutes of the game, not whether or not he could catch Angie before she left.
Because he really wanted to catch her before she left.
The whistle blew, the puck dropped, and Max forced his brain to focus back on hockey.
But it was painful . . . his mind had drifted to the upper bowl.
He grabbed his cell the moment he reasonably could—after their coach, Bernard, had spoken to them and after Stefan had given the celebratory puck to the player he’d thought was the best of the game.
Blue, that night. He’d not only put them off to an early lead, he’d also gotten a hat trick—three goals in one game.
So, it was well-deserved.
Even though Max wished the festivities had taken less time.
Regardless, he dialed Angie’s number on his cell, slipped out into the hall, and hoped she would pick up.
She did. With a rush of noise and a harried, “He-llo?”
“Don’t leave yet,” he said.
“What?”
“Don’t leave,” he repeated.
“Hang on,” she said, and the noise muffled. He could barely make out her say, “Go on, I’ll see you tomorrow at work.” Then she was back on the line. “Max?” she asked.
“I’m here.”
“Dang. Sorry, it’s so loud I can barely make out what you’re saying. Hold tight.” The din of voices in the background slowly faded. “There,” she eventually said. “I managed to find a quiet corner. Are you okay? Is Brayden all right?”
The fact she asked after his son undid him.
She’d met Brayden one time.
“Brayden’s fine,” he said.
Her relieved breath slid right into his exposed heart, curled deep inside. “Good. But now’s not really a good time. I’m kind of tired and—”
“Don’t leave.” Repeated sentiment, but hopefully one she heard this time. “Don’t leave without letting me see you, at least for a few minutes.”
Her laughter was nervous. “Leave where?”
“Angel, I saw you on the jumbotron.”
“Oh.” Air rustled through his speaker. “It’s not what you think. My friend from work invited me. I wasn’t trying to check up on you or—”
“I like that you came,” he said. “I liked seeing you up there.”
Her breath caught, her only response another, “Oh.”
“Come down?” he asked.
“I—uh—I can’t.”
“You don’t want to see me?”
She coughed. “I—that’s not it. I mean, I want to see you, it’s just Mandy. She’ll be busy, and if I run into her, I’ll mess things up.”
“That’s not true,” he told her then softened his tone. “You’ve made it this far. Don’t you want to talk to her? To me? I can show you around, and maybe you’ll be able to get rid of some of those regrets that are weighing you down.”
Silence.
His gut twisted.
He’d blown it. Pushed too hard. It was one thing for her to see him, another to see Mandy. He didn’t have the full story yet; he knew that. And still he’d pushed.
Max opened his mouth to apologize.
“I wonder if I’d do anything at all if I hadn’t met Kelsey, or you, for that matter.” Her tone was soft, almost questioning, and he sensed her shake her head. “I don’t know why I let myself get peer pressured into these situations.” Humor crept into her voice. “But let’s hope this round yields as good of results as the first time.”
He leaned back against the wall. “What kind of results did round one produce?”
“You.”
A grin split his lips. “Oh.”
“Yeah,” she muttered and took a page out of his book. “Oh. Now, tell me how to get down there before I lose my nerve.”
He felt like whooping but managed to play it cool. Just barely. “Head to the elevators outside section 101, and I’ll have someone come up and meet you. I just need to shower, and I’ll be ready to go.”
“O-okay.”
His heart clenched at the wobble in her voice. “Stay strong for ten more minutes, okay?”
“Okay,” she said, a little stronger.
“That’s my girl.”
Her breath caught.
“I’ll see you in ten.”
He hung up and hurried back into the locker room, stripping down at record speed, all while shooting a text to Sara, Mike’s wife.
Yes, that was a surefire way
to start the Gold’s gossip train, but he also knew Sara was really good at putting people at ease. And she was tough enough to not let Angie turn tail and run.
Max took the world’s shortest shower then sprinted to the Family Suite.
He opened the door, saw the scene inside, and knew it was a good thing he’d sprinted.
Seventeen
Angie
She’d decided she was going to kill Max.
She was going to confetti his house, his car, his front yard. Hell, she was ready to move past confetti and straight to tearing off one of the toy-sized hockey sticks mounted to the wall of the Family Suite so she could shove it straight up his—
“Why is your face so wrinkly?”
Angie froze, glanced down at the adorable little girl with tight brown curls.
“Mirabel,” an older woman with gorgeous coffee-colored skin and an embarrassed expression scolded. She was slightly familiar looking and beautiful. Not normal person beautiful, but striking, even by Hollywood standards. “We don’t comment on the way people look,” she added. “It’s what’s on the inside that matters—”
“Easy for her to say,” Sara deadpanned. “Monique here is a former supermodel.”
Ah.
That was why Angie’s mind had pinged with recognition. The pieces fell into place as she realized this was the Monique, who had been the face of several big name brands for many years and a renowned runway model. Angie just hadn’t realized she’d married a Gold player.
Monique rolled her eyes. “I swear, Sara. You’re the worst.”
“You love me.” Sara—who’d met Angie at the elevators and showed her to this room of hell, aka the Family Suite—touched Angie’s shoulder. “This is Angie. She’s with Max.”
A half-dozen raised eyebrows turned in Angie’s direction.
She raised her palms. “I’m not. I mean, I know Max. It just—”
Oh hell.
They were back to staring at her with those appraising expressions, as though their cold, dead eyes were trying to stare into her very soul.
Okay, so that was a lie. The ladies had been very friendly. It was just . . .
Social situations.
Yup. Those.
She was so awkward. What could she possibly have to talk about with these women? Monique was a former supermodel, Sara a former gold medalist, not to mention there was also a CEO and several gorgeous stay-at-home moms in the mix.
She was just Angie.
A mid-level manager who was the secret love child of a former hockey player and a Class-A asshole.
Oh, and Mandy’s long-lost sister, there was that, too.
And considering she sucked in normal social interactions, adding all that baggage into this situation meant she was seriously considering turning Max into a man-sized popsicle.
Topped with confetti.
She sighed, met Sara’s inquisitive gaze, and said, “Max and I met a few months ago.”
Simple. To the point. That would feed the wolves.
Except . . . not so much.
“He’s been holding out on us for months?” Monique asked with a gasp.
“How dare he!” Sara added.
“That’s not what—”
Sara slid her arm through Angie’s, started leading her to a room that was filled with black leather couches and numerous television screens.
She coaxed—cough, pushed—Angie down into one. “Tell me everything.”
“—I meant,” Angie finished.
The door to the suite opened, and now everyone’s eyes shot toward it. Max strode into the room, smile dimming slightly as he took in the scene.
Angie popped to her feet, hurried over to him. She was awkward and annoyed and . . . scarily happy to see him.
As in, her heart had done a little jumping jack the moment he’d appeared.
“Max,” Monique said. “Angie said you’ve been dating for months. How dare you not tell us?”
“Didn’t Spence retire?”
Monique narrowed her eyes. “Yes.”
“So, why are you here pestering my girl?”
“Your girl?” Sara asked with raised eyebrows. “I need details. Now.”
Angie’s pulse sped up at Max’s words, but Monique’s reaction was more apparent. She clapped her hands together. “You’ve got a girl! Oh my God! I’m so happy for you.”
“She makes weird wrinkly faces,” Mirabel said, mirroring her mom’s excited stance. “I want her to show me how to do that.”
Angie snorted.
She couldn’t help it. This was just so bizarre.
And yet, somehow, it was comfortable?
Wow. She needed to put that particular thought aside to ponder later.
Max took her hand. “And that’s our cue to leave.”
He tugged her out into the hall, despite the protests they left in their wake, leading her down around the corner, pushing open another door, and only stopping once they were safely ensconced inside what looked to be an empty conference room.
Then he brought their clasped hands to his mouth and pressed a kiss to the back of hers. “Hi,” he murmured.
She melted. “Hi.”
“You okay?”
He nodded, his thumb making small circles on the inside of her wrist, her body drifting toward his. “I’m sorry they cornered you.”
Angie blinked, remembered herself, and pulled her hand free. “You abandoned me to the wolves!” she accused, plunked her palms onto her hips. “You were all sweet and charming on the phone, and then you just threw me into the snake pit.”
Max’s expression dimmed. “The wives and girlfriends are actually really nice, once you get to know them.”
Angie paced away. “Of course, they are,” she said. “They were wonderful. Snake pit isn’t fair, I just . . . God, I’m so damn weird. I couldn’t even think of anything to say.” She lifted one hand, pressed it to her forehead. “And apparently, I make wrinkly faces. Fuck. What does that even mean?”
Max made a noise, and she whipped back around to see he was holding back laughter.
“Oh my God. You’re not seriously laughing. I made the worst impression.”
“You”—he giggled, the jerk actually giggled—“didn’t.”
Angie tried to hold on to her frustration.
She failed.
Because then she was laughing, too, bending at the waist and laughing so hard tears streamed down her cheeks. “Wrinkly . . . face . . .” she gasped out.
“Show her . . .” Max was almost hysterical.
Then he wasn’t.
Angie glanced up, held her breath as he closed the distance between them and reached up a hand. “Still okay if I touch you?” he asked, voice husky enough that all traces of humor left her.
It was all she could do to nod.
Max was . . . well, no man had ever asked to touch her before, and somehow that simple courtesy made it okay. There was also the fact that he was the first man since the attack to make her feel something. To lust and want and need.
She hadn’t felt that since the assault.
Okay, if she were being completely truthful, she hadn’t ever felt this draw to any man.
And then there were the texts, the calls, and conversations.
But it wasn’t just her body. Her heart felt as though she knew him.
Max’s thumbs were gentle as he swept away the tears from her cheeks. “So fucking beautiful,” he murmured. “I couldn’t look away when I saw you on that screen tonight.”
She started to shake her head. Beautiful wasn’t an adjective she could process.
She was just her, just normal, weird Angie.
His palms cupped her cheeks, stopped the shake mid-movement. His eyes locked onto hers. “Beautiful,” he said, more firmly this time.
Her lips parted.
In an attempt to form a protest? To plead for his mouth to slant across hers?
Yes. The second one.
Instead, Max just stared at her. As thou
gh he were memorizing her face or gazing past her eyes to see the depths of her soul.
Her tongue flicked out, wet the corners of her mouth.
His expression went hot.
But still, his lips stayed several inches from hers.
He tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear, the rough pads of his fingertips making her shiver. His breath was hot on her cheek. It smelled like cinnamon, and she fucking loved cinnamon.
“Max,” she murmured.
“Hmm?” he asked, fingers trailing down her throat, across her collarbone.
She shifted, thighs squeezing, the space in between them growing damp.
And Angie couldn’t hold back the words, her plea. Even though they were out of her comfort zone, even though she’d never said them to another man before.
Max made her feel things she’d never experienced before.
He pushed her, tore away those barriers separating her from the rest of the world.
From him.
So, she took one more leap that evening and said, “Kiss me.”
His mouth was on hers an instant later.
Eighteen
Max
She tasted like heaven and hell all mixed together.
Angie sighed the moment his lips touched hers, her body stiffening for a heartbeat before she melted against him, breasts soft against his chest, hips coming to rest against his.
He groaned, sliding his fingers from her cheeks into her hair, pulling her closer.
Her tongue tangled with his, her pelvis pressed against his erection, making stars flash behind his eyes.
It was incredible. It was everything.
But Max wanted more.
He wanted to strip her naked and fuck her right there on the conference table, to drop to his knees, spread her thighs wide and make her come with his tongue, and then he wanted to thrust home and push them both over the edge.
Which was exactly why he pulled away.
Angie wavered, and he caught her against his chest, both of them breathing hard.
“That was—” She shivered.
“Good?” he asked, not too steady himself. His head was spinning, his cock rock-hard. He’d never experienced a kiss like that. One touch of Angie’s mouth and his blood had threatened to evaporate from beneath his skin, his brain . . . hell, that body part was still struggling to make sense of it all.
