Benched: Gold Hockey Book 4

by Elise Faber

  “Torturing me?” He raised a brow when she grinned.

  “You like it.”

  “I do.”

  “So”—she tapped a finger to her chin—“when’s that kissing coming?”

  He opened his mouth, ready with another quip, then closed it and shook his head. Because puns and teasing and jokes didn’t matter. Not when his woman wanted him to kiss her. And so he brought his lips to hers and kissed her—soft, sweet, almost leisurely.

  “Now,” he told her, when he paused to let her breathe. “And forever.”

  She wrapped her good arm around his neck, rose up on tiptoe.

  “That I can live with.”

  And then he kissed her again.

  Epilogue

  Blue, Six Months Later

  Blue walked into Max’s backyard, his latest girl on his arm.

  He’d met her at the bar last night and they’d fucked like rabbits until the sun came up. Then they’d fucked some more.

  Now, he was making the requisite appearance at Max’s engagement party.

  He was happy for his friends . . . for all of them.

  But fuck, he was the last of the guys.

  The final holdout.

  The only single one.

  Which wasn’t really a fair assessment because there were other guys on the team who were single or divorced, but Blue wasn’t that close to them.

  Not like he was with Brit, Stefan, Blane, and Max.

  They had been his people from his rookie season, and they’d taken him under their respective wings.

  And now they were all married or engaged or had cute little babies.

  Yes, he got that he was younger than them, knew that he had plenty of time to sow his wild oats and still have a family.

  But all Blue knew was that it was getting damned old coming home to an empty house all the time.

  “There are kids here,” his date Bindi—or Bambi or Bobbi, because fuck if he could remember—said and her tone told him that she equated children with the seventh circle of hell.

  “Yeah,” he said. “The guys have a lot of kids.”

  Her face puckered with disgust, and suddenly Blue wasn’t remembering how good of a hand job Bindi or Bambi or Bobbi could give, but how happy Angie had been when Max had proposed on the Golden Gate Bridge.

  Blue wanted that.

  Not this.

  “You know what?” he said, taking Bindi or Bambi or Bobbi’s hand in his and tugging her toward the front of the house, while he pulled out his cell with his other. “This will be lame. Why don’t I text you later when I’m done?”

  Calling an Uber took seconds.

  Untangling the octopus Bindi or Bambi or Bobbi upon the car’s arrival took longer.

  Much longer.

  But finally, he managed to pack her into the car and sighed with relief as it drove away.

  Until he turned and saw her.

  Anna.

  Who always looked at him with glarey eyes and a pissy expression.

  “There’s my Ice Queen,” he said, moving past her and heading back to the party. He’d congratulate the couple then go the fuck back to his empty apartment.

  “Doesn’t it get old?” Anna asked, trailing after him.

  “Doesn’t what get old?” he countered, snagging a beer from a nearby table.

  “Being a fucking sleaze.”

  Blue froze then shook his head. “You don’t know me.”

  Anna rolled her eyes. “I know plenty of guys like you. Fuck anything that moves, never sleep with the same girl twice, and too wrapped up in your own damned cock to be a good lay.”

  She’d gotten his rage pretty ramped until the last statement.

  That last one though?

  It had tempered his anger.

  He was good in bed. Really fucking good. In fact, Blue made it a point to make sure anyone he slept with had a better time than him. And that wasn’t ego talking, sex just wasn’t fun for him if his partner didn’t orgasm at least twice.

  He was an overachiever, what could he say?

  Ah. Now there was his ego talking.

  Smirking, Blue tapped his chin. “Sounds like a personal problem to me. Maybe you’re too cold in the sack to enjoy yourself. Or maybe you freeze a guys’ cock off with your Ice Princess powers.”

  Anna huffed. “You’re unbelievable, you know that?”

  Blue jerked his chin toward the front of the house. “That’s what she said.”

  As Anna flounced off, Blue couldn’t stop himself from watching her ass, because as much as he teased her about being icy during their interactions, he had the feeling she was very much fire under all that frost.

  Not that he’d find out.

  He and Anna were oil and water, two tomcats fighting over territory or, metaphors aside, they just always managed to get on each other’s nerves.

  And while he couldn’t deny she was hot and gorgeous, Blue wanted a little more peace in his life when he found the right woman.

  He wanted a girlfriend who didn’t constantly poke and antagonize but was sweet and gentle and kind. Like Sara. Like Angie. Yes, that made him an egotistical asshole—that he wanted a pretty and nice girl at home—but there it was.

  Blue had enough stress in his career that he wanted to keep it simple at home.

  Who could fault him for that?

  He socialized for a while, congratulating the happy couple and wishing them the best, played with Max’s son, Brayden, on the trampoline for a bit—which turned out to be a lot longer than a bit because once one kid saw him use the platform to launch Brayden in the air, Blue suddenly was begged and pleaded by all the kiddos to have a turn.

  And then another.

  So, by the time he dragged his tired ass out of the trampoline, the party was breaking up.

  He said his goodbyes and headed for the driveway, pulling out his cell for Uber round two.

  “Baby Blues.” He turned, saw Anna getting into a Prius. “Need a ride?”

  He raised his brows. “You going to freeze my balls off?”

  A sexy smile. “You know it.”

  “I think I’ll take my chances with the Uber.”

  “Chicken.”

  Blue rolled his eyes. “Seriously?”

  “Buck-buck,” she clucked. “Buck-buck-buuuck.”

  “You’re unbelievable.”

  “You’re a chicken.” She sat down in the driver’s seat, started to close the door.

  Blue sighed, sought patience from heaven. It didn’t matter what she said.

  But then his eyes drifted back over to her car, and she was looking at him with that annoying ass smirk. “Fine,” he grumbled and stomped over to her Prius, opening the door and dropping down into the passenger’s seat with a huff.

  “Was that so terrible?” she teased.

  “The worst.”

  Anna flicked on the radio, filling the airwaves with classic rock. Which surprised him—he’d figured she would be more of a pop girl. But before he could ask her about it, she turned up the volume and backed out of the driveway.

  He had to shout directions to his place over the noise, but that was probably her intention. And it wasn’t like he lived far or that they were complicated.

  Hell, he should probably be grateful that she’d saved him the extra aggravation of having to converse with her.

  Ten minutes later, she pulled into his driveway and put the car into park.

  Only then did she turn down the volume.

  “Your humble abode,” she said, sweeping a hand toward the little cottage tucked into a hillside south of San Francisco. It was ridiculously expensive and still mostly empty, but it was home and, as an army brat, probably the most settled he’d ever been in his whole life.

  “Yup,” he said, reaching for the handle. “Thanks for the ride.”

  “Try not to go out and get a fresh bimbo to ride tonight. I hear STIs on are the rise in the city.”

  Blue sighed, turned back to face her. “Really?”


  She shrugged, smirk teasing the edges of her mouth, drawing his focus to the lushness of her lips. “Just watching out for Max’s teammate.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Not hardly.”

  “Okay, how about I’m trying to prevent you from spreading STIs to the female populace.”

  “I’m clean, and I’m smart,” he told her. “Condoms all the way.”

  “Ew.”

  Except there was something about the way she said it that made Blue stiffen and take notice. Because . . . he stared into her eyes, watched as the pale blue darkened to royal, saw her lips part, and her suck in a breath.

  Holy shit.

  “You’re attracted to me.”

  Her jaw dropped. “No fucking way,” she said, too quickly, pink dancing on the edges of her cheekbones. “You’re delusional.”

  Blue got close.

  Real close.

  Anna licked her lips.

  And fuck it all, he kissed that luscious mouth.

  —Breakaway coming September 15th. Preorder your copy at books2read.com/BreakawayGold

  * * *

  Did you miss any of the Gold Hockey books?

  Find information about the full series at

  www.elisefaber.com/gold-hockey-series

  or at Amazon

  Keep reading for a peek of each of the books below!

  Blocked

  Gold Hockey Book #1

  Get your copy at books2read.com/Blocked

  * * *

  CHAPTER ONE

  Brit

  * * *

  The first question Brit always got when people found out she played ice hockey was “Do you have all of your teeth?”

  The second was “Do you, you know, look at the guys in the locker room?”

  The first she could deal with easily—flash a smile of her full set of chompers, no gaps in sight. The second was more problematic. Especially since it was typically accompanied by a smug smile or a coy wink.

  Of course she looked. Everybody looked once. Everyone snuck a glance, made a judgment that was quickly filed away and shoved deep down into the recesses of their mind.

  And she meant way down.

  Because, dammit, she was there to play hockey, not assess her teammates’ six packs. If she wanted to get her man candy fix, she could just go on social media. There were shirtless guys for days filling her feed.

  But that wasn’t the answer the media wanted.

  Who cared about locker room dynamics? Who gave a damn whether or not she, as a typical heterosexual woman, found her fellow players attractive?

  Yet for some inane reason, it did matter to people.

  Brit wasn’t stupid. The press wanted a story. A scandal. They were desperate for her to fall for one of her teammates—or better yet the captain from their rival team—and have an affair that was worthy of a romantic comedy.

  She’d just gotten very good at keeping her love life—as nonexistent as it was—to herself, gotten very good at not reacting in any perceptible way to the insinuations.

  So when the reporter asked her the same set of questions for the thousandth time in her twenty-six years, she grinned—showing off those teeth—and commented with a sweetly innocent “Could’ve sworn you were going to ask me about the coed showers.” She waited for the room-at-large to laugh then said, “Next question, please.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  This was it, the call up of her life.

  And Brit was sitting in the parking lot of the arena, unable to force her fingers off the steering wheel.

  “Get it together,” she muttered. “Or you will suck on the ice.”

  Harsh, probably. But the truth.

  Still, the words were enough. Enough to get her body in motion, to pop her door, and walk around to the trunk of her ten-year-old Corolla.

  Her gear was shoved inside the small space like a sausage threatening to burst from its casing. Brit grabbed the strap and hauled out her bag before slinging it across her shoulder.

  “You know they have guys for that.”

  The voice made her jump, and her gaze shot up, then up some more until she stared directly into the eyes of the captain of the San Francisco Gold, Stefan Barie.

  The slight tinge of a Minnesotan accent made her shiver.

  Uh-oh.

  And seriously, only a hockey fan would find a Minnesotan accent sexy.

  He smiled. “It’s the coldest-winter-is-summer-in-San-Francisco thing.” When she frowned, he cocked his head. “The wind chill.”

  What?

  “You know? Mark Twain?”

  Her brows pulled together. “I know who Mark Twain is, and I’m familiar with the quote. Though it’s a common misnomer, and Twain didn’t actually say it. Still, it is windy in the city . . . I just don’t know why you think I’m cold, and it’s not—” She shook herself. What was the point in her rambling? “Never mind.”

  This was what her mind did.

  Every single time.

  It drifted, focused on mundane details she then couldn’t prevent from bursting free.

  No surprise that once they were free, her conversations were punctuated with awkward pauses.

  Like the one happening now.

  Brit sighed. Give her an interview any time. Let her spout off sound bites to the camera and no problem. It was the real life human interactions that were terrible.

  “No,” Stefan said. “Tell me. What is it?”

  It was only because he seemed genuinely interested that she answered.

  “It’s not summer.”

  “What?”

  Another sigh. Yep. Way to go, genius. “It’s technically fall. Summer has been over for six-and-a-half days.”

  There was a moment of quiet, a long, uncomfortable pause during which neither of them spoke.

  Then surprisingly—shockingly—Stefan laughed. Her heart gave a little squeeze, her brain said, Uh-oh, but then before she could really panic, he spoke, “You’re absolutely right. Now come on.” Snagging her sticks, he nodded toward the arena. “I’ll show you the ropes.”

  –Get your copy at books2read.com/Blocked

  * * *

  Backhand

  Gold Hockey Book #2

  Get your copy at books2read.com/Backhand

  * * *

  CHAPTER ONE

  Sara

  * * *

  The light was perfect . . . until it wasn’t.

  Sara glared up at the large, brick-wall style shadow that was marring her perfect view.

  Did the person not understand just how freaking long she’d had to wait for the moon to peek out from behind the fog, to gild the rotunda at the Palace of Fine Arts and reflect off the water in perfect symmetry?

  She clutched her pencil—the same one that had been sketching furiously just seconds before—and leaned to the left, trying to get one more glimpse of the scene, to commit it to memory before it was . . .

  Gone.

  Son of a—

  “I know you.”

  The male voice was chocolate ice cream with hot fudge and marshmallow fluff, warm sand sifting between her toes, the perfect ending to a dramatic rom-com all rolled into one.

  The hairs on her nape rose, and she shivered, wanting to snuggle into the sound, to pull it close like a cuddly sweatshirt—

  At least until alarm flared to life, and she remembered she was totally alone.

  Suddenly, skulking around the Marina District in the middle of the night seemed like a horrible idea.

  Her sketchbook fell to the ground, the book light that had been clipped to the top making a sickening crack as it hit the concrete and went out. She blinked, trying to get her eyes to adjust, but darkness descended as fog swallowed the moon back up. She gripped her pencil like a knife and held it threateningly . . . or at least as threateningly as a pencil can be held. “Back off.”

  Her attempt at a growl, a warning.

  And not a very scary one at that, if the man’s reaction was anything to go by.

  A soft chuckle
was the only thing she heard before the pencil was plucked from her fingers. Sara opened her mouth to scream, but instead of jumping her like she’d half-expected, he sank into a crouch and handed the pencil back.

  “You shouldn’t be out here by yourself,” he said.

  “Noted,” Sara muttered and shoved it into her pocket before bending to grab her sketchbook and light. “And you shouldn’t ruin a perfect setup.”

  A flash of white teeth penetrated the darkness. “Noted,” he said and put a palm to his knee, as though to push himself to standing.

  Her eyes dropped. They’d adjusted enough to see his hands. And those hands were gorgeous. Long, lean fingers and neatly trimmed nails with enough character to make them interesting. She flipped to a blank page of her sketchbook, flicked the switch on the light, and spread his fingers on her thigh. The contrast, the shadows, the scars on his knuckles. His hand was the perfect juxtaposition and she had to get it on paper.

  “Umm—”

  “Shh.” Her pencil flew across the page. It made a soft scratching sound as she worked, outlining, shading in the image, blending and building until his hand was captured on paper.

  She didn’t know how long she worked, just that when she’d finished, her neck ached and her legs were stiff and . . . a strange man had his hand on her thigh.

  Her breath caught, and she looked up.

  He was beautiful. Oddly familiar with his face half-illuminated in the lamplight, eyes as dark as ink, several days of scruff on his cheeks and chin, nose just slightly askew, as though it had been broken a time or two. And was that a bruise just above his right cheekbone?

  Sara didn’t have a chance to look closer.

  His fingers flexed on her thigh, and every one of her thoughts beelined straight for that particular body part. She was in jeans, so it wasn’t like he was touching her skin. But he might as well have been.

  The warmth of his palm seeped through the thick material, made her quads flex. He was huge, his hand spanning the width of her thigh easily, and just the kind of man she liked. Big and strong, tall and wide-shouldered. Here was a man who could do all the clichés: protect her, shelter her, weather proverbial storms.