Ten first dates, p.7
Ten First Dates, page 7
Just ahead of me is Stanzi, talking people into coming to the steakhouse, because it’s not mandatory, not like team dinners the night before a game. And everyone knows Stanzi will have something fun planned for after we eat.
Am I going? Fuck yes. The only way we survive this year is if we celebrate the wins. Heart? That comes from team bonding.
I clap our captain on the back. “Come on, bud. It’ll be a good time.”
“Can’t, man. Gotta get back to the hotel and call my kids.” He glances at his watch. “It’s bedtime in Arizona.”
There are a few others who bow out. A lot of guys don’t drink on the road. I’ve never found that a good time impacts my ability to play, but I respect those who are diligent about things like diet and getting a good night’s sleep.
Me? I’ll go to bed buzzed at three in the morning after partying with the young bucks.
The crowds have dissipated by the time we’re outside. It’s too cold to linger on the street, so we hustle to the restaurant. The hostess greets us with polite familiarity. We aren’t the only visiting team that comes here. Most probably do, unless a player is from Buffalo and can convince their team to go to an old favourite haunt.
We eat first, in a private dining room. I have a steak with a side of charred broccoli and a double of rye on the rocks. Two of the girls Stanzi has on speed dial, local social media influencers, join us, and they talk up a gathering they’ve organized at our hotel. I’m always antsy after a game, and it takes a while to wind down. Sure, I’m up for a party.
I’m always up for a party, but I just got dumped. Marsh is on the prowl tonight.
We file into the suite, the younger guys going ahead of me. It’s full of people, and there are drinks everywhere.
I’m about to shrug out of my overcoat when a woman in an Arizona jersey bumps into me on her way to the door. I recognize her winter hat. I’m wearing her winter hat.
“Nice toque,” I call after her, my gaze lingering on the glossy brown hair sliding out from beneath the hat.
She glances back, doesn’t reply. That’s weird. The easy grin I give her—the Marsh classic—should at least warrant me a flustered smile or a shy flutter of her lashes.
Nothing?
I glance at Stanzi’s friend. “Is she okay?”
All I get is a shrug, so I follow her into the hall. The last thing we need is drama because a party we attended went sideways.
She’s standing in the hall, digging in a little leather cross body purse just big enough for a phone and some credit cards.
“Everything okay?”
“Yep.” She doesn’t look up. Her distractingly smooth hair curtains her face, and my fingers itch to hook the strands over her ear so I can see her better.
“The party’s just started.”
“Yeah, I’m gonna bounce.” She lifts her head and I get my first good, long look at her. Wide, dark eyes with lush lashes. Tawny skin, pink lips, and a confident gaze that challenges me to argue with her.
So I do. “Got somewhere better to be?”
“Yeah.” She pauses a beat for emphasis. “My bed. It’s getting late.”
“It’s not even midnight.”
“Some of us work for a living.”
Her jersey suggests she just watched me work the hell out of the puck for sixty minutes. But that attitude zings anyway. “Okay, so you’re not a puck bunny.”
“I’m—do you know how dismissive that term is? Those people are your fans.” She gestures back at the suite.
She was the only one in there wearing my jersey.
“Fans of my dick, maybe. Not my game.” Wow, Marsh, way to keep it classy.
She clearly has the same reaction. “Well, I’m a fan of neither.”
I step closer. “Your sweater says otherwise.”
“I’m a fan of hockey jerseys. Not the men who wear them.”
God, the way she slices those words through the air, it’s something else. I rock my jaw back and forth. “Wow.”
“Have a nice night, Mr. Hot Shot.”
“Hang on, hang on…” I’m laughing as I jog to keep up with her. Can she tell I’m not all the way sober? That double shot and the fact I skipped carbs has loosened my tongue a little too much. Should have had some potatoes. “I am having a nice night now—with you.”
She shoots me a look of disbelief. “Do you get off on being insulted?”
“Not usually. Why are you so pissed? We just got here.”
“That’s…those girls have been waiting for more than an hour.”
“They don’t seem to mind.” Nobody ever minds. The players need to eat after a game. Doesn’t she know that?
“Well, I mind.”
“I can see that.” I scruff my hand against my jaw. “Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s probably not true. Sounds like there’s a fun story there, Jersey Girl.”
CHAPTER THREE
Harper
I stop abruptly, enjoying the way he almost bumps into me. I’ve surprised him. Good. I lean back against the wall and cross my arms over my chest. I don’t miss the way his gaze drops. I’m wearing a shapeless jersey, but that doesn’t stop him from imagining my tits as whatever he likes. Not good. He’s exactly who I thought I’d meet tonight.
This was a mistake. “Go back to your party.”
“It’s not my party.” He tips his head towards the elevator. “Can I walk you to your room?”
“I’m not going to my room.”
“But you work for a living and it’s late,” he teases.
“I’m going to the bar for a stiff drink and a re-evaluation of my life choices that brought me to this point.”
“Sounds fun. Can I tag along?” God, he doesn’t give up, does he?
Something about the obnoxiously charming smile on his face gets to me. Not in a good way. But in a this is your chance kind of way.
I throw my hands in the air. “Are you buying?”
“Sure.”
“Then be my guest.”
He gestures for me to lead the way. “I’m Kieran, by the way.”
“I’m aware.”
“Nice to meet you, Aware.”
I laugh despite myself, and he flashes that panty-melting grin again. He knows what he’s doing. Well, girl, you wanted the full hockey player experience. Now you’re getting it.
In for a penny, in for a pound. “You come here often?”
“Once or twice a year.” He shrugs.
I actually knew that answer. This will be his only game here all year, because he’s been traded into a different division. When he played for Montreal, he’d have visited here more often.
Details I shouldn’t know.
“How about you?” He does another leisurely look down my jersey. “You said you like hockey sweaters. That suggests a collection.”
Why did I tell him that? “I’ve come to a few games here.”
“But you’re not a Buffalo fan.”
“I’m not a hockey fan.”
“Sure.”
I don’t think I like the way he says that. Or the way he ghosts his hand over the small of my back as we step off the elevator. I also side-eye how he talks us into a private corner booth and has a bartender snapping to attention to serve us, even though I did want a drink. We both order beer. He hangs up his overcoat, and we put our matching toques on the far side of the table.
He makes a joke about the hats, and it’s all just so…practiced. He’s good at this, picking up a girl after the game.
I don’t like anything about Kieran Marsh, I decide. That feels better, firming that up in my head. This is nothing more than a social experiment. I’m curious about what his life is like, what he does after a game. That’s all.
“So tell me about yourself.” He stretches his arm across the back of the booth. A clear invitation to lean in, which I’m not going to accept.
I lean back instead. Harper, what are you doing? His arm is warm, even through the suit jacket. The full experience. Just how far am I willing to take a terrible idea? “I don’t want to tell you anything about myself.”
“Not your name.”
I shake my head.
“Your job?”
Another refusal.
He grins.
Fuck. I feel that grin deep in my belly. That’s a dangerous smile that promises to pull all sorts of secrets out of me tonight if I’m not careful.
“You’re full of mysteries, aren’t you?”
I puff out my cheeks. “I’m thirsty.”
“All right. We can work with that. What else do you like to drink?”
Water and coffee to get me through twelve-hour shifts at the hospital, where I am an ordinary girl who doesn’t live this kind of life. “Mostly just beer. Wine with a nice meal. Tequila, when I want to loosen up.”
His eyes are hazel, I realize, because he’s a bit closer than before. Not light brown, but glittering chunks of granite flecked with green and yellow. “Is that what you need tonight?”
I take a long sip of beer. It’s good. Safe, reliable. Familiar. I don’t want familiar. I want to lose myself in the strangeness of this moment. “Yeah, I think so.”
His fingertips graze my shoulder. “You sure?”
I’ve never been less sure of anything in my life. I twist and wave down our bartender friend.
When I turn back, Kieran’s gaze sticks on my mouth for a second, before flicking back up to meet my eyes. “If we’re not going to talk about you, then what do you want to know about me?”
“You do this often?”
“Depends what this is.”
“Let a girl insult you while you buy her drinks?”
“Never.”
I smirk. “I won’t let you make me feel special.”
He laughs. “I’m picking that up, loud and clear. But I gotta say, the scowl is special.”
The bartender arrives to take our tequila shot order, so I don’t have to respond to that right away. He’s not going to remember me after tonight. I’m just another girl in just another city.
But I’ll remember tonight forever. I just need to keep that memory in perspective. Part out-of-character adventure, part cautionary tale.
Never fall for a hockey player.
It’s been the unspoken rule of my entire life. I’m not going to break it tonight.
“I’ll tell you what’s special,” I whisper once we’re alone again. “Those toques.”
He grins.
It’s a peace offering, and a subject change. “What are the odds, right?”
“I know. And then it turns out you like tequila, too?”
“I’m the perfect guy.” Now he’s smirking. And it’s better like this. Playful banter trumps awkward honesty when you’re angling toward a one-night stand. And I’m pretty sure that is where I want the night to end.
I’ve never done this before—I’m little Miss Monogamy, with long stretches of being little Miss Celibacy—but if anyone is worth breaking all my rules for, it’s probably a guy who doesn’t mind my brittle edges.
That there’s no way he’ll ever see me again helps, too. I can be anyone I want to be tonight—and it’s not my mother’s daughter, who isn’t allowed to like hockey. It’s the girl who in the jersey who might not like players, but secretly loves the game.
Our shots arrive. Kieran doesn’t even look at the bartender. “What are we drinking to, Jersey Girl?”
“To not going to bed at midnight.”
The corner of his mouth curves up. “And a walk on the wild side?”
“Maybe.”
“All right.” He lifts his shot glass. “To the early hours of tomorrow, then.”
I laugh and we clink our shot glasses together. The tequila burns, making my eyes water, but on the other side is a delicious warmth that makes me feel like—if only for tonight—I might be the perfect girl, too.
He loosens his tie. I notice a scar on his knuckle, a little slice of white on otherwise tan skin. How much of him is equally tan, in the middle of winter?
Heat swarms through me as I imagine the tequila working its magic, getting us—me—to a point where I might find out.
He clears his throat, and I drag my gaze back to his face.
“So, were you actually cheering for us tonight?” He shifts, ghosting that scarred knuckle against the arm of my jersey. “Or is this just luck of the draw?”
“I just like the game. I don’t usually care who wins.” But tonight I guess I was cheering for them. Maybe because they’re last in their division right now. Maybe because they played some good hockey tonight. I don’t know why, exactly.
His lips tug to the corner again. “Usually, huh?”
He doesn’t miss much.
I shrug and smile. “You played well.”
“That’s high praise from Jersey Girl.”
I laugh and grab my beer. “Yeah, it is.”
“I’m glad I impressed you on the ice.” His gaze sinks into my skin like he’s planning to look at me a good, long while. The unspoken addendum is, now I plan to impress you off the ice.
He’s already doing that.
Damn him.
I keep my eyes locked on him as I take a drink. His question feels important. Were you actually cheering for us tonight?
Not many people are cheering for his team right now.
I set my glass down and swipe my thumb down the moisture condensing on the outside. Wipe that bit of wet against my other hand. Harper, what are you doing?
“I wanted you to win,” I finally admit.
His eyes glint sharply. “Well, that makes two of us.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Kieran
There are a lot of rules to follow when you’re a professional athlete who likes to get naked with new friends.
Always be aware of the possibility of being recorded—especially in public.
Always be clear about boundaries. This is just one night.
Always, always, always use protection—your own, not hers.
And don’t do too many tequila shots if you want to get it up. Not that I have any concerns about my dick performing tonight. Ever since I followed Jersey Girl out of the suite, my cock has been wide awake and ready for action.
Put me in, coach.
We do two shots, a half hour apart, and finish our beers as we talk about this and that. Nothing, really, but it feels like everything. She’s curious, my not-a-hockey-fan superfan. She doesn’t ask a lot of questions, though. It’s almost like she knows that we get questions fired at us all the time. Instead, she leads the conversation in a way I’m pretty sure I’d still find clever if I was all the way sober. She tells me she likes my suit, and somehow I’m telling her about the magazine shoot. She talks about hitting Trader Joe’s tomorrow on her way home, because her home town doesn’t have one, and I’m confessing all the things I miss about living in Montreal. She says things like, “that must be hard,” and “that sounds like unexpected fun,” at just the right moment, and I’m telling her another story.
It’s clever, and excellent misdirection. As we head for the elevators, I realize I still don’t know much of anything about her, other than how fucking pretty she is, and that I love the sound of her voice.
“What floor are you on?”
She leans over and presses the button.
Two floors below my room.
I don’t press my button, though.
She smiles and steps back. I want to follow her. Press her against the wall of the elevator and take our first kiss, but there are cameras in here and I’m well trained.
As we step off the elevator, though, she brushes against me, and somehow my arm winds up around her waist. That feels so good, I don’t let go.
I’m not sure she’s going to invite me in until we’re at the door to her room. My hand is still resting on her hip, a possessive hold she doesn’t seem to mind, and she takes her time digging out her room key.
When she presses it into my free hand, I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.
Silence swells around us as I tap it to the door. The bolt slides open, then we’re both pushing on the handle at the same time.
As soon as we’re through the door, I drop my overcoat and our matching toques in the closet, then I press her against the wall. “My safe word is avocado. You can do anything you want to me.”
She laughs, low and husky. “You’re the one pinning me to the wall, Hot Shot.”
That I am. And I’ll let her go if she isn’t all the way into it. I lean in, but not so close that I can’t read her expression. Naked desire blinks back at me. Still…booze has gotten us this far. Gotta check that we’re on the same page. “I’m going to kiss you.”
She surges against me, a little fury, and our mouths meet in the middle. She tastes like a bar mint and laughter, like mystery and unexpected fun. And she kisses like the girl next door, all tentative licks and smiles.
Small-town girl, I remind myself. Be gentle with this one.
The tequila may have been a mistake. But we were in it together, and as I explore her mouth and all the way she likes to be tasted, her tongue gets bolder.
My cock thickens with every stroke, and when she latches onto my lower lip and sucks, I peel my suit jacket off.
She takes care of my tie.
I ruck up her jersey enough to palm her ass through her leggings, then drift higher. I find bare skin at her waist, and groan so deeply she thumps her head back against the wall.
I take that opportunity to kiss her neck. Here she tastes like sugar and a sheen of winter exertion, that glorious I’ve spent all evening cheering in a cold arena, come fuck me taste I think I won’t be able to get enough of. And her scent…
I inhale deeply, needing more of Jersey Girl imprinted on my brain. Her hair smells like flowers and something richer, something like sinful promise.
If a master artist painted us right now, me in my suit, hunched over her, licking her neck as I grope her under her hockey sweater, the painting might be called, A Good Girl Doing Bad Things.
“We should talk, before we…” she pants in my ear.
