“Oh,” I squeak. He’s so tall and huge in the oversized padding. “You played really well. You should get something.”
He drops the cones he’s carrying. They scatter at our feet.
“Maybe you want to select the walk-on music for the game? Maybe not Barbie, but dealer’s choice.”
He takes off the helmet. His black hair is plastered to his sweaty forehead. “I’ll take that, but I scored two points, so I think I get two prizes.”
“What do you want for your second prize?”
His rough glove comes up to cup the back of my head. “This.”
The first touch of his mouth is sharp, like blades on fresh ice.
He completely envelops me as he tips my head back so he can kiss me deep, kiss me like he owns me. He kisses like he skates—powerful, sure, dominant. I drag my fingers through his wet hair as I cling to him, his tongue licking into my mouth like the soul-stealing cold of the first breath of winter air.
I want to crawl under all the padding, rake my nails over the washboard abs hidden by the jersey.
Then he pulls back, just a breath, still close enough that I can count the flecks of steel in his eyes.
“Shit.” I gasp. “Maybe I should start sleeping with my players if it’ll make them win games.”
“Candy Cane, you let me fuck you, and I’ll win you a Stanley Cup.”
22
FLETCHER
“Stop trying to make Fletch happen—he’s not gonna happen,” Lawrence jokes.
“Ellie thinks I play good. She said I could pick the walkout song next game.” I preen.
“What? Fletch is happening! Two NHL goals!” Lawrence crows.
“One of them barely counts,” Jake argues. “It bounced off of Vidic’s helmet.”
I’d say I hate my family, but I’m still riding on the high of the win and the scoring and the kiss.
I kissed Ellie. My coach.Fake coach, because you’re a fake NHL player.It doesn’t feel fake, though.
“We need a progress report on Dana Holbrook.” Hudson frowns.
“Screw Dana.” Anderson crowds in. “What was it like being on the ice with Emil Maynard?”
“Who cares?” Talbot counters. “Zayne Murphy is so much better.”
“Um, last season?” He and Talbot start squabbling.
“Damn, he looked sick out there!”
“What’s his secret? Did he fix his diet?”
I glance up at Hudson. “Something like that.”
“Looks like I do actually know what I’m talking about.” Hudson smirks then grabs me by the collar of my jacket. “Our clients want an answer,” he growls. “You owe me—don’t forget.” He tosses me back on the couch.
I jump up and brush past him.
“You going to finish the job?”
