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“You wouldn’t be another conquest, and like I said, no one will ever find out. It will be our little secret.”
Taking a step back, I inch toward the door. How do I respond when my body and mind are not in sync, battling one another? “I don’t want to be your side piece. That’s not my style. I’m not like you.”
“Then, be my girlfriend.” His voice and his facial expression match, but I’m not convinced I’m anything more to him than his next screw.
My mouth opens in shock. “Your what? No, I don’t think so. You don’t date women. I’d be shocked if you could commit to me for more than a few days.”
“I’ve been in Philly for almost two weeks, and I haven’t been with another woman.”
I laugh and fold my arms across my chest. “You’re delusional. Have you developed amnesia since I found you with a half-naked stripper on your lap?”
“I didn’t have sex with her, so that doesn’t exactly count.”
Rolling my eyes, I turn away from him and walk out of the gym and into the living room. He follows behind me, and before I can protest, he clutches my arm and spins me around so that we’re facing each other. My heart races once our eyes meet. He’s gorgeous and sweet, and he whispers everything I need to hear at night to fall back to sleep. The Alex I know is different.
“Just give me a chance, Charlotte,” he pleads, slipping his fingers between mine. “I like you, and I think you like me, too. Tomorrow, I want you to come to my game and then let me take you out on a date before I leave.” I’m speechless, and before I can answer him, he says, “Please.”
Alex Parker is begging me to go out with him. Never in a million years would I have ever believed that he would resort to such a thing.
How can I say no?
I bite down on my lip, mulling it over. “What’s the worst that can happen?”
He kisses my cheek and slaps me on the butt. “That’s the spirit, Coach.” Then, he walks toward his bedroom without looking back.
Fuck. Me. I am in trouble.
The Wells Fargo Center is packed, and with the Flyers playing against Pittsburgh, the arena is mostly a sea of orange, white, and black jerseys, hats, and jackets with a sprinkling of white, black, and yellow Penguins gear. It’s so cold in here that my nipples are poking a hole through my bra.
Or maybe it’s the fact that Alex skates up to the Plexiglas and mouths, You look hot.
That’s because I’m wearing your jersey, I want to yell, but I know he wouldn’t hear me.
He skates away before I even have the chance to give him the finger.
He insisted I wear his jersey instead of my usual vintage Ron Hextall. At first, I said no because this was something a girlfriend would do and also because I didn’t want him to think that, by wearing his number, we were back in high school and going steady. While he might look like the prom king, we’re adults, and I’m not one to allow a man to stake his claim to me. Plus, the winter jacket I’m wearing covers his number, so no one will ever know.
After another night of waking in Alex’s arms, I feel such a strong emotional bond to him that I almost forget he’s a bad boy and that I want him to do bad things to me. But I have rules when it comes to clients. I’m not sure why I agreed to give him a chance. Every time I’m near him, it’s like I’m under his spell, and every time he smiles, I lose my train of thought.
“So,” the blonde sitting next to me with long, curly hair says to me as she clamps down on my wrist, “how long have ya’ll been dating?”
Without hesitation, I peel my eyes from Alex, who’s so graceful on the ice, even with his large frame, that he makes it appear effortless. I turn to my seatmate and nonchalantly shake her hand from my wrist by shifting in my chair. “Oh, we’re not dating. I’m Alex’s agent. I couldn’t turn down free tickets to a Flyers-Pens game.”
“Well, I can’t say that I blame you.” Her Southern accent is thick, and she really has the Southern belle thing going for her.
I wouldn’t be surprised if she’d won a few beauty pageants in her day.
“Spence has been looking forward to this game for weeks.”
She calls her husband by his last name. That’s odd but also not completely crazy when I refuse to answer to Charlotte, except for when I hear Alex whispering it in my ear at night to wake me from my nightmares. He doesn’t like to call me Coach. I can tell by the way the word rolls off his tongue that he’d prefer to use my real name. I’m not ready for that.
When I met Jamie at my first foster home, I wouldn’t respond when he called me Charlotte, which is how I ended up being Charlie. Not long after, I became Coach.
In a short amount of time, my opinion of Alex is changing, mostly because of our late-night chats. And, now, I’m sitting next to Barbie and the rest of the wives, feeling out of place. I should be up in a club box with Jamie in a nice comfy seat, eating hot dogs and drinking beer. That’s where I belong. Not down here with the manicured beauty queens who bat their eyelashes every time their men skate past them.
“You’re a sports agent. How cool. I never followed hockey until I met my hubby.”
If I hadn’t known she was Girard Spencer’s wife, I would’ve thought she was a puck bunny. Her tits are falling out of a low-cut black top, and she’s sporting a pair of super-tight matching jeggings and six-inch heels.
