Page 37 of Tricky Puck

Shit. “That’s what you have to say?”

“That’s not an answer.” He glares again, but this glare is different. Is this a protective streak, like my uncles? No—nothing like my uncles. Call me a dreamer, but I’d bet my Granny’s farm—if she had one—that Link Milano is showing jealousy. Shit. I tamp down on the droplet of giddiness because, really? The last thing I need is another possessive, jealous man interfering in my life.

“It hardly matters since he won’t be there.” I don’t mind taunting Link, but the taunt has the opposite effect I expected. Did I forget for a second that I was dealing with Link, the hockey superstar, who no doubt has all kinds of cool ego to back him up and more ice in his veins than blood?

His expression shutters as soon as he recognizes the taunt for what it is.

“You’re running away to a cabin in the middle of nowhere to write songs.”

“Don’t say it.”

“Don’t say that you’re turning yourself into a cliché?”

I swat his shoulder—not enough force for him to send us into oncoming traffic—and try to hide my smile. Shit. Why does he get me? Does he get into everyone’s head, or is it just mine where he’s pulled up a lounger, leaned back with a bowl of popcorn, and made himself comfortable?

He pulls into an alley and parks at the back of a brick building directly in front of a sign that says No Parking.

I see his friend Sabien get out of a car nearby and then come around to help Cherry out. I wait in silence for some kind of decision or closure or something from Link to determine whether I stay or run. Then I turn to him. What I do should be up to me and no one else.

“I’m not staying. I’ll take an Uber back to my car and head up to the cabin now.”

He looks at me like he wants to shake me or kiss me—not quite sure. Either way, he shakes his head.

“No. You’re not. You should at least stay the night. It’s a long drive on dark, deserted roads, and you’re already tired from your drive up here.” He pauses, gives me a huge helping of his intense green eyes that almost makes my brain stop working—as if his eyes are weaponized and can sap the will from a woman. Hell, he probably can and does it regularly.

“Whatever else I might be, I’m not the kind of guy who would send a woman out into a dangerous situation.”

“Of course not,” I snort, getting my New York City mojo back. “You have a protective streak so wide I could see it with my eyes closed.” Shit. That made no sense.

He chooses at this moment to allow a smile because he knows I’ve lost it—lost this round of whatever game we’re playing. But then I remember how he said there are no losers in our game, and the flash of memory of that last orgasm is so real it shakes me up and gets my juices flowing. Shit.

He pushes his car door open, and I let myself out and step toward the back door, but he catches up with me before I get there. Jason and the short woman, who’s supposedly a team owner, are inside, along with Sabien and Cherry.

“Chase and Emery are right behind us,” he says to his friends. His hand touches my back lightly, but I can feel it and the branding iron heat through my jacket—which maybe isn’t a big deal because it’s flimsy against the cool New Hampshire night air.

He says to the guy in a whitish apron covering his impressive girth, “We have eight people tonight, Walter.”

Walter nods and winks like a pro. “Your table is ready. I had a premonition you would be in tonight. Great win, guys.” We land at the threshold of a room partially separated from the rest of the place with a big round wooden table. “I’ll be right back with an extra setting.”

He gives me a wink and a curious look before leaving, moving faster than I figured a man his size and age might. It must be the clean air up here.

After a nudge from Sabien, Link pulls out a chair for me and leans in to whisper in my ear. “Let’s keep this simple. We met, went out, and now you’re visiting. Nothing formal. Nothing about an engagement or marriage.”

I smile and nod—because what else can I do with all eyes on me—or it feels like they are? Sometimes, they are. I can feel the caged curiosity beating to escape in every glance from his friends.

“So, how did you two meet?” Cherry asks.

Before Link can answer, Jason laughs and jumps in.

“His grandma had a matchmaker set them up, and now they’re practically engaged⁠—”

“What the fuck, Jason?” I can feel Link’s fury as his plan to play it casual goes up in flames. I put a hand on his arm—an automatic gesture that I in no way pre-planned or would have ever done in a million years if my brain had any say in it.

He takes a deep breath and glances at my hand. But he doesn’t shake it off.

“What?” Jason says easily. “She’s here now, so the cat’s out of the bag.” He grins at me. “Welcome to the Portsmouth Whalers family, Delaney.” He shakes his head. “That matchmaker sure knew what the hell she was doing. Any chance I can hire her?”

He laughs, all the guys do, but I notice the petite team owner—I really need to find out her name—isn’t laughing. In fact, she looks like someone just stabbed her in the heart. Maybe with a Cupid’s bow from the way she looks at Jason. The other women notice, too.