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I force myself not to smile, even a little bit.
“I’m going back to practice now.”
Shawn gives me another apologetic look and then starts leading Indie toward the rink entrance they came through. She turns to leave, then whips back around to face me.
“You are a pus-filled sore on the asshole of humanity, do you know that?” she yells. “Eat shit, Pike Morgan!”
I look away and shake my head, not responding to the snickers from my teammates who have been watching this whole thing go down. Fuckers.
I’m not used to having my ass chewed. That was ridiculous. What a waste of an otherwise very hot woman.
When I skate past a bunch of teammates, they predictably start chirping at me.
“Pike, you’re just a sore on the ass of humanity, not a pus-filled one,” someone says.
“You do look exactly like a pus-filled sore I got on my chest once. That shit was nasty.”
I flip the bird in the direction of the entire group. It’s bullshit that the exotic little spitfire who just dressed me down in front of my team thinks I stole her grandma’s ring. I’m pretty sure I couldn’t convince that chick the sky is blue, though.
Women. Can’t live with ’em, can’t reason with ’em.
My teammate, Kingston Bryant, defenseman for the Saints, tips his chin at me and skates over as I’m grabbing my gear from the bench.
“Hey, man,” he says. “What the hell was that?”
“Just a woman being irrational. Shocker.”
“Do you know her?”
I shake my head. “First time I’ve ever met her.”
He laughs. “You make quite the impression, dude.”
“I guess.”
“I can’t wait to see you try to get her in bed.”
I give him a look that says, Are you fucking kidding me?
He puts his hands up in mock surrender. “Hey, I’m not the one who ran my mouth about being able to get any woman in bed. That was you. And she appears to be a woman, so work your magic, Houdini.”
Kingston and I have had a running bet for the past few months about whether I can get any woman I want to sleep with me. I wasn’t being arrogant when I told him I could. I’d just had too much to drink.
Okay, maybe it was a little arrogant. But it’s also true. Women who want to be fucked by a man who means it are drawn to me like flies to shit. They see the tats, piercings, and pro athlete body, and their panties drop.
Don’t get me wrong. Am I the kind of guy a woman wants to bring home to meet her parents? Or take shopping hand in hand like a pet and its owner? Fuck no. But for a toe-curling night in the sack, I’m ideal.
“I’m willing to try,” I say, though I have no idea how I’ll be able to seduce the woman who just called me a pus-filled sore on the asshole of humanity. “But if I do it, it’s gonna cost you a lot more than a steak dinner.”
Kingston laughs. “Name your price. And your timeline.”
I consider that this may be the biggest challenge, outside of hockey, I’ve ever faced. If I manage to succeed, I want Kingston to feel the pain of defeat.
“You have to clean my house once a week for…three months,” I say. “I’ll keep paying my housekeeper, but it’ll be like a paid vacation. I’m talking scrubbing my toilets and folding my underwear—all of it.”
Kingston hesitates for just a second before saying, “I’ll accept that bet as long as you do the same for me if you lose.”
Shit. I hate cleaning. And even I’ll admit the odds aren’t in my favor with Indie Garrison. I’m too proud to back down, though.
“I want six months,” I say, extending my hand. “Six months from today to get her to sleep with me.”
Kingston grins and shakes my hand. “Done. I can’t wait to see you scrubbing my toilets with your toothbrush.”
He skates away for a practice drill, leaving me staring at the spot where Indie was standing just a few minutes ago.
If I get stuck cleaning Kingston’s house for three months, I’ll never live it down. But if I win this bet, I’ll get my own house cleaned and, possibly even better, I’ll get to turn Indie’s scowl of disdain into an “O” of pleasure.
She sure as fuck looks like she needs it.
Chapter Five
Indie
* * *
“Drink dat tea, Mommy. Drink it.”
Nolan passes me an empty plastic teacup and I absently bring it to my lips, pretending to sip from it.
“Mmm. It’s good, but it needs a little more milk.”
I set the cup down and Nolan pours some pretend milk into it, then reaches into several invisible dishes, pulling out a pinch of this and a dab of that and adding them to my cup. Playing pretend is one of his favorite games these days.
