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He begins to skate toward the gate, when the rest of the team on the bench jump onto the ice, joining the Ice Kings players who’re already headed toward Rick. He must sense them coming, for he bends his head, tucks his stick under his arm, and races like the devil—or in this case, Ice Devils—are on his tale, which they are.
He makes it to the gate, and I’m sure he’s going to get off the ice before the others. But the one right behind, Finn, throws himself on Rick, who hits the floor with Finn on his back. The rest of them follow Finn’s lead, and it’s one heaving mass of arms and legs and sticks held out to the side. I wince. Hope they didn’t hurt Rick. Of course, they all wear protective gear, but I’ve seen how they block the opposition on the ice. I've also seen the various discolored patches and scars on Rick’s torso—not all of which comes from his brief military stint. The ice is no less dangerous than the battlefront, and the way this team has been fighting back the last few games since the face-off with the Sentinels makes it clear, this is a life-and-death situation for them.
I hadn’t realized how dangerous the game is; one wrong, misplaced step can result in serious injuries. Life-threatening injuries. I bite the inside of my cheek and peer through the glass at the heaving mass of men.
Then, Edward approaches them, his suit-clad figure incongruous among the jerseys. He’s also strapped on skates. What the—? Does Priest know how to skate? He's the GM of the team, so it's not entirely surprising, but I haven't seen him wearing skates before. He grabs the first guy, and with a strength I didn’t know he possessed, throws him off. Then the next guy. The third guy jumps off himself, then pulls the next guy off. The rest of them seem to get the memo, for they melt off.
I crane my head and see Rick’s figure immobile on the ground. Oh, no, is he okay? I begin to head in his direction, when he moves. I blow out a breath and watch as he rises to his feet.
He shakes his head as if to clear it, then turns and holds up his right fist. The guys on the team raise their own fists and cheer. Rick nods at Edward, then turns, and without hesitation, he finds me. All the noise, the yelling around me, the sight of everyone else fades. As if in a dream, I run toward the gate, reaching it at the same time as Rick. Without hesitation he scoops me up and throws me over his shoulder. The sound of cheering rises in decibels.
"What the—!" I huff, for he’s tapped my butt. He didn’t! And in front of everyone. I wriggle around, but his hold tightens, and then he’s walking toward the steps. "Rick, let me go!" I bring down my fists on his compression pants-covered rear-end. Strands of hair come free from my bun and flow over my face. I have a fleeting impression of the aisle, of people crowding in on us, but Rick doesn’t slow down. Then security guards fall into place and Rick picks up speed. He reaches the top of the aisle and takes a sharp left. The sound of the crowds fade away, Rick picks up speed, turns another corner.
"Let me go!" I cry out.
He doesn’t stop. He’s wearing his skates but that doesn’t seem to slow him down. He turns another corner, moves up a long corridor, then turns again. He enters a room and the door slams shut with the security team on the other side. My heart jumps into my throat. I know this man, trust him, but he’s not demonstrative. And carrying me over his shoulder in front of the entire world is very demonstrative and out of character for him. The hair on the back of my neck rises. My pulse rate speeds up until it feels like it’s echoing the sound of someone running. The blood flows to my head, and I feel woozy. "Let me go, Rick, right now or else—" I gasp, for he’s lowered me to my feet.
I take a step back, glance around to find we’re in one of the VIP rooms overlooking the rink, only it’s empty. Which is strange, because this is an important game. Unless… I shove the hair out of my eyes and glower at him. “Did you plan this?”
Through the gap in his helmet, his blue eyes flare. He doesn’t reply, but I read the answer in the stance of his body. “I can’t believe you planned this. Were you so sure of winning? So sure I’d be there in the stands waiting for you?”
He tips up his chin, then takes a step forward; I sidle back. He flexes his gloved hand and the threat in that movement shoots a shiver of excitement up my spine. I’m not turned on by the air of danger that clings to him, I’m not. But as he continues to close the distance between us, my entire body goes into a state of anticipation. I shuffle back until I hit the glass wall that looks down on the arena. Behind me, the sounds of the crowd rise. Music plays over the speakers. Then, an announcer reels off stats from the game.
"You need to be down there for the presentation." I swallow.
In reply, he moves one gloved hand over the other, tugs at the fastenings around the cuff, then pulls it off. The glove hits the ground, followed by the next. He flexes his big fingers, and I swallow.
I can’t take my gaze off those thick, fat digits. Not as thick or as fat as his cock, but almost as lethal when it comes to wringing pleasure from my pussy. My core clenches. I squeeze my thighs together, then curse myself for not wearing pants. Stupidly, I came dressed in my tightest skirt and jacket.
As always, he seems to read my mind, for his gaze drops to the space between my legs. He reaches up and tears off his helmet, and when he drops it to the carpeted floor, the dull thud reverberates around the space.
"Rick, you’re scaring me." I swallow.
He merely bares his teeth, and it’s not a smile. Or a grimace. It’s the sneer of a predator getting ready to claim his prey. He reaches up, tears off his skull cap, and his sweat-soaked hair falls over his forehead. My fingers tingle; I want to run them through the wet strands. He lets the cap drop to the floor, and when he cracks his neck, every cell in my body seems to stand to attention. His jaw tics, and his left eyelid twitches. He’s pissed at me, I have no doubt about it.
"I-I’m sorry I’ve avoided you the last couple of days."
His grin widens. And oh god, that’s scary. I’ve never seen him voluntarily offer a smile, so to see him grin is akin to watching a shark show its teeth. I gulp, push back against the glass. "Wh-what are you doing?"
In response, he reaches inside the pocket of his pants and pulls out a mask. A mask? He pulls it over his hair and face, and suddenly, it’s not Rick, but a scarier, more monstrous version of him standing over me.
"I-I didn’t know your hockey pants had a pocket." I attempt a smile, fail. "I-I guess you had them tailor-made?"
He cracks his neck, and the sound is like a bullet shot. My throat dries. My lower belly quivers. My nipples tighten until I’m sure they’re going to tear through my blouse. What does it say about me that I find this entire situation erotic? Scary, too, but also, very, very arousing.
I look past him at the door, and even though I can’t see his features, I swear, his smile widens.
"Umm, I’m not sure what you think you’re doing, but I’m going to go now."
He steps aside and gestures to the door, all casual-like, and that sends another spurt of excitement up my spine. I sidle forward, and he gives me more space. His body is relaxed. The crowd outside screams in excitement. He jerks his head toward the glass partition. That’s when I take off.
59
Rick
She leaps toward the door, and I give her a head start. Five, four, three, two… I jump forward. Before she can reach the door, I plant myself against it.
She skids to a halt, chest heaving, hair undone and framing her face. "Let me go," she pants.
