Daring the Defender (Wittmore U Hockey #3)

Chapter 10

10

R eid

I’ve always suspected it, but after the last hour with Shelby I know for a fact, I’m a glutton for punishment.

I blame Axel. He never should have told me his sister is off-limits. It’s like waving a red flag in front of a bull and expecting him not to come running. Despite my reputation as a ‘good guy’ I’ve always had a streak of defiance. Ask my foster parents–the seven homes I was in before the Wilders took me in. In home number three, Mrs. Williams told me not to touch the cookie jar after baking a fresh batch of peanut butter chocolate chip cookies. In home number five, Mr. Case told me not to mess with his tools, yet left the hammer on top of the chest. And in number seven, The McMurry’s made it clear the computer was for “family” only, but stupidly left the security password as 1234, making it impossible to resist.

Shelby Rakestraw is like all three of those, but smells good and has an innocent, don’t mess-her-up vibe that is increasingly hard to resist. Especially while wearing my jacket.

“Where are we going next?” she asks, arranging the bags on the floorboards. “Didn’t you say you had an errand?”

Damn. I was hoping she’d forgotten that.

“Yeah, I need to make one quick stop before heading back to campus.”

The studio isn’t far from where we are, but it is in a more industrial area. I pull the truck in front of the little brick building. I’m about to tell Shelby to stay in the car, but she’s already got the door open and has hopped to the ground.

“So what is this place?”

“A metalsmith studio.”

“Metalsmith?” she repeats, as I press the security buzzer. I look up into the security camera and wave. “You mean like–” The door unlocks and I pull it open. One step inside and she finishes her sentence, “–a jeweler?”

The glass cases on either side of the small space answer that question for her. They’re filled with rings, bracelets, necklaces and pendants. The artist is at the back of the room. Dean is a little older, with long gray hair pulled back in a ponytail that sits at the base of his neck, and an oiled handlebar mustache.

“Dean is a jewelry designer, yeah,” I say, tension rising up my neck. No one knows about this place; one of my art professors suggested him when I asked for a quality craftsman. Why the hell did I bring her with me? It’s like having a witness to my biggest, dumbest, crime.

Dean looks up from the project on his worktable, pushing the safety glasses to the top of his head. “Hey man, how are you?”

“Pretty good,” I reply, even though my insides are twisted in a knot.

Dean’s blue eyes skip over to Shelby. He grins and says, “You must be the fiancée.”

Shit . I mean, she is draped in a jacket with my name on it.

“Me?” Shelby’s voice comes out in a surprised squeak. “Oh, no. I’m not–”

“This is Axel’s sister, Shelby,” I say quickly. In an attempt to save both of us further awkwardness, I fall on the sword. “But, that’s why I’m here. My girlfriend and I broke up. I’m not going to need the ring.”

Dean’s grin falters. “Damn, man, seriously?”

“Yep, and I know you get to keep the deposit and that’s fine, but I wanted to get the designs back.”

“I’ve got them back here,” Dean says, turning to a file cabinet and pulling open a drawer. He flips through until he finds the right file. “Too bad, I was looking forward to creating it.”

I reach for the file, but before I can, Dean flips it open revealing the design.

Shelby leans forward and looks between the design and my face. “You drew this?”

There’s no mistaking the incredulous tone in the question.

“It’s just a few sketches.” I snatch it off the counter, but Dean isn’t having it.

“Your friend is a talented artist. Unlike the rest of us who need validation and praise, he likes to hide it.”

“I can see that,” she says, giving me a look that makes me feel like she’s trying to peek under my skin. “I’m impressed.”

Dean reaches under the counter and returns with a stack of cash. He counts it out and sets it on the glass top. “What’s that for?” I ask.

“I’m not taking your money, Wilder. I hadn’t even started to work on it.”

“But you booked me in,” I argue, “and probably said no to other projects.”

“Look,” Dean says, tapping his fingers on the countertop, making the silver rings flash in the overhead light. “The next time you need a ring or any other piece of jewelry, come back and I’ll fit you in. Maybe it’ll be a ring,” his eyes flick to Shelby, “or maybe it’ll be something to commemorate your Frozen Four win. I’m not here to cause more pain. My karma is worth more than that.” A slow grin curves at his lips. “Plus, I’m banking on your making it to the NHL and tagging me in all the photos wearing my shit. I can wait it out.”

“Dammit,” I mutter, taking the money and shoving it in my pocket. “Fine, but you better hope I’m not involved in some kind of scandal before then.”

“There’s no such thing as bad press,” he looks at Shelby and winks, “right?”

“I don’t know,” she says with a laugh. “My father is a minister. He’d probably disagree with that one.”

I take the designs and finish up with Dean, promising to be back when we win the championship. I’m opening the truck door for Shelby when she stops and looks up at me. “Are you okay? I know that had to suck.”

“I’m fine.” I swallow back the lingering pain. “I’m just learning there’s a lot more to getting out of a serious relationship than breaking up.”

“Yeah,” she says. “I get that.”

I help her up, even though she doesn’t need it in the new clothes. There’s a part of me that likes helping her. Likes feeling her body in my hands. A distraction from the pain in my chest. And as I shut the door, and walk around the front of the truck, I know that even though I will never admit this out loud, I just want to see her cute little ass in those tight jeans.

It’s not until we’re both in the truck and I’m sliding the key into the ignition when I notice she’s studying me from the passenger seat.

“What?” I ask, unable to sit under her scrutiny any longer.

“There’s more to you than I realized.”

I laugh, although it’s not in amusement. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She shrugs. “Axel’s never told us much about his friends or teammates. I figured you guys were all just a bunch of meatheads like the football players back home. But you’re a talented artist, and strangely good at picking out women’s clothing–”

“And men’s,” I add.

“Yes, your outfits definitely make a statement.” From the way she says it, I can’t tell if it’s a compliment or not, but I decide to take it as one.

“I’m getting a degree in graphic design,” I tell her, “and recently I’ve been doing a little more with fabrics, like working with textiles or block and screen prints.”

“What about hockey?”

“Hockey is in the forefront, but I knew I needed something to fall back on just in case.” I take the turn into Shotgun. “The team is doing a charity fundraiser next month and the PR department for the team chose a few of my designs for the T-shirts that will be for sale.”

“That’s so great.” She grins. “I’ll be able to get a Reid Wilder original.”

The image of her in one of my shirts, with nothing on underneath, pops into my head and creates a throb between my legs. God, I like that idea way more than I should.

“What kind of charity event?”

“It’s a community outreach day for kids in foster care. They get to come to the rink and take a few lessons from the guys on the team, then load up on junk food and watch a scrimmage.”

“That sounds really fun.” She tilts her head. “Is this something you did as a kid?”

“Actually, yeah. It’s how I started playing hockey. My foster parents took me to one of these when I first moved in with them. I’d never even put on a pair of skates before, but I took to it quickly. My parents were grateful. They’d been looking for a sport or activity to get me involved in and hockey was perfect. By the next weekend they had me signed up.”

“And now you’re giving back to the same program.” She beams. “I love that for you.”

“It’s not a big deal. I’m happy to help out.” I pull up to the Manor. “I’ve got to get back to campus for class, but I can help you with the bags if you need it.”

“I’m fine.” She shrugs out of the jacket and rests it on the bench between us and grabs the bags at her feet. “Thanks for taking me today. I really appreciate it.”

“No problem,” I tell her, watching as she hops out of the cab and walks toward the house.

“No problem,” I mutter to myself as I drive off, knowing I have more than a problem.

I’m fucked.

3:04 .

Every fucking night.

It’s usually something different that rouses me. Jefferson stumbling in late at night. Nadia using the hall bathroom. The way the upstairs of the house gets so much warmer than downstairs and I have to peel off a layer of clothes. It doesn’t matter what wakes me up, the next thing happens automatically: I think about Darla.

It’s not in a romantic way, but more trying to figure out what went wrong. I can’t stop going over every fight, every final word. This time it’s about the ring, because that’s the thing I keep going back to. I didn’t make up the seriousness of our relationship. Darla was a full participant, every step of the way. Including the idea of me designing a ring for her.

“This is stupid,” I mutter, flinging off the sheet. On the nights I can’t get the ruminating to stop, I know the only answer is full distraction. Using my phone light, I look for my laptop next to the bed and shit. It’s in my backpack downstairs.

After pulling on a pair of sweatpants, I exit my room. Once I get to the first floor, a glow of light spills from the kitchen, or really the refrigerator. I expect to see Jefferson digging around for a late night snack, but it’s not his bulky frame leaning into the freezer. It’s a pair of bare, smooth legs. It could be either Twyler or Nadia, but, immediately, I know it’s not.

Neither of those girls send a jolt to my cock when I see her, or a sweaty annoyance that I can’t get away from the one girl I’m not supposed to be engaging. I make the right move–the smart one–and grab my backpack off the couch and head for the stairs.

My foot is on the bottom step when I hear, “Oh cra–” followed by the sound of hard objects hitting the floor.

I drop my bag and rush over, wrapping my hand around the freezer door to open it wider. “Hey,” I skim my eyes over her–fuck, no bra–then down to the pile of frozen items all over the floor, “are you okay?”

“Reid?” she blinks, surprised to see me. Fair. It’s 3 AM. She sighs. “I was looking for an ice pack.” She glances down at the mess. “You guys need to clean your freezer.”

“It’s a pretty well-known fact around here that you don’t go poking around in there.” I bend and grab a few foil wrapped leftovers and a half eaten carton of ice cream. “We open it, shove something in and pray for the best.” I cram the stuff back in, wedging each one in after the other. “See?”

She holds out one last box of popsicles and I shove it in a small space and quickly shut the door before it all falls out.

She stares at me with a small twist to her lips. “That’s ridiculous.”

I shrug. “Hey, it’s better than the alternative.”

“You mean, cleaning up your shit?”

I raise an eyebrow. “Did you just say a curse word?”

She scowls, and to my surprise doesn’t trip over herself to apologize. “Ugh, I’m tired. My neck hurts, and all I wanted was an ice pack. You’re hockey players–you should have ice packs, right?”

“We do,” I tell her, making a valiant effort not to stare at her chest. The cold air from the freezer has done a helluva job perking up her nipples.

This is why I was going back upstairs.

“But,” I continue, pushing past her and all the temptation that comes with her, “we keep them in the freezer chest in the laundry room.” I open the lid to the freezer to reveal a well organized system of packs. “Why do you need one?”

“That couch looks friendly, but I think it may be the devil.” She winces and moves her hand to her neck while taking a peek in the freezer. “This is impressive.”

“Yeah, that’s all Twyler. Perk of having a trainer as your roommate's girlfriend.” I grab a soft, pliable, pack and ask, “Show me where it’s bothering you.”

“Right about here.” She gathers her hair to one side and touches the base of her neck.

Running my fingers over her warm skin, I touch the spot. “Here?” She swallows, keeping her eyes forward, and nods. Laying the pack over the area, I say. “If it’s still bothering you in the morning, ask Twy to check it out. She’s good.”

“Thank you.” She rests her hand over the pack, keeping it in place. “What are you doing up, anyway?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” I admit. “I came down to get my laptop to watch a show.” And because my brain and impulse control seem to be on a break, probably because I keep having to drag my eyes away from her tits, I ask, “Want to watch with me? An update just came out about this decades old missing person’s case I’ve been following.”

She hesitates. Which she should. I never should have asked. I open my mouth to take it back and she says, “Sure, why not?”