Tricky Puck: a Fake Fiancee Hockey Rom-Com (Portsmouth Whalers Hockey Romance)

Chapter 3

Fast forward a few hours, and I find myself resigned to the matchmaking deal—temporarily. There’s nothing I can say that’ll get me out of tonight’s blind date.

My short visit home to Brooklyn was squeezed between pre-season and our first game in two days up in New Hampshire because I did not want to miss Grandma’s 90th birthday party.

However, I’m leaving first thing in the morning, so my date with the matchmaker’s young lady isn’t going anywhere anytime soon. I can handle dinner tonight, then I’ll figure out a way to deal with Grandma’s birthday wish in a more reasonable way later.

Grandma bangs on my bedroom door again—the same room I’ve had in her house since I was a kid.

“I have to go.” Holding the phone between my chin and shoulder, I zip my Portsmouth Whalers duffel bag. I’m ready to fly out of New York at six a.m. tomorrow and get back to my hockey life.

“Where’s the fire?” Jason, my best bud from the team, snickers. “You’re getting to bed early tonight, aren’t you? You better be if you’re having me pick you up at the airport at fucking seven in the morning.”

“My grandmother is expecting me.” I don’t want to go into details, but I feel compelled to fill the dead air after a couple of beats of Jason’s silence. “She’s expecting me to go to dinner.” It’s not a lie. If he assumes I’m going to dinner with Grandma, that’s on him.

I wish to hell I was having dinner with Grandma.

“Tell her I said hello. She’s a cool old lady.”

I end the call and open the door.

“You should be dressed,” she says, walking into the room and looking around. My bags are packed on the bed. She frowns at the reminder that I’m leaving in the morning. She doesn’t complain or ask me to stay. She knows our first regular season game is in a few days, and she respects my hockey. Hell, she’s my number one fan.

“I am dressed.”

“You’re going in jeans and a Whalers T-shirt? That’s like going on a date in your work clothes. You can do better than that.”

I switch out my T-shirt for a black silk sweater from the closet. I haven’t worn it since I bulked up the last few years, so it’s a little snug.

“How’s this?”

She gives me a grudging nod. I grab my leather jacket from the chair where I’d tossed it and put it on. Grinning at her dismay, I lean down and give her a hug.

“Don’t worry, Grandma. Either she likes me for who I am, or it doesn’t work. I’m not a suit and tie kind of guy—which is what I wear to games, aka work.”

She sighs and waves a hand. “Go ahead and wear your rags. I suppose your clothes won’t hide the fact that you’re a hunk?—”

I snort a laugh. “Thank you…?”

She points a finger at me and shakes it. “Just don’t you go and give your date that smarty-pants attitude.” She gives me a kiss, followed by an affectionate pinch on the cheek, her signature parting gesture.

“I hope this girl is worth taking me away from you on my last night in New York for a while.”

“This young lady is worth it, but I’ll let her speak for herself.” She gives me one of those smugly triumphant looks, not quite a smile because she doesn’t gloat. Grandma’s above that, too well respected and too often right to bother. I suppose gloating over and over again would get boring. I don’t gloat, either. Same reason.

We walk downstairs, and I assist her because it’s not easy for her these days. My entire family is on the front porch to see me off as if I’m a kid going on my first date. They live downstairs in the triple-decker while Grandma has the top two floors, the third floor being my room, a transformed attic space where I’ve stayed ever since I was eight years old and my second sister was born.

“You want a selfie and an autograph?” I say to my mother.

“I want to commemorate the day you finally date a marriageable woman.”

I squint my eyes at her and allow half a frown, not wanting to ruin things for Grandma, but Mom should know better. My grinning sisters should all know better, too, that I’m only going along with Grandma temporarily. No way am I really getting married to a stranger—or anyone—any time soon.

“What’s this young lady’s name?” I ask Grandma.

“The matchmaker will introduce you when you get there.”

“You really went to a matchmaker?” She’s taking this far too seriously, and I get a twinge, the kind that makes my chest tighten and my right eye twitch.

“Of course. I wanted to make sure we found the best possible young lady for you. No trouble is too much when it comes to finding your life partner, Lincoln.”

Shit. “Thank you.” I don’t know what else to say.

Two of my three sisters have their phones out, taking pictures. I frown, but refrain from giving them the finger. Dad, who’s been typically stoic and silent, would leap into action and beat my ass—or try to—if I did that in front of my mother and Grandma.

I bend and give Grandma a last hug like I’m going off to war.

As I walk down the steps, Rose watches with her hands on her hips, shaking her head like she’s watching me make a big fucking mistake. Or maybe I’m projecting my own premonition. But hell, if I don’t grant Grandma’s fondest wish, wouldn’t that be even a bigger fucking mistake?

I look back at her. “Wait up for me. I won’t be too late.”

My eye twitches one last time in warning, and I get a sick feeling that my life is about to change—and I can’t do a fucking thing about it.

An old ladydressed in what looks like a mess of scarves in all colors and prints, like she’s imitating a kaleidoscope, meets me in the entryway of Bill’s Food and Drink. I swear she looks familiar.

“Mr. Milano, come this way.” She grips my arm and takes me inside the restaurant without another word. I guess she’s the matchmaker, and she’s serious about her job, and the only introduction she’s making is to my date. No need to know who the hell she is, right?

“And you are?” I ask as I follow her deep into the familiar Old-World dining room.

“The matchmaker.” She doesn’t look at me. She keeps her eyes on wherever we’re going. She doesn’t look annoyed or pleased, only determined, with a game face on that I’d envy if I didn’t already have a killer one of my own.

We stop at an intimate booth in the back—the one that people wait months to reserve—where a woman sits in the shadow of the low lighting. The matchmaker drops my arm, and the woman stands so I can see her.

And I stop breathing.

Because whatever this woman has—and I don’t mean her electric blue eyes or her creamy skin or full mouth that I automatically picture wrapped around my dick—I mean the kinds of things a person can’t see, reaches out and grabs me—and I’m not talking about a light touch, I mean a full-fisted vicious squeeze that surrounds my soul.

I’m barely listening as the matchmaker introduces us, but when the lady who is my supposed match smiles, all hell breaks loose in my nervous system, short-circuiting things so thoroughly I don’t hear whatever the hell the matchmaker is saying now—and don’t much care.

The only things working properly are my eyes as I take her in—and my dick. But that goes without saying, right?

Shit. This isn’t how I react to women. Never. Ever.

Not since my second-grade music teacher, Miss Annie Borelli. She had the voice of an angel, and I was in love with her for the entire school year.

And for the entire school year, I was tongue-tied. I couldn’t speak in her presence.

Kind of like now. Fucking hell. This is not good—and so not happening.

A beat of silence passes, and the matchmaker turns to go. Panic seizes me, making me reach out to stop the old woman. She turns to look at me, and I don’t know what to say. I gulp down a puck-sized lump of trepidation.

The old woman smiles then, the first crack in her game face I’ve seen, and it’s a smile of triumph. Shit. She pats my hand and winks at me, reminding me of Grandma. Maybe they’re related? But that makes no sense because I know all our relatives. Maybe there’s a league of cagey old women out there who mysteriously know everything about life and who occasionally use their powers to help—or interfere with—others.

I’m fucked.

The wise old matchmaker, in league with Granny or not, walks away, and without a choice, I man up and turn back to my date—whose name I still don’t know. Fuck. It’s disconcerting as hell that this nameless woman has the power to turn me into a second grader with a crush. I hope she doesn’t have the power to turn me to stone—although my dick is well on the way to granite hard right now.

Fuck this. I can handle this. I’m no second grader. So what if she’s a beautiful woman? I’ve been handling women of all kinds since high school. I force myself to look her in those vivid blue eyes and smile.

She’s not smiling.

I cough, swallow down a lump of whatever, and talk. Or rather, motion with my hand for her to have a seat. Then I sit across from her in the cushy booth.

“Man of few words, I see,” she says, her not-smile changing to a let’s-get-this-over-with expression before it moves on to a patronizing look.

That attitude doesn’t detract from her beauty or whatever the fuck else she has going on that has me—and my dick—stuck on alert, but it does loosen my tongue. For better or worse.

“Why are you here? You don’t look like the matchmaker type.”

Her expression doesn’t change. “I could say the same about you. But I’m not rude.”

My mouth curves up, but I tamp down on the prick of pleasure at her spunk. I don’t mind a good sparring partner. It could be fun for one night. If I can unstick myself from her magnet or whatever she has holding me.

“You don’t like straight talk?”

“You say that like you’re accusing me of being a lightweight, but I’m no wimp, big boy.” She leans forward, and I keep my eyes on hers while my peripheral vision—which is damn good—is good enough to see the dip of creamy cleavage she’s showing between the buttons of her blouse.

“Give me your best shot. Tell me what you think.” She asks for it with way too much confidence.

“She’s capable of multi-layered sparring.” I lean forward, my blood heating up with competitive juices overtaking my hesitation because this is my kind of conversation—gloves off.

“I’ll tell you what I think.” I keep my voice low for emphasis. “You’re smart and hot, and you don’t need a matchmaker to find a date. Which means you don’t want to date, and some well-meaning family member set you up—for your own good—because you’re damaged and lonely, and you don’t think you need a man to make you happy.” I throw in all the likely clichés that might fit and hope something hits.

She opens her mouth, doesn’t say a word for a beat, and doesn’t move her eyes from mine, not even to blink. I stare back at her bright blue eyes, concentrating hard not to be distracted and to keep sharp for the sparring. The last thing I want is to be blindsided by an uppercut. Without even a flicker in my attention, I wait for her return shot.

“Very revealing. I was wondering why you were here,” she says. “Now I know.”

I hold back my grin, but it’s damned difficult to keep my expression blank when it should be an automatic thing.

“I notice you didn’t tell me I was wrong.”

“Now that we have that cleared up, let’s order a drink.” She’s looking over my shoulder at the server as the young woman approaches.

“I’ll have—” she starts, but I cut her off, with good intentions, of course.

“We’ll both have Pappy van Winkel straight up.” A glance tells me she’s more impressed than shocked. “And leave the bottle.”

Now, she’s shocked. But only for a flicker. The waitress takes off, leaving us to have at it.

“Your strategy is to get me drunk? Not very original.”

“I thought you said you weren’t a lightweight.”

“I didn’t say your strategy would work.” She unleashes the twinkle in her eye with a full-blown smile now, and dammit if something in me doesn’t overreact before I can keep myself under control. My blood races to my cock, leaving a trail of sparks that make me so hot I want to strip naked—or strip her naked. Make that both of us.

“My strategy is to loosen up, or this is going to be a short night, and even though I told Grandma I’d be home early, I don’t want to disappoint the old lady by showing up before the evening news.”

She nods. “Low tolerance for boredom. Check.”

“I’m never bored.”

“How do you manage that?”

“I’m very, very good at amusing myself.”

Her smile disappears, and she tries unsuccessfully to make her expression neutral, but I see the disturbance. I’m not sure if she’s worried, afraid, or excited. All three would make me more than curious—or more curious than I already am because I can’t lie to myself. This woman—whatever her name is—has already made me more curious than I’ve been about a woman since…shit. Since that second-grade crush on my music teacher with the golden voice.

“What’s your name?” I ask. “I didn’t catch it in all the excitement.”

She snorts a laugh. “Easily excited, aren’t you? My name is Delaney Collins, but I won’t mind if you don’t commit it to memory.”

“Easily bored. Check.” I enjoy throwing her words back at her.

“You saying you’re boring, Milano?” She smirks.

Shit. Point one for the lady. “You were right. You’re no lightweight.”

The server returns with our glasses and the bottle, and after she sets down the menus, she lingers for a second longer than necessary, which isn’t a big deal, except she’s staring at me.

“Are you Link Milano?” She’s somewhat breathless, and I hold my groan to myself. Normally, I don’t mind recognition. Sometimes, I enjoy it, especially when it’s a cute young lady like our server, but I don’t want to deal with the issue of my celebrity status tonight—though I’m not sure why.

I nod. “Give us a few minutes before we order.”

“You’re quite the player,” she says. “Maybe you can sign the menu for me?”

“Sure.”

She shoves a pen at me, and I glance at Delaney to see her reaction. She’s thoroughly amused, and I’m thoroughly unsurprised.

“What’s your name?”

“It’s Ashley. You’re a more delish snack in person than I expected. My friends will be so jelly. Can we take a selfie?”

Without waiting for an answer, she whips her phone from her pocket and leans in while I scribble my signature. I slide my gaze to Delaney, and she’s studying the menu as if she’s here by herself.

“Smile.” The server clicks more than once, taking a series of photos before I push the signed menu into her hands and put an end to her celebrity adventure.

“We’re ready to order.”

Delaney looks up from her menu at me, and after a beat of indecision, she slides the menu to Ashley, nodding.

Coincidentally and surprisingly, we both order the ribeye steak, and Ashley finally leaves.

“I’m starved. What’s your excuse?” Most women I know—and that includes all my sisters, aunts, and the wives and girlfriends of all my teammates, not any woman I’ve taken to dinner because I don’t generally date and don’t remember the last time I took a woman to dinner—order the salad or the lightest thing on the menu.

“I hear good things about the steak here, and since you’re paying, I’m indulging.”

I don’t remember me paying being part of the deal—not that I wouldn’t pay anyway—but it’s telling that she makes the statement.

“You’re one of those women then?” I’m half teasing because I didn’t get the vibe she was interested in my money, but I know it’s a thing for a lot of women, or at least all the women I’ve tangled with—the fun kind of tangling—since I made it to the NHL. My rule is the minute they want a piece of me, all tangling stops.

Thus, the revolving door to my bedroom. Few—and by that, I mean one woman—has ever hung around for the pure fun of tangling without commitment or the extras that go along with being a girlfriend. She left when it was time for her to settle down, and now we’re friends of a sort.

Delaney raises one brow. “One of what women?”

“The kind who are impressed with a guy’s money and want to take advantage of it.”

“Oh—no. Sorry to confuse you. I’m the kind of woman who has to watch her budget and who will save half the meal for tomorrow. Not impressed at all.” She shrugs. “I don’t know anything about your money—or you. Granny was light on the details—as in she wouldn’t tell me one single thing about you. She left everything up to the matchmaker—you were right about that.”

Despite trying to skate the line between politely interested and protecting my balls because I know this woman is a man-killer—the kind who owns men’s souls and could definitely own mine based on my initial reaction if I don’t watch my back—I’m impressed that she has no problem telling me I was right.

“You’re some kind of celebrity, I take it?” She glances in the direction of the server—who, even though she’s halfway across the dining room, manages to keep looking in our direction.

I shrug. “I didn’t get any details about you either. Not even a photo.”

“You asked for a photo, didn’t you?” A big grin accompanies her accusation, so I confess.

“Sure as hell did, and I have to say, you’re better than I imagined.”

“Wow, watch out. A girl might swoon with your extra enthusiasm.”

“I bet you have a trophy for most sarcastic girl in your class.”

Her face cracks into a smile and then a laugh. “I asked to see a picture, too. Same answer.”

“And?”

“Needy, aren’t you?”

“Curious. Congratulations on being unpredictable.”

She pumps a fist into the air, and I can’t help noticing her breasts heaving up with the gesture. “Yes, that’s exactly what I was going for. A new trophy—for the most unpredictable date Link Milano ever had—whoever the hell he is.”

“Don’t pretend you haven’t already sized me up.”

“I’m trying. But so far, all I have is that you’re big and strong and handsome, and you are well aware of those things without being arrogant, that you’re quick-witted, you have a soft spot for your grandma, that you’re a celebrity who’s patient if not exactly kind to your fans, and you have a very healthy appetite. If I were pressed, I’d guess you’re some kind of athlete.”

I lift my brows. Not a terrible assessment. My interest is dangerously piqued, and I’m having trouble skating that line of self-preservation. In fact, I just got a message from my dick that I’m bordering on desperately thirsty.

Quenching that thirst tempts the hell out of me, but that could lead to the kind of complication I don’t want. So, I concentrate on the sparring. “You’re cautious about men, possibly uninterested, adore your granny, and you’re impatient to go somewhere. I’m not sure if you’re heading for a place or an achievement, and you’re one of the most gorgeous women I’ve ever met.”

She slams back against the booth as if I’ve shoved her, with mock surprise coloring her face. But I notice the slip of real surprise as she schools her expression to the expected smirk.

Meanwhile, my game face remains solidly elusive, so I match her smirk. “Score one point for the Milano team.”

She opens her mouth, going for mock outrage, but all I see is an audition for the sexiest pose—then she laughs.

“Milano team? I was right. You are an athlete of some kind. I should get a point for that. What sport do you play?”

“What sport do you want me to play?”

She rolls her eyes. “None. I’m not into sports.” She enjoys telling me this far too much. Her expression struggles to avoid self-satisfaction and loses the battle.

“If you had to pick, what sport would be your favorite?” I unleash my devilish smirk without reservation and add, “Please say wrestling.”

She laughs, shaking her head. “That was meant to be a joke, right?”

“I’m nothing if not full of laughs.”

“You’re full of something.”

“And you’re holding out. What do you do with yourself besides torture men brave enough to take you out?”

“Brave? You think of yourself as brave?”

“There you go again—flipping the conversation back to me.”

“Answer me, and then I’ll answer you.”

I should be annoyed or frustrated or something because I’ve never had to work so hard to get a woman to talk about herself, never had so much fun flirting or measuring myself against someone, or known a woman who was such a worthy sparring partner.

“I’m more determined than brave.”

“Determined to do what?”

I have her interest.

“To please Grandma, the woman who is the love of my life.” I’m unsure if I share this to please or annoy her. Either way, though, it’s true, but I’m sharing way more than is necessary—or more than is smart for keeping control of my soul.

“I got that about you. It’s endearing, and I can relate. See there—we have something in common.”

“Now answer my question. What do you do? Who is Delaney Collins? Or should I ask what you”re hiding?”

“Hiding?” She snorts. “Don’t be so melodramatic.”

“Ouch. Score a point for Team Delaney. You’ve accused me of the one thing I hate most in people.” I study her, a genuine smile having its way with my face. To hell with trying to school my expression. I lift my glass and take a healthy sip. It could be the Pappy Van Winkel talking, but it’s never affected me this way.

“And you still haven’t answered my question.”

“I’m…between jobs.” She sighs. “Fuck it. I was working as a bartender to pay the rent, but now that I’ve been unceremoniously tossed from that job for being a so-called troublemaker because I didn’t take shit from one of the partners?—”

“And by shit, you mean…?” I have a bad feeling about this.

“The usual crap females put up with in bars.”

“Did he touch you?” My voice goes deep, and my chest rumbles as a zing of angry adrenaline hits my system.

She looks at me in surprise, the real kind, then shakes her head. “Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself.” Her expression softens. “He didn’t get away with anything. I didn’t let him—which is why I got fired.” She aims a bemused look at me like I’ve turned into a freak.

Fuck. Calming myself, I breathe for a couple of beats, letting the adrenaline and anger fade. I’m not overreacting. Any decent man—or woman—would feel outrage at a man who takes advantage of an employee that way—or tries to—then fires her.

I allow myself a smile at the idea that she didn’t take his crap. “I bet you gave him hell. Wish I’d been there to see it.” I pause. “Sorry, you got fired. Now what? You’re homeless?” Fuck. My mind shoots to my teammate Sabien and his predicament when his dog-walker became homeless—and how he somehow ended up with a live-in girlfriend and a baby on the way.

She laughs. Thank fuck.

“No. I’m like a Girl Scout. I planned for a rainy day.” She takes another healthy sip of her whiskey. “Actually, I’ve been planning on leaving my job sooner or later to take some time off and…”

“And?”

“Shit.” She’s looking over my shoulder and doesn’t look happy. In fact, she looks outraged.

I turn around and see a man heading our way. He’s pushing forty, and the woman on his arm looks barely twenty-one, and she’s a beauty but not even close to Delaney.

“Look who we ran into,” the man says, stopping at our booth as if he’s on his way somewhere.

“Why don’t you run the other way, George,” she says.

“Holding a grudge isn’t healthy, Delaney.” He turns in my direction and looks me over, but I give him my game face, the mean version, the one that says I’d just as soon knock him into the boards rather than shake his hand. I notice his girl eying me like she’s more friendly than George. I ignore her

“Who do we have here? You going to introduce me?” George asks.

“No. Go find your table and have a nice dinner.”

“That’s no way?—”

I stand and step away from the booth, backing George up in the process. “Neither Delaney nor I are interested in a conversation with you right now, George.” My voice is hard, under control—if barely. I take a deep breath and tame my tone since people have turned their attention to our corner, and I need to end this before they take out their cell phones and make a big deal of it. “Please leave us alone.”

George looks up at me because I have a good six inches on him, and his smile is uncertain. “Sure. If you put it like that.” He holds onto his nameless date’s arm tighter. “Let’s go, Rita.”

Rita gives me a look over her shoulder as they leave. I’d describe her expression as wistful, but I don’t care. I shoot a glance at Delaney.

“Thank you, Link.” She holds her smirk in place. “Looks like you have another fan. Miss desperate-enough-to-date-George-the-jerk looked like she’d have jumped your bones with the slightest provocation.”

It’s obvious she wants to deflect the conversation back to me. I sit back down and study her expression. It’s not hard to spot the bravado behind the smirk.

“Who is he?”

“He’s the man who fired me, an ex-friend.”

My first instinct is to stand right back up and go after him, but I hang onto my sanity—and the edge of the table—long enough for the destructive impulse to pass. But I don’t know what to say because I know telling her I have a strong itch to knock the guy’s teeth down his throat is not the right thing. Not that I’m usually concerned about saying the right thing—hell, I’m never concerned about saying the right thing. Shit.

My policy is that I am who I am, and most women don’t seem to have a problem with me. The others can go their own way.

She tilts her head, watching me. Maybe my silence is telling. Or it could be my white-knuckle hold on the table, so I move my hand to my tumbler of whiskey and throw down a healthy gulp. Either way, she fills in the silence.

“It wasn’t George—it was his partner who tried to toy with me.” She licks her lips, and I watch when I should turn away to keep my sanity. “You were thinking about doing something violent to him, weren’t you?”

I shrug. “What if I was? You going to hold it against me?”

“No.” She laughs—which is the last thing I expect, not that I get the impression that she’s a delicate flower, but still.

She leans in. “I grew up with four alpha-male uncles who are more like older brothers—the protective kind.”

“Strangely, that fact doesn’t detract from my impression that you’re gorgeous and refreshingly irreverent.”

“Irreverent? Is that code for something?”

“You talk like the guys in the locker room.”

“That’s odd since I have no interest in locker rooms or sports.”

“None? You’ve never been to a game of any kind?”

“I’ve never been to a professional sporting event—unless you count Disney on Ice when I was five.”

Shit. I’m not sure I’ve ever met a woman with zero interest in sports—or athletes by default. Not that it seems to be dampening our connection because there’s a definite sizzle between us and not the one-sided kind.

“Then what interests you?” I ask.

“I’m a songwriter and a musician.”

“Sing something for me.”

“I would, but I’m not a singer.”

“Nice way to deflect a dare.”

She shakes her head, not rising to the bait. Good thing I like a challenge. In fact, I’m fucking excited about the challenge of Delaney. One way or another, I will get her to sing for me tonight. The idea takes hold of my balls and ratchets up my already interested cock. Fuck. I glance at my empty glass of whiskey, but I don’t pour another measure. I want more control over myself, not less.

She takes a slug of her whiskey, draining her glass, and I know she’s taunting me by the gleam in her eye.

“I haven’t given a performance since I sang in the church choir when I was ten.”

Studying her, I calm down because she’s playing this game and playing well. “Church choir, eh? Shit. I don’t remember the last time I was in church except for a wedding or a funeral.”

“Same. It’s been a minute. Now, the only place I sing is at my family’s bar—and that’s only by special request of a limited few.”

I ignore the bait of the so-called limited few because I intend to be one of them, and something tells me she reads my intentions. “A family bar? More my speed than a church choir.”

“Same.”

“So, you can sing, but you have no aspirations to be a singer?”

“I didn’t say I could sing. Besides, I like writing songs. That’s where the money is, don’t you know?”

She’s holding back. There’s a story here. I take a gamble and tell her what I think.

“You don’t care about the money. Underneath your barstool exterior, you’re a poet.”