23. Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Three
A certain Pendleton Princess enjoyed a night out with her crew.
She and the rest of the Richland Killbillies blew off steam at the Puck n’ Boards.
They shared space with a few Renegades celebrating their big win, including a certain head coach.
But then, where she goes, he shall follow.
IYKYK. Is it just me, or is there something really funny about the way our hockey gods are mingling with down and dirty derby girls?
Toss in an angry veterinarian, and you’re set for one heck of a showdown.
Stay tuned for details! ~Penni’s Puckleberry Tea
Shep
“Rematch.”
Summer-green eyes snapped to mine, challenge sparking in their depths. “Rematch?”
“Yeah. If you want Mr. Joonie Pop back, you have to earn him.”
Merri’s presence offered a moment’s escape.
A distraction from the weight of responsibility crushing down on my shoulders.
Hannah was the best surprise of my life—I wouldn’t trade her for anything—but going from carefree bachelor to instant dad squeezed the air from my lungs some days.
And damn if I didn’t want to lose myself in Merri’s pretty eyes, her sassy smile, the way she challenged me at every turn.
The same instinct that had me seeking her out in that video room, had me wanting to keep her in my apartment as long as possible.
“He’s mine. My Pop. You keep making up these games, but he’s my Pop.”
“Law’s on my side here. Possession’s nine-tenths and all that.” I drummed my fingers against the counter, itching to touch her.
She rolled her eyes, but her lips curved into a sweet smile that hit me right in the gut. “What did you have in mind?”
“I just so happen to have a Ping-Pong table in my dining room.” Brand new, never been used, installed yesterday. But she didn’t need to know those little details.
“I noticed. But just why would you have a Ping-Pong table in your dining room?”
Because I didn’t have a game room or a dining room or a table, so it made sense. “Only place it would fit.”
“Where’s your dining room table?”
“Don’t have one.”
“I feel like I’ve walked into an issue of Bachelor Pad Magazine.” She shook her head, turned to look around the loft. “You have so much space. I feel like you should have a kitchen table, a dining room, and a game room.”
“Got a weight room. Does that help?” Because staying in shape mattered more than furniture. At least, until recently.
“Where do you eat with Hannah?”
I scratched the stubble on my cheek. “We’ve been doing delivery. And I’ve brought home meals from the team chef.” I jerked my chin toward the living room. “Floor picnics by the TV.”
“You sound like such a bachelor dad right now.”
I huffed out a laugh, but my brain was already shifting gears, whirring through a mental checklist. I needed to do better. Needed to figure out how to feed my daughter with more than whatever was easiest.
“Hannah’s with your sister?”
“Yep. She’s got school in the morning.” The words rolled out easy, but a warmth settled in my chest. Hannah and Shy clicked from day one—something I hadn’t expected but was damn grateful for.
“You really want to try Ping-Pong again?”
The challenge in her voice snapped me back, her green eyes dancing with something sharp and electric.
A perfect distraction. After an emotional day of parental wins and losses, of figuring out how to be someone’s dad, this?
This was simple. Just competition and chemistry, hot and fast, making my blood sing.
“Sure do.” I tugged her up from the stool. “With new rules.”
“I knew there’d be a catch.” She plopped her hands on her hips, the rustle of her skirt as much a siren song as the slinkiest of bathing suits as far as my body was concerned.
“One,” I said, holding up my index finger. Praying Merri kept her attention on my finger and didn’t glance down to see the way my dick pushed against my zipper. “We use the wrong equipment. No Ping-Pong paddles. Only items we scrounge up from the kitchen.”
She laughed, her pink lips parted and wide and the sparkle in her eyes enough to steal my breath.
“Two,” I continued, my voice a little throatier than before even as I flipped up another finger and fought the urge to adjust myself. “When you miss the ball or the other person scores, you lose an item of clothing.”
She gaped at me. “Strip Ping-Pong?”
I cocked a brow and dragged my gaze from her face, to the line of pearly buttons on the fitted black top, to the layered fluffiness of her butterfly-covered skirt.
Why did I torture myself? But how could I resist?
I even leaned back on one heel to take in the sky-high stilettos strapped to her feet.
“That dress all in one piece? ‘Cause this could be a short—but fantastic—game if it is.”
She nibbled her lower lip and just that little habit of hers was enough to have my dick throbbing in my jeans. “Yes,” she said slowly. “So we’ll have to make some allowances.”
She drew her fingers along the buttons marching down the front of her dress. I must be a masochist suggesting this game. I’d blurted out the idea without thinking, obviously. If Merri was already teasing me and we hadn’t even begun the game, I didn’t stand a chance in hell of winning.
“This is a dress,” she finally said. “I can’t just drop it the first time you score on me.”
Score on me? Her lips twitched, the provocative little tease.
“No? I don’t see why not?”
She rolled her eyes. “I think buttons to start. I’ll agree to unfasten a button. ‘Cause once I’m out of buttons, I’ll be practically naked.”
Practically naked sounded fine. Fantastic, in fact. “Failing to see the problem here, Merri-bean.”
“You want to lose that fast?”
A laugh burst from my chest. No chance I’d focus on plastic balls with her curves distracting me. “Worth a shot, though.”
“Strip Ping-Pong. Let’s go.”
My pulse kicked up as I led her around the island.
The challenge in her voice, the competitive fire in her eyes…
They hit differently with Merri. Other women played along, but Merri lived for the game, same as me.
The realization slammed into me like a blindside check.
She wasn’t just another distraction. She matched me, challenged me, made every victory sweeter and every loss worth the fight.
“What kind of ‘wrong equipment’ are we going to use?”
I skirted around where she’d stopped at the edge of the counter to duck down and pull a frying pan from under the counter. “This.” The pan clattered against the counter. “And this.” I added the lid from my biggest pot.
She laughed, the sound zinging right into my chest, planting a new goal.
She tipped forward with her giggles, copper-penny curls tumbling around her face, and something shifted in my chest. I wanted to be the one who made her laugh like that—free and unguarded—for as long as she’d let me.
My fingers itched to tangle in those curls, to pull her close and taste that joy.
Merri didn’t just accept my competitive nature but matched it stride for stride. Made me want to be better, push harder, risk more.
Before I could say fuck it, let’s skip the match and head right to the sheets, she skipped around me, snatched up the lid, and lined up on the far side of the table. “Let’s go, golden boy. Time to get you out of those clothes.”
I picked up the frying pan, navy blue enamel and about the size of my hand, twirling the thing around as I found the right grip. “This might be the night, I think. I don’t see you doing much with that lid.”
Metal clanged against plastic as she served. Her laughter filled my kitchen, pure joy that hit me right in the chest. I swung the pan, connecting with a satisfying ting that had her giggling again. The ball sailed past her makeshift paddle, and her laughter cut off with a competitive snap.
Adorable, competitive woman. She arched a brow my way as she unfastened her top button.
My serve, another point. By the third button, black lace peeked through, showcasing curves that made my mouth water. Game on.
My distraction with the black lace cost me the next point when the ball sailed past my right shoulder. I sat my frying pan on the table and yanked my shirt over my head.
She twirled the lid by its handle, her summer-green eyes roaming over my chest. I flexed, scratching an imaginary itch, and pink bloomed across her cheeks.
My next serve sailed past her makeshift paddle. Another button fell to her competitive streak. I stretched, arms behind my head, and she fumbled an easy return. The indomitable Merri Wylie, video coach extraordinaire, undone by a little strategic distraction.
But that loss ended the game. Her dress whispered to the floor with the final button, and every thought of victory evaporated. The power dynamic shifted, leaving me breathless, hungry.
I let the frying pan clatter to the table. “I win.”
Her soft, uncertain laugh sparkled through my loft, pure sunshine.
Her fingers danced over black lace, as though not sure where to land.
Not covering herself, but not turning into the sex kitten that lace hinted at, either.
I could tell her what to do with her hands.
I had suggestions. I had all sorts of ideas of what she could do with her hands right about now.
“I win.” I crossed to her side of the table, need pounding through my veins. “And I know exactly what I want.”
Pausing in front of her, I leaned closer, closing the gap between us. “Tell me I can have my prize, Merri. Tell me I can touch you.”
Her lips parted, breath catching. She tilted her face up, summer-green eyes wide with want. If she rejected me now… It’d feel like a blindside hit at center ice that left me splayed out on my ass, staring up at the rafters, struggling to suck in enough oxygen to breathe.
Worse. It’d feel a hundred times worse.