2. Twisted Fairy Tales
TWISTED FAIRY TALES
brETT
Cowboy music.
Like my day doesn’t suck enough.
Hunching my shoulders over the bar, I slide my second glass of whiskey back and forth between my palms. With a sigh, I watch the scant half-inch of liquid left in the tumbler slosh around.
I should be grateful. I should be toasting the Wolfpack for saving what’s left of my career, not drowning my sorrows like a morose motherfucker and feeling sorry for myself for ending up in this God-forsaken place.
I’m twenty-six. A pro hockey player. I should be on top of the goddamn world. Instead, I’m down here in the gutter, clinging desperately to my highlight reel.
The good?
Two Stanley Cups.
Reconnecting with my half-sister Lainey.
Playing matchmaker for her and Coop—best brother-in-law a man could ask for.
The bad?
A messy Vegas elopement and an even messier divorce that left me one massive lump-sum alimony payment poorer, and about a million I-told-you-not-to-marry-hers richer.
I didn’t deal with any of it well, making the tabloids for the third time courtesy of an embarrassing night in the drunk tank after Janelle locked me out of the house and chucked all my shit out the window.
She loved drama. Movie-level drama.
Hence the wine she’d thrown in my face at one of the snooty restaurants she’d dragged me to. (Tabloid story number one.) And the time she’d slashed the tires on my Lamborghini. (Tabloid story number two.)
But we had some good times, too. And I loved her.
At least I thought I did, and like a dumbass, I was willing to ignore any warning signs in my quest to find even a fraction of what Coop and Lainey have.
Now, in retrospect, I can see our relationship for what it was: the fucked-up love of two immature narcissists who should never have gotten hitched—the volatile kind that burns hot and bright and then flames out.
I wasn’t myself on the ice and I racked up more than a couple of fines from the team for my, ahem, less-than-professional behavior.
I take a sip of my whiskey.
By the end, the Portland Storm was so desperate to get rid of my ass they put me on waivers. I spent the last week hoping someone would pick me up so I didn’t get shipped back to the goddamn minors.
The call I’ve been waiting for came early this morning, and I grabbed my go-bag and hopped the first plane to Missoula for the privilege of being read the riot act by none other than General Manager and part-owner of the Wolfpack, Craig London.
Just my luck the guy wears two hats. Which means any future screwups go straight to the top whether I like it or not. Fucking small-market teams.
Witnesses to my humiliation included Lucy Crane, the director of PR, Jack Freeson, the head coach, and my new captain, Fletcher Ryan, who gave me a once-over and let me know I’m half-welcome, half-a-pain-in-his-ass.
And for good measure, Wolfpack head counsel, Thad Osprey, threw in a couple of dire warnings of his own.
Hell of a welcome wagon.
“We’re taking a chance on you, Sillinger.”
“With everything that’s happened during the last few years, you’re a bad bet.”
“Stay out of the papers. Get your head back in the game. Keep your nose clean.”
“We don’t want any problems. We just want you to play hockey.”
I didn’t want to ruin the carefully prepped manifesto, so I let them drone on for two and a half hours without letting them know my agent had already taken care of the lecture with a succinct, “You must have a damn horseshoe up your ass, Sillinger. Don’t screw this up.”
And that’s how my Friday night has come to this—me, alone in a hotel bar full of mostly dudes in suits, listening to some song with a damn fiddle in it.
Cursed. Just like my mom always said I was.
Welcome to Montana. Yipee-ki-yay, mother fuc—
“What do you think, handsome?”
I look at the bartender. Leah. She introduced herself ten seconds after I walked in. That was—I check my Patek Philippe—over an hour ago.
“You want more?” she asks, suggestively enough there’s no mistaking her offer. Not that I would have mistaken her offer.
The place is packed, too packed for a hotel lounge, but she’s taking awfully good care of me.
And yeah, I tip like a boss, but the heat in her gaze says money isn’t the only way I can thank her.
I even considered it for about twenty seconds, but after the day I’ve had, I’m not in the mood for the figurative offer.
And I should probably say no to the literal one.
I’m already on drink number two. Another one will put me halfway to a buzz.
And considering today’s lecture, a buzz is not what I should be aiming for.
The smart play? Go up to my room, watch sports highlights until I fall asleep, and show up rested and ready for my first official day as part of the Wolfpack.
The mere thought makes me nauseous. The rules are chafing already.
Downing the dregs in my glass, I bang it on the counter for a refill. “Busy night.”
A bunch of people wearing suits jostle around me, trying to catch Leah’s eye, but she’s focused on me. I prop my elbows wide on the bar, taking up more space, protecting my zone. Probably the defenseman in me.
Not gonna lie, it feels pretty good when the guy on my left turns like he wants to say something about it, sizes me up, thinks better of it, and bails to find somewhere else to sit.
“Marketing conference at the hotel this weekend,” Leah says, watching me as she pours my drink. “They’ve all been cooped up in seminars for two days straight. People are ready to let loose.”
I huff a laugh. Figures. I picked the hotel lounge because it’s Friday night, and in my vast experience, they’re usually a lot quieter than a regular pub or bar. So much for wallowing in peace. I hand Leah a twenty and wave off the change.
With a deft flick of my wrist, I set the amber liquid swirling in my glass and try my best to ignore the sudden prick of my conscience.
What the hell am I doing?
I should go. Set the drink on the bar and head upstairs.
But before I can take my own good advice, somebody bumps into my arm, sending Jack Daniel’s sloshing over the rim of my glass and onto my hand.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry!”
I blink at the sheer perfection of my attacker’s heart-shaped face.
Or I could stay for a bit.
“I was trying to find an empty stool. Did it get on your jacket?”
Fuck my jacket.
My complete lack of response makes her look up from her inspection of my sleeve, her cheeks pink with embarrassment. I can’t look away.
Setting down my glass, I brace my elbow on the counter and suck the alcohol off my thumb.
Those pretty, shiny lips of hers part on a shaky exhalation and my testosterone kicks up when her gaze snags on my mouth for a beat too long.
Take your time, gorgeous.
Startled blue eyes flick up to mine, like she’s surprised to find herself staring.
Then some drunk asshole in a suit intrudes on the moment, pushing past her to grab the seat she still hasn’t taken.
The shove, though incidental, knocks her back into my arm, breasts first. Thanks to the leather, I don’t feel a damn thing.
Fuck my jacket again.
On the plus side, now she’s invading my space in all the best ways. She smells like strawberries.
Not perfume or booze.
Fresh. Like she doesn’t belong here, and maybe I don’t either...
I shake that thought off quick when I notice the deep V of her black sweater has shifted, revealing a sliver of the lacy red bra hidden beneath it.
Jesus.
I shift on the bar stool. Maybe that night of sports highlights and falling asleep isn’t what I’m looking for after all.
“You okay?” I ask, mostly so she’ll look at me again.
She raises her head, and the slide of her shiny brown hair has me fisting my hands against the urge to touch it.
“I’m fine.” She realizes she’s still pressed against me, and she jerks back like I burned her.
I’d like to make her burn.
Her gaze is already darting around the bar. Looking for somewhere else to sit? Or someone else to sit with?
Neither option works for me. I lean past her, raising my voice enough to be heard over the din. “Hey, man. That seat’s taken.”
Her head snaps in my direction, shooting me an annoyed frown. A prim warning I’ve overstepped and I lap that shit up.
“You don’t have to—” she starts, but she doesn’t get to finish because the douchebag is already turning around.
“That’s funny, because I don’t see your name on it.”
His smug smile dies when I shift on my bar stool to face him, making it clear which one of us outweighs the other by about thirty pounds of muscle.
My pretty drink spiller presses back against the bar, like she’d rather be anywhere else. She doesn’t need to worry though. I’ll be good. After this morning’s lecture, starting a bar brawl would be career suicide.
And I might be impulsive, but I’m not stupid.
“Well, you wouldn’t, because I already have a seat. That one’s hers.”
The guy looks at her, does a double take, and I recognize the flare of interest as he catalogues her wavy brown hair, her soft lips, the creamy swell of her cleavage.
I rest my forearm along the counter behind her, not touching her, but making my presence known, and watch as the guy finally registers the warning sign.
That’s right. Keep moving, jackass.
“Sorry, uh... ma’am. Didn’t realize.” He looks at me, eyes a little less glassy, like the hit of adrenaline’s burned off some of the alcohol. He holds up his hands as he stands. “Wasn’t looking to start anything.”
I watch him walk away, enjoying the nervous glance the dude sends over his shoulder to make sure I’m not following him. Good riddance.
I’m still smirking when I tip my chin at the empty seat.
“That wasn’t necessary.”
Still prickly.
I like it.
“You were here first,” I insist.
After a moment of inner turmoil that causes the cutest little crease in her brow, she settles herself on the stool beside me, faces straight ahead, and proceeds to ignore me.
“Excuse me, can I get a…”
The bartender breezes past her with two bottles of beer in her hands.
“Sorry, but could I order a…”
Leah doesn’t even break stride on her way back to the till.
“I’ll have…” The other bartender, an older guy, is long gone before she adds, “...what he’s having.”
With a sigh, she folds her arms on the bar and rests her chin on her hands.
I could rescue her. Leah will arrive in a split second if I crook a finger. But I find I don’t want to help her quite as much as I want to help me.
Calling myself every kind of bastard, I slide my drink along the smooth, shiny surface of the bar until it enters her field of vision.
She angles her face up, those clear blue eyes wide and questioning, giving her the appearance of a doll. One of the breakable ones that come with warnings not to touch them.
I’ve never been too good with rules.
“You said you wanted what I’m having.”
She sits up, shaking her head. “Oh! That’s okay. I mean, it’s nothing personal, but a girl can’t be too careful when she’s alone in a bar and—”
I shrug and down the liquor in my glass. I barely lift my fingers before Leah’s there, pouring me a refill. I don’t even look at her when I pass over the twenty.
I push the new drink toward my pretty stranger. “For you.”
She looks at me like I’m magic, and I like it.
A lot.
“How did you do that?”
I shrug with feigned modesty. “What can I say? I’ve got the touch.”
We stare at each other for a long moment, my word choice hanging heavy between us, and she reaches for the drink.
I’m impressed when she follows suit and drains the glass in one gulp.
Then she ruins the badassery with a grimace and a coughing fit that goes on long enough to draw a bit of an audience.
“Oh God, what is that?” she gasps, wiping watery eyes.
“Whiskey.” I chuckle. “Not much of a drinker, huh?”
With a final cough, she readjusts herself on the stool and straightens her sweater. The patch of red lace that’s been taunting me, tying me into knots, disappears with a tug from her long, slim fingers.
“Um, I usually stick to slushy drinks. Something with an umbrella, or a piece of fruit on a plastic sword. But I’m trying to be adventurous.”
Adventurous. I like the sound of that.
“You here for the conference?”
“Yes.” She frowns—adorable. “I mean no. Kind of? It’s complicated.”
“All the best stuff in life is.”
Her look says she disagrees. “Simplicity has its charms.”
“So let’s keep it simple. What’s your name?”
She opens her mouth to answer, but that expressive gaze of hers slides over me and I can see the moment she changes her mind. “No names,” she insists.
The quick stab of disappointment catches me by surprise, but I cross-check that shit right into the boards. I should be thanking my lucky stars and happy to do this her way.
“Okay, Red. No names.”
That little frown again. “Red?” she asks, obviously confused at the nickname, completely oblivious that all I want in life right now is to pull her sweater off and dissolve the scarlet lace covering her breasts with my tongue.
“Like Little Red Riding Hood?”
“Kinda like that,” I hedge.
She sends me a sidelong glance. “Does that make you the big bad wolf?”
I scrape a hand across my stubble in contemplation. “Depends. You looking for someone to huff…”
She swallows, and the delicate muscles of her neck mesmerize me.
“... and puff…”
She bites her lip, and my world narrows to her mouth.
“... and blow your house down?”
God, she’s pretty when she blushes.
“Wrong fairy tale,” she corrects in a soft, breathy voice that makes me want to knock the air out of her lungs again.
And again.
Until she screams with pleasure.
I lean closer.
“Doesn’t have to be.”
Her shaky exhale paints my cheek and my pulse jacks up in response.
The punch of lust is so strong, it takes a moment for me to realize the predicament I’m in.
Half hard in the middle of a bar full of office drones using a fairy tale as a pickup line. She’s got me all spun around, and yeah, I like it. And yeah, I want to blow off steam, especially after the mindfuck of a day I’ve had.
She’s trying to be adventurous, but she lives in a world where that means chatting up dudes in suits in a hotel lounge. She’s a flirting lightweight. She can’t handle her whiskey. She’s all wrong for me.
No, she’s fucking perfect.
But I’m all wrong for her, and the fact she doesn’t even know it is proof that I should send her on her way.
I’m supposed to keep my head down. One mistake and it’s back to the minors, back to nothing. I’ve got an eight a.m. skate, a PR meeting, and some fancy gala where I’m the show pony. I should go. I should definitely go.
Do the right thing.
Be good.
She sets her chin with resolve and gives me a look so full of invitation that I have to concede I might have underestimated her flirting skills a little.
“Do you want to get out of here?” she asks.
Oh, hell yeah, I do.
I can be good tomorrow.