8. Thin Ice
THIN ICE
brETT
The boss’ daughter.
Fucking cursed.
I told her so in the elevator last night.
Not an overstatement, either. I believe it enough to always put my left skate on first and to start every practice with three slap shots from the right side of the blue line. I’ve been respecting the sanctity of the playoff beard since before I could grow a decent one.
What other explanation is there for tonight?
I drag a weary hand down my face.
I sit numbly through a million speeches, the words just buzzing in my ears as I try to process the fact I didn’t even make it twenty-four hours before screwing up.
The Wolfpack only picked up my contract until the end of the season. It’s a trial run with no guarantees. And I need them to renew. If they don’t, no team in their right mind will take a chance on me. I’ll be damaged goods. My hockey career will be as good as over.
I need to stay focused, and stop flirting with the most beautiful, incredible, responsive woman I’ve ever—
The sound of my name over the microphone yanks me back to the present.
London pulls me up on stage, says all the same bullshit he’d said earlier—strong defense, playoff run, go Wolfpack—and people applaud as the man shakes my hand and hands me a ceremonial jersey.
I pull it on over my suit, smile big for the cameras, and take it right back off again so I can scrawl my name on the crest and they can add it to the silent auction, the proceeds of which are going to a great cause, so remember to give generously and enjoy your dinner.
Craig London might have put on his jovial, man-of-the-people act to benefit whoever this fundraiser is for, but he’s not fooling me. I’m being watched and evaluated to see if I play the game off the ice as well as I do on it.
So I do what I have to do. Laugh at important people’s jokes, charm my tablemates, pose for pictures, and hope like hell no one notices I’m following a certain red-dressed stunner around the ballroom with my eyes.
Locating her is surprisingly easy. She tends to stick to the edges of the room.
Probably thinks she’s blending in. Truth is, she sticks out no matter where she is.
But she looks way more comfortable here, in her fancy get-up, than she did in jeans and a sweater, hanging out with me in a hotel lounge. And that intrigues the hell out of me.
I shoot my most charming smile at the woman to my left, who’s been recounting her grandson’s last hockey game in excruciating detail for the last twenty minutes. “Sounds like I’d better retire before Tommy hits the NHL. Will you excuse me for a moment, Lydia?”
As expected, using her name earns me an approving smile and a free-pass out of the conversation. I head straight for the guy in the black satin vest slinging drinks at the nearest bar station. “Whiskey neat.”
Shoving a twenty in the tip glass, I rest an elbow on the glossy black counter, drumming my fingers as I scan the edges of the crowd. I zero in on my target immediately, and my body stirs in response.
Chelsea.
Chelsea London, my brain reminds my dick, but it doesn’t seem nearly as concerned about that detail as it should be. I accept the well-timed drink, knock back a healthy swallow, and watch her laugh with some donor.
She’s so damn pretty.
The best thing to do is forget her. Leave that perfect night in the past where it belongs.
Hockey needs to be my number one priority right now.
My future depends on it.
If this doesn’t work out, it’s not just another team letting me go.
It’s the end of the road. I’ve got a rap sheet of bad press and busted trust, and no one wants a defenseman who can’t keep it clean off the ice.
Hell, I’ll be lucky if I land a commentator gig if London cuts me loose.
I’ll be the guy they talk about in cautionary tales. The guy who let it all slip away.
Also, she’s working. She doesn’t have time for my bullshit.
The woman pats Chelsea’s arm before she raises a gloved hand to catch someone else’s attention, leaving her standing there.
Alone.
Goddamnit.
I down the rest of my drink, leave the glass on the bar, and walk straight toward her.
Panic flits across her face as she searches for an exit.
I know the feeling.
Still, I slow up, giving her the opportunity to make a run for it, half hoping she’ll take it.
She doesn’t move a single step.
I exhale with relief.
“Dance?” It’s the most reasonable way to get my hands on her, considering the circumstances.
“I don’t know if we should,” she says, even as she sets her clipboard on the nearest table.
“That didn’t stop you last night.”
Cue that adorable frown. “That wasn’t dancing.”
I pull her close, my palms riding the curve of her hips. It’s so good to touch her again.
“Watch your hands there, Slick.”
“This is me watching my hands,” I assure her, my voice rough with thoughts of all the places I’d rather put them.
“And don’t call me Slick, because that’s what my sister calls my brother-in-law, and I don’t want either of them in my head when I’m thinking dirty thoughts about what I wish we were doing instead of dancing. ”
She bites her lip at my confession, and hesitantly positions her arms around my neck.
I don’t know why I brought up Lainey and Coop. Maybe I want her to know stuff about me. I sure as hell want to know stuff about her.
I drag in a deep breath and tug her a little closer.
“Strawberries,” I murmur.
“What?” Her cheeks get all pink.
“You smell like strawberries.”
“It’s just my Chapstick.”
I stare at her lips without conscious volition. Plump and pink, they part on a shaky sigh that makes me want to kiss the strawberry-flavored sheen off them so she can reapply it and I can do it all over again
“Brett, don’t.”
Oh man. Hearing my name on her lips? That’s the stuff. I can’t stop my feral smile. “Say my name again.”
Her eyelashes lower, and her fingers brush the hair at the nape of my neck. I let myself press closer than I should, just for a second, just so she can feel what she does to me, how much I want her.
“Brett,” she breathes.
Oh yeah.
My fingers flex against her hips, digging into her skin. I’m fighting the urge to give into the intense pull between us. I know it’s not the time. This definitely isn’t the place. But I also know there’s no way in hell I’m letting her go tonight without tasting my name on her lips.
Dangerous. That’s what this is.
You don’t fuck with the owner’s daughter. Literally or figuratively.
Not when your hockey career is already on thin ice. But having her in my arms, her thighs shifting against mine, the brush of her hair against my jaw if I tip my head just right.
How am I supposed to walk away from this?
“May I cut in?”
“Yep. Yes. Of course.”
Apparently, it’s not a problem for Chelsea.
She pulls herself free so the leggy blonde in the skin-tight blue dress can take her place, and I hate that she’s running out on me. Again.
Donor, she mouths at me, and I’m slightly mollified by that. She’s not bailing. She’s playing the game. And I respect that. I do.
It’s pretty obvious this night is important to her so, taking the hint, I ignore the way it’s colder without her in my arms and extend a hand to my new dance partner. Except when I light up my best PR smile, it’s all for Chelsea, not the woman in my arms.