CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
SAM
I jump the wall and take off, my skates gliding over the ice like a rocket taking flight. My feet are barely touching the ground right now. Ollie passes me the puck. I pass it back and fly toward the middle of the rink, lowering my shoulder into the defender who tries to push me out of the space. The puck finds my stick again, and I shoot. My slapshot hits the empty space over the goalie’s left shoulder and flies into the net. The buzzers erupt, along with the crowd. My teammates swarm me.
I didn’t realize how much of a difference a clean diet and a good night’s sleep would make with my performance. But I’m playing the best I ever have. I’m barely drinking these days. I haven’t had takeout in a couple of weeks. I wake up alone, well rested and refreshed in the mornings. I’m faster, and my reflexes are sharper. My body feels like a well-honed machine, and my energy level is unmatched these days.
I win the drop at center ice and stay in the game for another minute before I switch out for the next line. I take the seat next to Ollie on the bench.
“Nice pass,” I say, adjusting the tape on the end of my stick.
“Nice goal,” he reciprocates. He glances over at me and back at the ice. “You keep playing like this, and we’ll make the playoffs again this year.”
“You would’ve made the playoffs without me here.”
“Maybe.” He shrugs. “Maybe not. But our chances are better with you on the team, playing like this.”
“I couldn’t make you look bad after you went out on a limb for me.” I see Ollie study me for a moment from the corner of my eye.
“I knew you had it in you.”
“You might be the only one,” I murmur, thinking back to the first day I walked through the doors of the arena.
Ollie chuckles before growing serious. “Then, prove ’em wrong.”
“I plan to,” I say with confidence.
“You already are.”
We knock our fists, and then both of us slide over the wall to relieve the last line. When the final buzzer sounds after period number three, the score is 3–2 in favor of us.
The locker room is buzzing after the game, everyone flying high now that the team is really gelling. The coaches are happy. The guys are satisfied. We’re on a winning streak. Home games, away … it doesn’t seem to matter where we play. It feels so good.
“We’re going out tonight, boys,” Cruz announces while standing in the middle of the locker room with a towel tied around his waist. “And that includes you two.” He points at Ollie and me.
I smirk. “I’ll be there. I don’t have anything better to do tonight, Cruz.”
“You will by the end of the night,” he declares with a cheeky grin, referring to all the puck bunnies who are likely to show up wherever we land.
“What, you haven’t heard, Cruz?” Abernathy says, raising his obnoxious voice to make sure he has everyone’s attention. He slaps a hand on my shoulder. “Anderson here is celibate. Clean eating, regular exercise, not drinking … and no women.”
The team knows that Emerson is around to keep me on the straight and narrow. They also know about the scandal that brought me here in the first place. It hasn’t gone unnoticed that I haven’t been drinking and partying like I used to. And I avoid the puck bunnies more than I welcome their attention these days.
“Seems to be working for him,” Beers says. He’s a forward, too, and the teammate I switch out with regularly during a game.
Ollie stops next to Abernathy and slaps his shoulder just like he slapped mine. “Maybe you should try it. Might improve your scoring average.”
“Probably not,” Cruz coughs behind a closed fist.
Abernathy scowls and flips off the room when everyone cackles and chimes in.
I sit on the bench and pull out my phone after I’m dressed. I find Emerson’s number.
Me: The team is going out to celebrate tonight. I might need you to keep me in line.
I’m joking but serious at the same time. There were times like this in the past where the celebration would tend to get out of hand. At the end of my days in Cali though, it didn’t matter whether I was drowning my sorrows after a loss or partying after a win. Both situations seemed to spell trouble. And I don’t fully trust myself yet to make the right decisions. Good decisions. I want to focus on my goals and not be so shortsighted that I make dumb choices that will cost me in the end, which is a first for me.
But mostly, I just want to see her. Emerson’s been scarce since our disastrous dinner, so this is a good excuse to contact her and break the ice.
She answers after a couple of minutes.
Emerson: Does this mean you’re no longer being an asshole? Because I’m not in the mood for it tonight.
Me: I promise to keep my inner asshole hidden away. Let me buy you a drink to apologize.
Emerson: Isn’t that what we’re supposed to be avoiding?
Me: A drink or two won’t hurt. It’s the bingeing that always gets me into trouble …
Emerson: Well, I don’t know how much help I’ll be tonight. I’m well on my way to being drunk already.
My eyes narrow when I read her last text. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Emerson intoxicated before, not even in college at the party where I first saw her.
Me: Now, you have to meet me out. I’ve never witnessed a drunk Doe.
Emerson: Stop calling me that.
Me: Were you downing beer or liquor at the game tonight?
Emerson: We didn’t make it to the game. Girls’ night.
Me: You missed my goal? Where are you?
Each time, it seems to take longer and longer for her to answer my texts. She doesn’t respond at all to the last one.
Ollie chuckles beside me while staring at his phone screen.
“What?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Mads is out with the girls tonight. She’s already lit.”
“Is Emerson with her?”
He nods. “Yeah, and I think Suki is there too.”
“Where are they?”
“Some bar on Beaker Street. But they’re meeting us at McGill’s in twenty.”
McGill’s is a bar not far from the stadium, where the team tends to congregate after a win when we don’t care about the attention we garner.
We wait for the others to finish showering and then head out as a group. Most of us walk through the front door of the bar about twenty minutes later. Cheers erupt from the patrons when we’re spotted, but I’m glancing around, looking for a brown-haired girl who I’m guessing is going to be trouble tonight.
“They’re over there.” Ollie points across the place, which is currently packed.
Three familiar women are sitting in a corner booth, surrounded by a group of athletic-looking guys. We start plowing our way through the crowd, though it isn’t hard because most people automatically move out of our way.
“Ollie!” Mads screams when she sees us. She pushes her way out of the booth and jumps into his arms.
I shake my head, wondering how the two of them ended up together. They’re opposites. Mads is loud and crazy, whereas Ollie is quieter and more controlled. But they seem happy together. I guess opposites really do attract.
My eyes find Emerson’s from her spot between two men like a laser beam focused on its target. Her smile is lazy and relaxed, like the drinks she’s had so far are doing their job.
My gaze drops further south, and my jaw nearly drops to the ground when I see how she’s dressed. She looks less like a doe and more like a vixen tonight. She’s wearing some little black top that’s fitted, scoop-necked, long-sleeved, and ends just beneath her breasts. Her belly is slim and toned. The material hugs her curves and gives just a teasing glimpse of her ample cleavage. I can’t see the lower half of her, but I’m anxious to change that. I’d bet money that Mads dressed her tonight. Emerson usually chooses loose-fitting things. Something less overt. I suspected she was hiding that banging body beneath her clothes all this time, especially when she paints in that sexy, wide-neck top that always falls off her shoulder, teasing me with glimpses of creamy skin. But I wasn’t envisioning this. She’s stunning.
She tucks a strand of wavy chestnut hair behind her ear, and I’m struggling to keep my expression neutral. Especially when the guy next to her leans in close and says something. There’s a weird feeling inside my chest when her eyes shift to him because I liked them focused on me. I realize now that I’m starting to want her attention a little too much. Especially now that it’s been stolen by someone else. And I wonder if it’s my competitive streak leading the way … or if it’s her.
“Doe,” I say, winning her gaze once again. I crook a finger impulsively and beckon her closer. “I owe you a drink.”
“Doe?” her friend Suki says, and I can hear the humor in her voice. But I ignore her.
It’s loud in here, but Emerson hears me. The guy next to her frowns and places a hand on her forearm to keep her in place.
“She already has a drink, mate,” he says. He speaks with some kind of accent. British maybe or Australian.
My gaze hardens. “And who are you?”
“Who are you?” he challenges me.
“I’m the guy she lives with.”
I know the words insinuate more than just a roommate situation, but I don’t back down. Fortunately for him, this guy does.
The stranger’s gaze whips to Emerson as his hand drops to his side. “You said you didn’t have a boyfriend.”
“Oh, you did, did you?” I taunt her.
She rolls her eyes. “I don’t have a boyfriend.” She rises to her feet and climbs over him and another guy. “But he does owe me a drink.”
I grab her arm to steady her as she drops to the floor next to me. She’s wearing jeans on the bottom half with rips in the legs. The denim hugs her tight ass. She looks hot.
“No boyfriend, huh?” I ask as I start to lead her through the crowd.
My hand instinctively drops to hers to keep us connected. Her skin is warm when I lace our fingers together, and mine starts to tingle where we are touching. It’s such a strange thing to be holding her hand. It’s been so long since I’ve held any woman’s hand. But it feels weirdly natural at the same time.
“What happened to Eli?”
“Eliott,” she corrects with a scowl.
I knew his name; I just like to push her buttons.
“And we broke up.”
“Since when?” I ask, wondering where she slept the other night.
“Earlier this week.”
“Did you break up with him, or did he dump you?” I ask as we reach the bar. I don’t drop her hand.
She narrows her eyes. “Does it matter?”
“Yeah,” I say, pushing a wayward strand of hair off her face, “I think it does.”
“I broke up with him,” she clarifies.
And somehow, that makes me happy. Satisfied even, though I’m not sure why. She pulls her hand free, leaving me oddly empty, but I ignore the feeling and order us two shots. A whiskey for me and a buttery nipple for her.
“What makes you think I want that pussy shot?”
She arches her eyebrows and places her hands on her hips. I smirk at her sassy tone. It’s my first solid indication that she’s drunk because I don’t think a sober Emerson would throw around the word pussy .
“Because you’re a chick and most chicks like that sweet shit,” I reply, leaning against the bar.
The shots are placed in front of us. I’m reaching for my card to start a tab while Emerson grabs the shot of whiskey, taps it on the bar top, and downs it in one swallow.
“Well, shit,” I say, handing my card over to the bartender, who is laughing as she watches us.
Emerson tilts her head, her golden-brown eyes glowing with fire. “I just assumed the buttery nipple was for you. You seem like the type of guy who likes that sweet shit.”
I throw my head back and laugh. Then, I grab the remaining shot and empty the glass, cringing when the saccharine taste hits my tongue.
“Nope, definitely not the type of guy who would order that on purpose,” I say. I lean in closer. “But I have been known to enjoy a nipple or two in my day.”
She rolls her eyes, ignoring my last comment. “Then, don’t order it for me ever again.”
“Noted,” I concede, enjoying our little sparring match.
“And I’m not a chick,” she says, poking her index finger into my chest. I trap it there. “I’m all woman.”
My eyes trail the length of her body, lingering on her chest before making my way back to her face. I capture her fiery gaze with my own. I’m still holding her hand against my pecs. “Yes, you are.”
There’s a circuit flowing between us that either wasn’t there before or has escaped my notice somehow. But now that I’ve felt it, I don’t think I can ignore it—or her. I’m looking at Emerson, seeing her for the first time. The golden flecks in her brown eyes. The way her lashes are long and dark, kissing the tops of her cheeks when she blinks or looks down. She barely has any makeup on, but there’s a soft pink flush to her skin. Her lips are full and glossy … kissable. Her body is soft but toned at the same time. And right now, I want to explore every inch of it.
She glances back toward the table. “I need to get back.”
She tugs on her hand, but I only grip her harder. I’m not ready to let her go.
“Back where?”
“To the table,” she says.
She runs her tongue along her bottom lip. Not to be sexy, but to moisten it. It is sexy though.
“Why?”
She sighs, losing patience with me. “Because I don’t want to leave Suki over there alone.”
I glance back to where her friend is still sitting with the same group of guys. “Who is she sitting with?”
“Guys that are here from Australia, playing in some rugby tournament. We met them at the first bar, and they followed us here.”
“Well, you can tell them to get lost now.”
She freezes, a slow smile spreading across her face. “Why? You don’t like sharing the attention?”
My brow rises. “Maybe I don’t. You’re supposed to be here for me, Em. Is that a problem?”
She stares at me for a few seconds like she’s trying to figure me out. I can’t tell if she’s flirting with me tonight or just enjoying the attention I’m throwing her way, but I like the vibe between us.
“Are you jealous, Sam?”
I don’t answer, mostly because I’m not sure what I am right now. All I know is, I didn’t like that guy whispering in her ear and placing his hand on her arm like he owned her. And I didn’t like her looking back at him.
Emerson keeps rambling, showing me again that she’s somewhat intoxicated. Or at least that her lips are loosened by the alcohol she’s consumed. “Because Suki seems to think that you were jealous of me and Milo the other day.”
I chuckle and run a hand down my face while she watches me. Emerson is never this forthcoming. The drinks are some kind of truth serum for her, no doubt. I’ll have to remember that in the future.
“So … were you?” she pushes.
“Was I jealous? Of you and my chef?” I smirk and decide to be honest with her. “Did I notice that you were flirting with him and that he was flirting with you? Yes. Did I like it? No.”
“Is that why you were mean to me the other night?”
“Is that why you left—because I was mean?”
“Yes,” she answers without hesitation.
“I had some things on my mind,” I respond to her question. But I don’t elaborate. It isn’t the time or place to talk about what was really bothering me the other night. I don’t want to discuss my mom and her condition. It’s far too personal and something that shouldn’t be talked about in a bar with my roommate while she’s drunk.
Emerson stares at me for a long moment. “Don’t do it again,” she practically whispers.
“Do what?” I murmur, tucking her hair behind her ear the way I’ve seen her do a million times now. I’m slow with my movements, not wanting to pull away. I like the feel of her soft skin against my callous fingers.
“Be mean to me.”
“I won’t,” I promise. And I mean it with everything I am. Something about the hurt in her expression guts me. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to take my bad mood out on you that night. I’ll do my best never to do it again.”
“Okay,” she says with an almost-imperceptible nod.
There are dozens of people crammed into this bar. The atmosphere is festive and lively. My teammates are scattered around, drinking and laughing, hitting on women. Everything is chaotic around us. But for the moment, it’s like the world stops. Everything is quiet. All I see and hear is her. I don’t care about the stupid contract, or that she’s supposed to be my professional keeper. I don’t care that I’m not supposed to touch her. Not with the way her lips quivered just a bit when she asked me not to be mean to her again. Not when I see the vulnerability in her eyes and the softness of her expression. I’m no longer concerned about contractual obligations or what I’m supposed to do. It’s now about what I want to do. And I want to pull her into my arms and protect her from all the evil in the world. I want to protect her from guys like me .
We study each other from a short distance as the silence grows. My eyes drop to her lips. I drift closer. We’re breathing the same air. I’m a second away from kissing her, consequences be damned, when fingers tipped with red-painted nails snake around my arm, creating an unwanted interruption.
“Hello, Sam,” a high-pitched voice purrs.
And although I don’t know who this woman is, the moment between Emerson and me is instantly broken as she stiffens and takes a step away.