3. Harrison
CHAPTER THREE
HARRISON
The ceiling is gray and blank and endless.
Kind of like my thoughts, which have been running the same damn loop since I left The Sin Bin.
I can picture Daisy’s green eyes, the color of rolling Kentucky hills.
Her mouth curved and merciless, like she was born to knock guys like me right on our asses.
The way she moved through that chaos, every step telegraphing confidence, zero room for negotiation.
The sight of her luscious curves in those tight ass jeans and clingy shirt sent all the blood in my goddamn body straight to my cock.
I haven’t been able to shake her. Not for one minute.
I roll over. The pillow’s cold for half a second until I punch it flat, trying to drive every last molecule of her out of my skull. No dice. Under the sheets, my cock’s still at half-mast just from thinking about her.
Christ. I turn over again, facing the window this time. Downtown’s just a dark outline. I moved in three months ago, right after the trade, but it doesn’t look like anyone actually lives here. I could fix the place up, fill it with shit I don’t need, but why bother?
Every time I close my eyes, I see the look she gave me. Not even a challenge. Just total, bored indifference.
Yeah, I’m losing my mind.
I shove my fist into the pillow again. Doesn’t help. There’s this restless energy in my chest, this itch I can’t scratch. I’m used to wanting things and going after them, no brakes, no hesitation. But with Daisy, I don’t even know what the next move is. She’s unlike any woman I’ve ever met.
I kick off the sheets and sit up, dragging my palms over my face. I’m not even tired, just wired and frustrated and horny and pissed. The city outside is starting to lose its edge, night draining out until it’s just the dull blue of not-quite-morning.
I head down to the gym on the second floor and work out until my muscles burn and my body hums. Then I drag my ass back up to my apartment to hit the shower.
After turning the water as cold as I can stand, I stand under the spray, but it doesn’t do shit to cool the adrenaline.
I scrub myself twice before toweling off.
I yank on my favorite black henley and the first pair of jeans I grab from the dresser.
I run a hand through my hair and stare at myself in the bathroom mirror. Still me.
The urge to see Daisy again gnaws at me, but I have to get to morning practice.
After a grueling practice, I drive straight to The Sin Bin. The bar doesn’t open until late this evening, but I’m counting on her being there earlier since she’s the owner.
I don’t know exactly what I’m going to say to her. I don’t have a plan. But that’s never stopped me before.
I park my truck in the back alley behind The Sin Bin.
It’s just after two, and the bar’s main doors are shuttered at this hour. The back door is painted black and patched at the bottom where it’s been kicked one too many times. I rap hard, knocks echoing through the alley. No answer.
Fucking hell. If I can’t find her before the bar opens, I’ll have to risk humiliation again tonight.
The lock snicks, and the door edges open just enough for Daisy to peek out at me.
In the afternoon light, she looks even smaller than I remember, but her stance is all business and not at all welcoming.
Her hair’s yanked back in a sleek ponytail.
She’s clutching a box cutter like she’s expecting trouble.
She doesn’t even blink as her gaze slides over me, registering and dismissing in the same breath.
I open my mouth.
“Not interested.” She leans on the door like it’s a shield. “Whatever it is, I’m not buying.”
There’s a half-second where the wind whistles, nothing but an echo of her turning me down a second time.
She goes to close the door, but I can’t let her go again. “Please.” The word comes out rough. I hate how I sound, but I’m fucking desperate.
For a full second, she just studies me, then flicks her gaze over her shoulder, like she’s got better places to be and about two minutes to get there.
“I’m busy right now.” She starts to edge the door shut again, but I keep my hand where it is.
There’s a lineup of liquor boxes in the gloom behind her, stacked high enough to block the narrow hallway. Beer, wine, something with glass that looks like it’s daring someone to drop it. Shit, the delivery guy must have left half the warehouse out here.
I get an idea and run with it.
“Let me handle those. I’ll move all of it in exchange for five minutes of your time.” I keep my voice low, trying not to sound like I’m begging for my life here.
She leans against the door, sizing me up, then shifts her stance so her hip sticks out just enough that I notice. Arms crossed now, box cutter resting in the crook of her elbow. The look on her face is pure skepticism.
Her eyes dart from me to the stack of boxes, then back again. Like she’s daring me to put my money where my mouth is.
“Have at it,” she says finally.
Game on.
I pull off my watch and set it on top of the nearest crate. Roll up my sleeves, square up. No time to think about how ridiculous this is. My body is already burning from two goddamn intense workouts, but I’m ready to do whatever it takes to convince her to give me the time of day.
I grab the top box and shoulder through the doorway. She steps back, not actually making space for me but not blocking, either. That’s as much of a win as I’m going to get.
Inside, the hallway is cool and dim, barely big enough for two people to move by without touching.
She points at the loading nook behind the bar. “Everything goes there. Don’t drop anything,” she adds, not even glancing back.
I grin because I can’t help it. “I played junior hockey in Saskatchewan. I’ve carried drunk guys twice my size through blizzards. I think I can handle the boxes.”
She just shrugs and disappears around the corner, arms still crossed, ponytail swinging. If she’s impressed, she keeps it to herself.
With the first box down, I double back for the next, getting a rhythm going. I see Daisy at the end of the bar, back turned, doing some kind of restocking, but also keeping an eye on me.
After three trips, the sweat starts up. The collar of my shirt sticks, my palms get gritty. Not sure what the hell is in some of these cases, but a few weigh as much as a grown man. I don’t slow down.
There’s a weird satisfaction in it. I’m not used to earning things like this, not since I was fifteen and fighting for a spot on the travel team. On the ice, it’s all skill, anticipation, outthinking the other guy. This is just brute force and hunger and a stupid need to prove I’m not full of shit.
Four more rounds and the alley is finally empty. My arms are noodles, and I’m sweating like I just played overtime. I catch her watching the dark patch spreading between my shoulders as I set the last box down.
“Is this all?” I ask, straightening up slowly.
“That’s it.” Daisy leans her elbows on the bar, face unreadable. She’s still holding the box cutter, spinning it absently between her fingers before looking down at her watch. “Now, you have your five minutes.”
Fucking hell. My mind goes blank. I open my mouth and blurt out the first thing I can think of. “Last night didn’t go the way I wanted. At all. I was a dick. You called me out, and I deserved it.”
That pulls a faint smile out of her, just a flicker. Progress. “All of that is true, but you still haven’t told me why you’re here.”
I wipe my forehead with the back of my hand. “I want to get to know you.”
“You’re wasting your time.” She holds my gaze, and I can see the truth behind her words. “I don’t hop into bed with athletes.”
Fuck. My chest is doing something I don’t have a name for.
“Look, I’m not going to stand here and pretend I don’t want you.
” I push off the bar and take one step toward her, close enough that I have to keep my voice low.
“But that’s not why I’m here. I’ve never felt anything like this before.
Whatever it is scares the fuck out of me, but I can’t fight it.
” I hold her gaze and don’t let go. “I don’t know how else to say it. ”
I’m already mentally kicking my own ass when she glances at the clock over the register. “The bar doesn’t open for three hours. We have enough time for a quick lunch if you’re game.”
If I’m game? Holy fuck. I feel like I’ve just scored the winning goal in the Stanley Cup playoffs.