Chapter 3
Beck
Women were fickle creatures.
Cunning. Intelligent. Observant.
All qualities that created masterful works of art that often few men knew what to do with. Not that I was daring to suggest I did. I’d never been particularly good with the ladies. No matter what the tabloids or social media suggested, I wasn’t suave or a guy who knew what romance meant.
As a kid, I’d been the nerd, enjoying keeping my nose in a book or a video game. Only when my father had forced me onto the ice to get my ass out of the house and away from my computer had I learned to enjoy the outdoors.
In the recent months and even when playing for Cincinnati, I’d been called a heartthrob, the country’s most eligible bachelor. I’d laughed every time I’d caught a headline claiming I was a Casanova or a social media post where a puck bunny longed for a night spent in my arms.
Why?
Because they believed the hype that I was a lumberjack by trade and a hockey master by design. At night? Well, their thoughts and suggestions could make a grown man blush.
Except I wasn’t any man.
The only reason I’d grown comfortable with parading myself around as bachelor of the year was that falling into the hype was way too easy.
So was tasting the fruits of my labor. Thankfully, I’d gotten over my sowing my wild oats phase while living and working out of Cincinnati for nine months out of the year.
Maybe that’s why being a showoff just after the game had both come easily from practice and shocked the hell out of me at the same time.
I’d all but propositioned the stunning reporter.
I’d even come this close to asking Sloane out for a drink, which in my wicked mind had already led to ungodly but delicious visions after our hour of sparring.
At least I could admit she’d challenged me with her well-thought-out questions.
What I hadn’t expected was to see her again.
Yet even before I’d walked into the hotel bar with a few of the other guys, I’d sensed her. Not from the rush from her perfume and the near intoxication the scent provided. I’d felt her. As if there’d been an unnatural tether shackling us after our meeting.
There was a chance I simply remained high on life and the win. The slam of desire had nothing to do with being drunk since alcohol had a minimal effect on my system.
But the moment I walked into the bar, I was hit with an entirely different set of sensations that could only be described as hunger on steroids.
Yes, the woman was that beautiful, the kind of girl who could get any man’s blood pumping.
You bet I was attracted to her figure and her voice, including the way she articulated every word like the pro she was.
Maybe her sass was what had fueled my desire.
Whatever the case, for a few seconds I enjoyed the moment basking in her beauty.
The enjoyment was short lived even after her eyes raked down my clothed body and back up. Without hesitation, she’d cocked her pretty head, wrinkled her nose, and turned abruptly and decidedly away from me and back to the bar.
Now she was conversing with the bartender, and I didn’t like it one bit.
“Hey, man, let’s get a drink. You’re buying. Remember?” Bernie interrupted the rather painful brushoff, but at least I had a reason to head to the bar.
“Somehow, I doubt you’d let me forget,” I told him, still laughing at Ford’s text a few minutes earlier. Apparently, he’d prefer to chat on the phone with his fiancée than party down with the guys.
Traitor.
Bernie’s snort was an indication I was right. “Make it a double. I need to par-ty.”
“You’ve already done so like it’s a damn New Year’s Eve,” I chided.
“Hey, that was a hard win.” He smacked me on the back. “Thanks to you.”
I could almost tell the woman was thinking. Why the hell had we shown up in a nice, peaceful bar? Her wheels were grinding.
“Isn’t that the reporter from before?”
“Yeah, that’s her.” I couldn’t lie that I’d enjoyed the hell out of watching her squirm by my remaining completely naked. While she’d been none too happy, the only way I’d been able to tell she’d been bothered in the least was by the twitch in her eyes that no one else would have noticed.
“Be careful, buddy. I’ve heard she’s a real ballbuster. A make or break it kind of chick.”
We’d already been partying, hitting two bars near the arena after our win. There’d been plenty of fans, hundreds of them in fact. More puck bunnies of every shape, size, color, and age. All for the plucking.
But none of them had been the reporter with the nasty attitude.
“Yeah, I’ll keep that in mind. Let me get those drinks.” I moved toward the bar, taking up a spot a couple of barstools away. Now she had her face buried in what she was writing. Maybe a Pulitzer Prize-winning article.
On me.
Ms. Winters was doing a damn good job of ignoring me.
While I might be quiet on the inside, gregarious in front of the cameras, what my personality couldn’t handle was being ignored. My father called the condition the curse of the wolf.
The correct term was the curse of the alpha wolf, their behavior and attitudes not only possessive, but often bordering on stalkerish.
Meanwhile, a fire burned brightly inside, filthy thoughts threatening to drive aside all the willpower I prided myself in.
Or maybe I should say for the first time in years, the thought of getting to know someone didn’t bore me to death.
My brother would say I had a penchant for pain. Maybe that was the truth. One aspect was certain. I didn’t like seeing her with another man.
Whoa. Where in the hell had that come from? I was just angry from being snubbed. That was it. Nothing a little sparring wouldn’t cure.
“What can I get you?” the bartender asked.
“Six Heinekens and six shots of Mezcal.”
“Comin’ right up.”
I didn’t say anything, deciding it was best to see how she handled the closeness. However, I did tap on the bar’s surface a few times, humming a tune that I was pretty certain didn’t exist.
“Do you mind?” she finally asked in the same demanding tone as I’d heard before we’d gotten into the heat of the interview, which I had to admit had gone very well.
“I’m sorry?” I slowly turned my head. “Oh, you’re that reporter. Right?”
She lifted a single eyebrow the moment she finally acknowledged my presence.
She’d yanked the ponytail holder from her hair, allowing the long, dark curls to fan over her shoulders.
In the lighting of the bar, I was clearly able to see the scorn in her eyes as well as the same minuscule twitch from before.
I’d annoyed her.
“You knew the moment you walked in who I was, Mr. Kendrick. Or perhaps I should call you Man-whore of the Year. Isn’t that what your bunny girls call you?”
“Bunny girls?” I’d give her credit. She was quick with the tongue. “My puck bunnies know what I’m capable of.”
“Now I’m just going to vomit a little bit in my mouth, Mr. Kendrick.”
“I would think, given how close we became during the interview, we would be comfortable using first names at this point.”
When she snapped the lid of her laptop closed, I jumped on purpose. “Nothing personal, Mr. Kendrick, but we’re not going to be friends. No amount of pressure you might be inclined to use will change my article.”
“Is that what I was doing?”
“You and I both know you were. Or perhaps,” she offered with a smile while swiveling her barstool as she’d done upon my arrival, “you think I’m one of those women.”
“Those women? I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”
“Please. The puck bunnies who hang all over every hockey player. The ones that turn up all over social media. I’m surprised I don’t see any outside the window waiting in droves, all hopeful you’ll pick them for the night.”
Her calm and cool demeanor from before showed signs of cracking. What was I saying? The cracks were turning into a fissure with the dam threatening to break wide open.
“Contrary to what you’ve heard, not every hockey player is a whore.” I purposely shifted my expression into looking hurt, my sister calling it a puppy dog look that I’d learned to perfect.
Her chuffed look was adorable, so much so I found myself sliding closer. Taunting her was a pleasant alternative to drinking with the guys. Not that I didn’t enjoy their company, but I’d grown weary of shoptalk every night of the week. I lived with two players and all they talked about was hockey.
“You’re right. That wasn’t fair. Including to the women.” She licked her lips. Again, on purpose. Oh, I could spar with her for days on end.
“I’ve met women who are there for the sport more than some of the men.”
“You mean the ones with their team’s colors painted on every inch of their bodies.” Her smirk was adorable. Should I tell her that?
Cringing, I cocked my head. “Please don’t tell me you’ve been forced to see a naked man painted in purple and gold.”
“You don’t see them when you’re on the ice.”
“Forgive me, but I’m just a little bit busy.”
My lousy attempt at making a joke brought an easier round of laughter, which sent a chill straight through to my bones with how crystal clear and lyrical hers was.
“I guess you’re right. Just trust me that there are some men who take being a super fan just a little too seriously.
Plus, they really shouldn’t run around without their shirts. Or their shorts.”
“Ugh. Maybe I’m glad I can’t see them,” I gritted out.
“If you’d like, I’ll send you a picture as a souvenir.”
The laughter continued until we both realized we didn’t have much to say to each other.
Me because I was suddenly the scrawny kid in junior high crushing on the girl in algebra class. Her because she obviously had been around the wrong men in her life.
We stared at each other for a full thirty seconds while the bartender started placing opened beer bottles on the bar. “You should try Guinness and a shot of Sambuca on the side sometime,” she said and the statement caught me completely off guard.
“Oh, yeah?” The idea had never occurred to me.
“Good stuff. Much more sophisticated.”
“Then why are you drinking a martini?”