Penalty Shot (The Columbus Mavericks)

Chapter One Randall

I entered the busy bar with my teammates two minutes ago and already there’s a pair of brunettes walking over, ready to pounce.

“Randall Haughland, oh my gawd, you were amazing tonight,” one of them says while pressing her boobs against my arm.

“What a win! Can we get a picture with you?” the other girl asks, her phone out and her teeth bared.

She takes a selfie without waiting for an answer.

Story of my life right there.

My name and face are posted all over social media, but the hockey part is a little fuzzy.

Yes, I’m Randall Haughland.

No, I’m not the goalie who was amazing tonight.

I didn’t even play, unless you count being the padded target of slapshots during practice.

You know that guy who sits apart from other players, opening the door and encouraging the team? The one who plays every ten games or so, when the main goalie needs a break? The one with perfect hair, all his teeth intact, and an unsoiled jersey? That would be me.

I’m what’s called the second goalie.

The backup.

The spare.

Call me what you want, but my name is on that Stanley Cup when we win it at the end of the season.

It works for me. I like my teeth.

There’s a push from behind, which propels me toward the reserved table at the back of the bar.

“See you around,” I say to the girls, ready for a seat and a drink.

“Excuse me, this table is reserved. You’re going to have to move,” one of the servers tells a woman whose ass is leaning on our table. She looks to have spilled over from the large group occupying the table beside it.

“We’re willing to share,” my teammate Connor says to the server, but he’s looking right at the table tresspasser being shooed away.

So am I.

The woman is wearing an orange t-shirt with paint stains and jeans that are the true picture of distressed: ripped, stained, and rolled up at the bottom and the top. They are so ill-fitting, they probably belong to someone else. It’s the kind of outfit that would make most people look like they stumbled out of bed and their bed was a dumpster. But with a face like that, it comes across as a joke. A funny attempt to make the wearer look ugly and ridiculous.

It didn’t work, because this woman is fucking gorgeous.

Not in a sexy, polished way.

Not like a hot celebrity or a beauty queen.

But like the prettiest girl in the neighborhood who everyone secretly had a crush on.

Her hair is black and wavy. Arched brows match the thickness of her lashes. She’s Asian, her eyes amber brown and shaped like delicate crescents. Her lips are a tad wide for a somewhat narrow face. They’re shaped perfectly, though—the bow at the top of her lip is so defined it could have been drawn.

“Awesome! Thanks!” A bunch of people from her group spread out on the seats that had been reserved all night.

She laughs, stepping back to make room for her friends.

In the jostle, I’ve managed to elbow Connor out of the way. Our groups merge, hands reaching over the table and names exchanged like so many trinkets. She holds out her hand to me.

“Elise,” she states, “thanks for sharing.” She tilts her head toward her friends. “We’ve been scolded all night by the servers who were willing to die for the plot of land on which your table lay.”

It takes me a second to process what she said because that’s more words than I usually exchange with a woman I plan to take home.

“Didn’t stop you though, did it? All that scolding.” I shake her hand. “Randall. Nice to meet you Elise.”

“This is a tawdry neighborhood bar. What’s a bunch of guys in Armani shirts doing here?”

“My friend wanted to check the place out,” I say while pulling on my Armani collar. No point hiding what she already noticed. She laughs, and I want to hear it again. “Besides, who says cheap bars aren’t for everyone?”

“How egalitarian of you.”

My eyes narrow. I can’t be the only one who thinks that’s a weird thing to say, right? It makes me want to pay attention.

“Should I be insulted? Or is egalitarian your way of saying you want to buy me dinner.” Either way is fine with me as long as she keeps talking.

“God, I sound like a jackass. I’m sorry.” She bites down her lower lip. “We came out of a Regency play. Closed tonight, which is why we’re celebrating. She Stoops to Conquer is all kinds of pretentious. Egalitarian is just a fancy way of saying you think all are equal,” she makes a sweeping gesture at her drunk friends and my thirsty teammates. “It is a noble sentiment.”

Yelps of appreciation erupt when two servers bring over massive trays full of beers and shots. I grab two shooter glasses and hand one to her.

“Alcohol tends to bring out the noble egalitarian in me,” I say. “Cheers!”

We take the shots. Her eyes widen with appreciation.

“That’s top-shelf vodka,” she says. “Way better than the buck shots.”

I tilt my head at my Russian teammates down the table like that’s some kind of explanation. Truth is, I don’t want to talk about Russians and their obsession with vodka. I’d rather hear about Elise.

“What’s a Regency play?”

“Puffy dresses, tall wigs, and tea parties. There’s usually a sex scandal involved that no one explicitly talks about. Think Gossip Girl meets Jane Austen. If you’re lucky, there are swords.”

“Did you play with swords tonight, Elise?” I ask flirtatiously, looking down at her glistening bottom lip.

She shakes her head and rolls her eyes. “I was the assistant director. I wielded a whip.”

My grin widens at the thought of her with a whip, telling people what to do. Fucking hot. Suddenly, something occurs to me.

“If she stoops—that’s the title of the play, right?—how is that egalitarian?”

Her eyes brighten with interest and she’s about to say something when an argument arises over the bustle. A girl from her group is leaning over the table and pointing at another one of my teammates, Gordon. There’s a shooter glass between them.

“I nailed my performance tonight. If anyone should get the last shot, it should be me.”

“Not sure about that,” Gordon says, leaning over as well. “We won our game, so that counts for something.”

I snicker because my teammate does not give a shit about the vodka. He’s not even much of a drinker. He’s doing it to rile up the drama star.

“Artistry trumps athleticism,” Elise says, looking up at me with a wink. “Our lead Lily brought the house down tonight.”

“And Gordon here scored the winning goal,” I say. “Looks like this needs to be settled some other way.”

“With sharp wit and searing commentary?” a guy says dryly. It’s someone from their group staring at Gordon so intensely, it’s making everyone uncomfortable.

“More like sharp needles,” I blurt. “Who’s up for a game of darts?”

That releases some tension. Elise tilts her head my way and nods. Fortunately, I’ve bought myself some time with the whip-wielding assistant director in a tattered orange shirt.

A few of us head to a room with pool tables and darts. Everyone prefers to stand, but we need a place to put our drinks so we pull together two counter-height round tables beside the throwing areas.

I don’t bother tracking teams or keeping score. When I’m handed the darts, I rush through my turn then park myself by Elise.

When she goes up, you’d think there was money on the line. Her first one hits the edge. She takes a deep breath and shimmies her shoulders like that was a warm-up to an Olympic event. Her second one is fine. A bit closer. She’s average at best, but fuck, she applies herself like the world depends on that dart. It’s fascinating to watch how hard she’s trying.

Another one of my teammates, Sean, is our best player. He walks up just as she’s preparing her stance. He says something to her. My beer turns sour as it goes down my throat. Elise bobs her head, seriously considering what he said.

Reaching over to wrap his hand around her wrist, Sean is about to get a dart in his eye. No way is he touching the girl I’ve been hitting on all night.

“Loosen your wrist before you—”

“I’ve got this,” I interrupt and put myself behind her. My glare at Sean says volumes. He steps back.

Elise chuckles. “Are all hockey players this good at darts?”

“Only the professional ones,” I say cockily. That earns me a smile.

She faces me, hand on hip. “Are you going to help me or scare off all the volunteer coaches?”

I place my hands on her waist and turn her toward the throwing lane. My touch is light but there’s no hesitation. Her body moves the way I want it to, spinning away but stepping back, sighing into the cocoon of my chest. She’s shorter than me by at least eight inches. I’m looking down at her heaving chest and parted mouth. There’s a trickle of sweat on her temple that I’m tempted to lick.

“You need your feet shoulder width apart,” I say while nudging her foot. She leans back so her ass brushes against my thigh. Our calves stay connected. “Keep this foot slightly forward and your weight evenly distributed.”

“So technical,” she says breathily.

“Hold the dart like it’s a pencil.” I guide her fingers, which are cold against mine.

Her hair tickles my nose. It smells like flowers with a hint of ale. Whoever bottles and sells that combination would make a killing.

When her grip is perfect, I rub her thumb.

“Yeah, just like that,” I whisper, and she lets out a tiny squeak. “Breathe, Elise. That’s it. Focus, keep your breath still, and then release.”

I step back and she releases, landing closer to the bullseye than any previous try. She raises her hands over her head and jumps up and down. I’m ready for her when she hugs me. Damn, she feels good in my arms as I swing her around.

“He’s working for the other team!” “Traitor!” my friends call out jovially, although it’s hard to decipher clear words when her lips are so close to my neck. I bury my face in her hair and inhale deeply.

Reluctantly, I let her go. Her face is flushed. Didn’t think it was possible for her to be prettier, but here we are.

“Thank you,” she says sweetly, looking up at me.

“You’re welcome. Do you want another beer? I’ll grab it.”

She tiptoes to brush her lips against my ear. “I don’t want another beer, Randall.”

Her voice is fills my head. “Then tell me what you want, Elise. Anything.”

“Anything?” the way she says it makes my already alert cock stand to full attention.

“Say the word.”

“I want to get out of here with you,” she declares before worrying her teeth over a plump lower lip.

I reach over to push unruly hair away from her temple. “That’s exactly what I want too,” I state in all honesty.

Her smile sends an unexpected spark in my direction, igniting a low burning fire inside.

“I’ll get my coat and meet you out front in ten minutes. Just need to say my goodbyes.”

She walks away, leaving me with an overheated body, a stiff cock, and a big-ass smile.