Chapter Two
Phoenix
My life would be so much easier if Corey Simms was as dumb as he looks. Sadly, that isn't the case.
Believe me, I'm mad as hell about it, too.
"What do you mean, Simms was asking about her?
" I growl, gripping the phone in one hand while trying to yank a pair of sweats up my legs with the other.
For a motherfucker who has skated on a thin blade his whole life, I don't make this shit look graceful.
Instead, I nearly faceplant into the vanity, my nose inches from the mirror.
"I said what I said, Phoenix," Callie Roberts, our head of media relations, says calmly. "Corey called an hour ago, asking for intel on the same reporter."
"Dammit," I mutter, finally getting my sweats up. I lean against the vanity, scowling at my reflection in the mirror. There's no hiding that I'm pissed. It's written all over my face, but I'm the only one here to see it, so whatever.
What is Corey even up to? He chases after puck bunnies. He fucks. He doesn't date. Why the sudden interest in Cara? Is he just trying to piss me off?
We've never had a problem before, but that sounds like some shit Corey would do. He's not a bad guy. He's just…annoying as all hell. He likes to think he's funny. He isn't.
And it's pissing me off that he's the reason Cara wrote me off as an asshole like she did today.
I'm not that guy. I don't chase bunnies.
I don't cause problems. Growing up, the only thing I ever wanted to do was play hockey like my dad.
And I've made damn sure to keep my nose clean so I don't tarnish his legacy.
I never wanted to be the motherfucker in the league everyone accused of being a nepo baby. When I drafted, I wanted it to be on my own skill and my own merits, not on my dad's name. I've spent years working my ass off to make sure I've earned every minute of good press I've received.
This is different.
Cara Oliver is going to change my life. Not because she's a reporter, but because she's important. I feel it in my bones.
"What did you tell him?" I ask Callie, curious as hell how much Corey knows about our new reporter. Whatever he knows, I need to know. This may be a game to him, but it isn't one he's going to win.
Callie's heavy sigh sends static down the line. "I told him the same thing I'm going to tell you," she says. "I'm not Google or a personnel record. If you want to know anything about her, ask her."
Well, that's fair enough. Except I don't want to play fair.
"Remember that time you needed help moving out of your apartment at the last minute?
" I ask, striding out of the bathroom into my room.
I sprawl across the bed, staring up at the ceiling.
Afternoon light filters in through the windows, sending dust motes hovering through the air.
"And remember who dropped everything to come haul furniture down three flights of stairs for you, no questions asked? "
"Are you blackmailing me, Phoenix?" Callie asks.
"If that's what you want to call it," I say, grinning because I know she isn't mad about it. Callie and I understand each other. She schedules the interviews that make me look good. In exchange, I make the team look good. It's a win-win. "I prefer to think of it as calling in a favor."
She's silent for a moment and then laughs through a groan.
"You are so lucky I like you better than Corey," she grumbles.
"Fine. She works at Houston Sports Nation.
We talked for a few minutes when she came in to get her press badge.
She grew up in Houston, went to a fancy school on the East Coast, and she knows her shit when it comes to hockey. Her dad drafted for a season."
"Huh. Who is her dad?"
"Again, not Google."
"Fine. Is that all you've got?"
"Did you want her date of birth, star sign, and social security number?" Callie asks sarcastically. "We talked for five minutes, Phoenix. It's not like I grilled her about her entire life's history. I'm busy. If you want to know more, ask her."
"Fine."
"Fine."
I chuckle at her tone. "You're cranky today."
"You and Corey are both on my phone, annoying the hell out of me about the new reporter. Of course I'm cranky," Callie retorts. "Why are you both so interested, anyway?"
"We're going to date."
"What the…" Callie trails off, her shock evident. "You, Corey, and the reporter are going to date?"
"What? Fuck no," I growl, scowling. "Corey isn't going anywhere near her."
"That is not what you just said."
"I didn't say anything about Corey."
"Uh, I asked why you and Corey are so interested in her, and you said we're going to date," Callie says.
"Well, I didn't mean him. He can fuck a cactus." Hell no, he isn't dating Cara. I've never cockblocked a teammate unless they were too drunk to know what the fuck they were doing, but I will cockblock the hell out of him. His dick isn't going anywhere near Cara. Absolutely not.
"Don't give him any ideas," Callie says dryly, making me snort. "Are we done here? I have things to do."
"Yeah, we're done." I pause. "Wait. You said she works at Houston Sports Nation?"
"Yes…"
"Thanks."
"I would ask why you want to know, but you know what?
I don't even care. Just know, if you fuck up, she's the one who gets to write about it," Callie says, sounding pleased by the prospect.
"And since you're on my phone asking about her instead of talking to her, I'm guessing that's because she won't make you sound amazing. Do with that knowledge what you will."
"I—" That's as far as I get before she hangs up on me. I chuckle and drop the phone to the bed beside me, my mind immediately locking onto the notes Cara wrote about me today—the ones that said I'm arrogant and full of shit because I called her beautiful.
I wasn't just feeding her a line of bullshit, though. She's gorgeous. The entire time she was pressed up against me, I was praying she wouldn't feel my cock. The hard bastard was losing circulation in my jock.
Those big hazel eyes, gorgeous olive skin, and pert little mouth were doing it for me. So was the way her retro dress clung to her curvy body beneath her oversized coat. She's thick everywhere, with the softest fucking skin.
I groan, my hand drifting toward my cock. I squeeze once, trying to get the hard bastard to behave himself, but that's a lost cause. He hasn't behaved since I plowed into her today. Not even beating off in the shower really helped.
I want to see her again, talk to her, see her eyes flash fire while she's spitting that sexy little attitude at me.
"Fuck," I groan, grabbing my phone before I find an excuse to jerk off again.
I look her up at Houston Sports Nation, grinning like an idiot when her employee photo pops up.
Her dark hair is up in a bun, her expression somber, like she's aiming for professional.
She lands somewhere near naughty librarian instead.
What was it she said today? Pigs would fly first?
That should annoy me. It doesn't. Frankly, it amuses the hell out of me. It's cute that she thinks she can withstand me. I know better. I saw the way she looked at me. Even if she doesn't want to admit it to herself, she's into me.
She damn sure didn't look at Corey the way she looked at me today. And if she meant what she said about never dating him because she's heard the press about him, then I have nothing to worry about on that front.
I briefly consider confronting him again, but there isn't really a point. I told him to fuck off after she stormed off today. He just laughed and asked if I was scared of a little competition. As if he'll ever be that.
"Pigs will fly," I murmur to myself, an idea forming.
She may kill me for it, but fuck it. If it gets her back to the arena sooner rather than later, it'll be worth it.
I open a new tab, grinning to myself.
She said pigs will fly. She never said how. And I'm nothing if not inventive.
Iknow the minute she storms into practice the next morning. Hell, the whole team knows. She isn't quiet about it. She's a petite hurricane, slamming the doors so hard, the boards rattle.
"What the fuck?" Harrison mumbles, glancing across the ice as she comes storming into view, her arms wrapped around a pinata.
"The fuck is that?" Chance asks, his brown eyes narrowed on the monstrosity in her arms.
"That's my genius at work. Be right back," I say, propping my stick against the boards before hauling ass in her direction.
My skates cut across the ice, the sound familiar.
My eyes are locked on her the entire time, picking out every little detail…
like the fire in her gaze, the heat in her cheeks, and the way she hugs the pinata against her like she's prepared to use it as a weapon or a shield.
I clock Corey out of the corner of my eye, watching intently from the sidelines. But he's talking to Coach, and he can't exactly just walk away from that conversation. So he's not my problem right now.
The pretty little minx glaring daggers at me is, however.
I skate to a stop beside the boards right as she reaches them.
"You," she growls.
"I see you got my present," I say, smirking at her.
"Your present? Are you freaking kidding me, Phoenix?" she practically growls, trying to contain it in her arms. "You had a freaking pinata delivered to my office last night!"
"Mmhmm." I reach out, plucking a piece of delicate pink tissue paper from it.
Honestly, I'm impressed with myself here.
It actually looks like a flying pig, and I only had to spend an hour on the phone to make it happen.
"You told me that you'd go out with me when pigs fly.
" I meet her gaze, grinning. "I believe this little guy flies, gorgeous. See? He even has wings."
"You…you…you…" she splutters, her cheeks bright pink.
"What's that? I can't hear you," I tease, unable to help myself.
"With help! It flies with help!" she cries, all but stomping her foot in frustration.
"You didn't specify rules or set guardrails, baby."
She splutters again and then, to my surprise, she actually laughs. It's a helpless, hopeless little laugh, like she doesn't know what else to do in the moment. But it's a laugh. And goddamn, it's beautiful. It lights up her whole face, softening her.
Does she have any idea how beautiful she is when she's laughing? Probably not. I'm guessing she's oblivious to how utterly captivating she is. But fucking hell, it's impossible not to see it.
There are always women around when you play at this level. And most of them want something, whether it's time, attention, fame, or money. They hang onto every word you say, acting like it's all fascinating. I've gotten good at ignoring them simply because I'm not interested in playing that game.
This is different.
Cara wants nothing. She isn't dressing to impress, trying to get in good with me, or throwing out compliments like her future depends on it.
She hasn't blown smoke up my ass a single time.
Frankly, I don't think she gives a shit about me at all.
She just wants to do her job, the same way I do.
And she isn't afraid to talk a little shit along the way.
That's fascinating to me.
People have been in my face, singing my praises since I was a kid. Not Cara. I think she'd prefer if she never had to see me again. Yeah, I'm hooked.
"You ready to admit defeat yet?" I ask, reaching out to tuck a wayward strand of hair behind her ear, just so I can touch her.
I want her to get used to me being in her space.
I want her thinking about my hands on her, my body against hers.
I'll use whatever tools I have at my disposal to wear her down and make her crave me.
Is it fair? Probably not, but neither is that dress she's wearing. It should be on my bedroom floor.
She startles, her laughter dying. Those wide hazel eyes lock with mine. "We're not dating," she says. "I'm here to cover the team, and that's it. I mean it, Phoenix."
"Liar," I murmur.
"You've never heard the word no before, have you?"
"Is that the one that means 'fuck off, you weirdo'?"
"Uh, that's one definition," she says, slightly startled.
"Then I've definitely heard it before," I mutter. "I'm just not interested in hearing it this time."
Her lips twitch like she wants to smile before she manages to contain it. "Too bad. Unless you're the news, I'm not interested." She shoves the pinata against my chest hard enough to knock me off balance. "Don't send anything else to my office."
I catch myself, glancing up just in time to see her storming off, her ass swaying hypnotically. I groan, biting my lip. Fucking hell. I've never wanted to sink my teeth into something more than that perfect ass. But apparently, the only way that's going to happen is if I'm the news.
Huh.
I pause, considering the possibility. Maybe that's exactly what I need to do—turn myself into the news. If she thinks there's a story here, she'll have no choice but to deal with me. And if she's in my orbit, I'll have every chance I need to convince her that she wants to date me.
"Game on, gorgeous," I mouth when she glances over her shoulder at me. Her brows furrow like she's trying to make out what I said, but she either decides she doesn't care or that she doesn't want to know because she gives her head a stern shake and then scurries out.
I watch her go, trying to figure out what kind of news I'm turning myself into.
Whatever it is, it needs to be juicy enough to hook her, but not bad enough to send her running.
Unfortunately, I may be the most boring motherfucker on this team.
I don't drink, party, date, or do much aside from practice, go to games, and take my ass home where I belong.
Which means I'm going to have to dig deep… or make shit up.
"If you aren't sharing whatever is in that, I'm going to be pissed about it," Liam says, eyeing the pinata as he skates by.
I glance down at it and then at him. "It contains my hopes and dreams."
He cocks his head to the side like he's trying to decide if I'm serious or not, and then he grins. "Cool. So…we're bashing the hell out of it after practice, right?"
"Knock yourself out," I say, tossing it to him. "I have gossip to start and rumors to spread."
Liam just looks at me like I've lost my goddamn mind, which…fair. Maybe I have. Maybe.
"Good luck with that," he finally says, chuckling to himself as he skates off with the pinata lofted over his head like a trophy.
I follow behind more slowly, my mind still spinning through the possibilities. What kind of story is juicy enough to keep her coming back?