Page 10 of Game Misconduct

four

. . .

Bex

three years ago

Nick’s cute.

No. Scratch that. He’s hot.

He knows it, too. Normally, I stay away from cocky dude-bros who might know my brother, but Nick doesn’t seem like he would be friends with Wyatt. And fuck, if it would piss him off…

I’m no stranger to anonymous hookups, and I’ve been around enough asshole hockey players that I don’t let any of them get too close.

But Nick isn’t asking for anything more than one time, and frankly… I could use a fuck. It’s been long enough.

When the cheese fries are gone and our drinks are empty, he pays the tab, then offers me his hand.

As I slide my palm against his, a cheer goes up around the bar and I freeze, pulling free of his grip.

I’ve been on the periphery of pro hockey for long enough that people don’t know who I am, just that I have connections to the league. And although my lacrosse career at Michigan ended seven years ago, I did bring the team to the national championship—twice.

But when I look around, everyone’s focused on the TVs around the bar. Nobody’s looking at us. Michigan hit a home run, two players crossing the plate and the team closing in on an easy victory.

“You good?” Nick looks at me, his hand still extended.

“Yeah. I’m good.” I slip mine into his again, my heart pounding. When the entire bar doesn’t react this time, I try to relax.

He’s just a hot stranger taking me back to his hotel room to hook up. That’s all this is. That’s all it has to be.

His hotel is about a two-minute walk, and he doesn’t release my hand the entire time. He’s teasing, flirty, but not heavy-handed with it. And he seems effortlessly comfortable in his skin.

We’re at his hotel room door when I get cold feet. My doubts solidify into a ball in the pit of my stomach. What are we doing? We haven’t even kissed yet.

“Wait,” I say, right as he inserts his key.

“What’s wrong?” He looks at me with concern sketched on his face.

Swallowing my hesitation, I step closer and set my hand on his chest. He’s about half a foot taller than me, and I’m five foot ten, so he’s got to be at least six four. Wide, strong, definitely in shape. His heart pounds beneath my palm.

I hook my hand behind his neck, and he leans down to meet me halfway. His lips slant over mine, kissing me firmly but not aggressively. And as he parts my lips with his tongue, a spark of electricity coils in my belly. His hands land on my hips, his grip light but enough to surround me in his scent, a rich and woodsy cologne that does funny things to my brain.

Pulling back, Nick studies my face, his eyes pinging all over. Do I do this?

This man is a virtual stranger—one I don’t recognize. I know a few players on the New Orleans team and more around the league, not to mention my brother solidly walloped their asses to win the Cup last week. Fuck, Wyatt is still celebrating, and probably will be all the way until the next season starts.

On the other hand… I’ll probably never see him again. Just the way I like it.

Pull it together, Rebecca Lynn. My mother’s voice echoes in my head, picking at a scab I’ve spent years trying to heal.

Desperate to shove her from my mind, I take the room key from his hand and unlock the door.

It’s a fairly standard hotel suite. A couch furnishes the living room. The bed is neatly made without the sterile touch of the housekeeping crew. He keeps his space neat and tidy, which I like.

There’s a lot I like about this. I just have to get out of my own damn way. He’s hot, he’s not dating his best friend who he’s probably in love with, and he’s interested in something quick and easy. Wham, bam, thank you… sir.

“We don’t have to do anything,” Nick cautions. “We can just hang out.”