Page 8 of Tricky Puck

Coincidentally and surprisingly, we both order the ribeye steak, and Ashley finally leaves.

“I’m starved. What’s your excuse?” Most women I know—and that includes all my sisters, aunts, and the wives and girlfriends of all my teammates, not any woman I’ve taken to dinner because I don’t generally date and don’t remember the last time I took a woman to dinner—order the salad or the lightest thing on the menu.

“I hear good things about the steak here, and since you’re paying, I’m indulging.”

I don’t remember me paying being part of the deal—not that I wouldn’t pay anyway—but it’s telling that she makes the statement.

“You’re one of those women then?” I’m half teasing because I didn’t get the vibe she was interested in my money, but I know it’s a thing for a lot of women, or at least all the women I’ve tangled with—the fun kind of tangling—since I made it to the NHL. My rule is the minute they want a piece of me, all tangling stops.

Thus, the revolving door to my bedroom. Few—and by that, I mean one woman—has ever hung around for the pure fun of tangling without commitment or the extras that go along with being a girlfriend. She left when it was time for her to settle down, and now we’re friends of a sort.

Delaney raises one brow. “One of what women?”

“The kind who are impressed with a guy’s money and want to take advantage of it.”

“Oh—no. Sorry to confuse you. I’m the kind of woman who has to watch her budget and who will save half the meal for tomorrow. Not impressed at all.” She shrugs. “I don’t know anything about your money—or you. Granny was light on the details—as in she wouldn’t tell me one single thing about you. She left everything up to the matchmaker—you were right about that.”

Despite trying to skate the line between politely interested and protecting my balls because I know this woman is a man-killer—the kind who owns men’s souls and could definitely own mine based on my initial reaction if I don’t watch my back—I’m impressed that she has no problem telling me I was right.

“You’re some kind of celebrity, I take it?” She glances in the direction of the server—who, even though she’s halfway across the dining room, manages to keep looking in our direction.

I shrug. “I didn’t get any details about you either. Not even a photo.”

“You asked for a photo, didn’t you?” A big grin accompanies her accusation, so I confess.

“Sure as hell did, and I have to say, you’re better than I imagined.”

“Wow, watch out. A girl might swoon with your extra enthusiasm.”

“I bet you have a trophy for most sarcastic girl in your class.”

Her face cracks into a smile and then a laugh. “I asked to see a picture, too. Same answer.”

“And?”

“Needy, aren’t you?”

“Curious. Congratulations on being unpredictable.”

She pumps a fist into the air, and I can’t help noticing her breasts heaving up with the gesture. “Yes, that’s exactly what I was going for. A new trophy—for the most unpredictable date Link Milano ever had—whoever the hell he is.”

“Don’t pretend you haven’t already sized me up.”

“I’m trying. But so far, all I have is that you’re big and strong and handsome, and you are well aware of those things without being arrogant, that you’re quick-witted, you have a soft spot for your grandma, that you’re a celebrity who’s patient if not exactly kind to your fans, and you have a very healthy appetite. If I were pressed, I’d guess you’re some kind of athlete.”

I lift my brows. Not a terrible assessment. My interest is dangerously piqued, and I’m having trouble skating that line of self-preservation. In fact, I just got a message from my dick that I’m bordering on desperately thirsty.

Quenching that thirst tempts the hell out of me, but that could lead to the kind of complication I don’t want. So, I concentrate on the sparring. “You’re cautious about men, possibly uninterested, adore your granny, and you’re impatient to go somewhere. I’m not sure if you’re heading for a place or an achievement, and you’re one of the most gorgeous women I’ve ever met.”

She slams back against the booth as if I’ve shoved her, with mock surprise coloring her face. But I notice the slip of real surprise as she schools her expression to the expected smirk.

Meanwhile, my game face remains solidly elusive, so I match her smirk. “Score one point for the Milano team.”

She opens her mouth, going for mock outrage, but all I see is an audition for the sexiest pose—then she laughs.

“Milano team? I was right. You are an athlete of some kind. I should get a point for that. What sport do you play?”

“What sport do you want me to play?”