Jett (Arizona Vengeance 10)

And I’m not about to tell them that things have gotten very hot, very fast, with Miss Holland.

Instead, I give a dramatic roll of my left arm as I wince. “Shoulder is sore from that hit I took on the boards. Just going to ice it and relax tonight.”

“You can hoist beer with your other hand,” Bain points out blandly.

He’s not wrong. And I’m a hockey player, for fuck’s sake. I could take a puck to the teeth and still go out for beers.

“Do you have a date?” Bain asks suspiciously, and I can feel everyone’s eyes on me.

Kane, Jim, and Bain wait for me to deny the question.

Before I can lie, Jim gives a hearty laugh and shakes his head. “No way. Jett doesn’t date. He picks up women, loves them, then leaves them. He has no reason to date, because he’s a chick magnet.”

He’s not wrong about that and I hate it’s my reputation in this moment. Emory wouldn’t appreciate those details if she were to hear them, and if she’s here long enough, she just might.

I’m at a loss what to say. I feel the need to defend myself and the fact I can have something more meaningful than a one-night stand should I choose. But that would be blatantly admitting to myself that I am actually interested in something more with Emory. I haven’t figured out exactly what yet, but she’s definitely not in the love ’em and leave ’em category of women I normally pick up.

“You do have a date,” Bain says in awe, because my silence is ultimately damning.

I refuse to answer. I promised Emory I would keep us a secret. She is still averse to the whole ‘co-workers having a fling’ thing, and again, this is casual.

No strings.

We are not a couple, so why even tell people about it?

I sling my duffle over my shoulder—the one I just said was sore, but they don’t believe me on that anyway—and throw a hand over my shoulder. “I’m out of here. See you guys tomorrow.”

“Who are you going to see?” Bain calls out.

“Is it Emory?” Kane teases.

I don’t turn around and simply ignore them as I continue to walk away.

“It’s Emory, I know it,” Jim calls out.

Yeah.

They know, but I’m not confirming it at all. I just smile to myself and head to the player parking lot.

My condo is a short five-minute drive from the arena, and when I pull into my designated spot in the garage, I smile to see Emory’s gray Camry in the other spot I own. I had given her the security code to get into the garage earlier today when we’d made plans to get together after the game.

I haven’t seen her since the morning I fucked her on my kitchen table before I had to catch the team plane for a road trip. I came back yesterday, but we didn’t make plans to see each other.

That’s all part of the whole ‘let’s keep things casual’ deal. It would seem very un-casual-like if we rushed to hop into bed again.

Although that is exactly where we’re going to be hopping tonight, because while we haven’t seen each other in four days, we have communicated.

All by text and nothing overly deep. I mean, there’s the usual “how did your day go” or “you played a great game last night” type of convo. I actually learned a few personal things about her, such as the hundred different directions a single parent working as an organization Vice President is pulled. I admire the fuck out of how she handles it all.

We exchanged funny or interesting things that happened during our days, a few lines here or there and then we’d be on our way, doing our own thing.

In essence, we were both working hard to keep things cool.

Well, except for last night.

Last night the nature of our conversation changed directions. As in, we weren’t texting. We were sexting, and let me just say, Emory Holland is damn good at it.

I learned that while her prim accent and heavy black frames might make the British vixen seem a little on the prudish side, the woman is as much of a freak in bed as I am. She’s bold and uninhibited, adventurous and daring. I also got the sense she might be severely overdue for some of the things we did, and her abandon was unfettered.

Her sexting was the same, promising things that made my dick hard as I read them and ultimately led my hand to my dick. It also led me to demand she meet me at my place after the game, and she put up no fight.

I step off the elevator onto my floor, turn right and immediately see Emory leaning against my condo door.

She’s wearing a gray raincoat that’s buttoned and belted at the waist and a pair of black heels. Her hands are tucked down into the pockets, one ankle crossed over the other. My pulse quickens as the smile she bestows on me is playful and promising at the same time.