The Bad Boy Hockey Collection: A Collection Of Single Daddy Romances

I stay near the entrance to the arena, choosing not to take a seat in the stands so that Brody won’t know I’m here yet. I’m not sure why. I guess I’m just not prepared for him to see that I’m here early, and I don’t want to look too eager in his eyes. Traffic wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be, and I managed to get my to-do list checked off before—

Bullshit. I’ve been buzzing with excitement since

I woke up this morning, and the only reason I’m here at this hockey practice early is because I wanted to see Brody.

Again, I’m not sure why.

I don’t get further time to contemplate my reasons. Brody exits the ice and manages to reappear from the locker room in a matter of minutes. When he does, his hair is still damp from showering and he looks a lot more comfortable than the last time I saw him at the law office dressed in a suit.

And he smells absolutely delectable.

The woodsy, spicy scent hits me with a force I hadn’t expected, and I find myself breathing out slowly just to calm the hormones that seem to have been awakened by the mere sight and scent of him.

“Hey.” I give him a warm smile, my hands tucked in my jacket pockets.

“Hey yourself,” he replies, grinning wide as he blatantly lets his gaze roam down my body. “That’s a pretty cute outfit, Corinne.”

I didn’t know what to wear to a hockey practice that turned into a coffee date, so I pulled together a casual ensemble of dark jeans and a white cashmere sweater paired with matching pale pink mittens and a scarf. I know exactly what he’s thinking—I probably look like one of those puck bunnies that hang around in hopes of getting a piece of one of the hockey players they fawn over. “I didn’t know what to wear,” I say feebly.

“You look really good.” He hasn’t stopped grinning yet. “Trust me.”

“You don’t look so bad yourself.” It’s an understatement. The man looks even more gorgeous with his well-fitting jeans, white t-shirt, and blue plaid shirt rolled at the forearms. There’s a dark shadow of stubble across his face. He’s not the clean-shaven man I’d met with at work. But he doesn’t look ungroomed by any means. Instead, the shadow of beard only accentuates the contours of his jaw and cheekbones, and something inside me clenches deliciously at the thought of how decadent it would be to feel that stubble against my own soft skin.

Stop it, I think to myself. He’s Jackson’s brother.

Then, a second later, I chastise myself. Shit, stop that, too.

“Well, thanks. Let’s get coffee. I could use it after that workout.” He opens the door out into the parking lot, tugging his hockey bag along behind him.

“I’d never seen a hockey practice before,” I admit, trying to make neutral conversation that will alleviate the effects of his cologne on my senses. “You’re pretty good out there on the ice.”

“I’m pretty good off the ice, too, Corinne.” He winks down at me and immediately a crimson blush creeps up into my face. “Leave your car. We can take mine.” He points towards a shiny black Ford Explorer in the parking lot.

His invitation gives me a minute to compose myself after his less than subtle innuendo, but when I do, I shake my head. “I can just follow you in my car, Brody. It’s fine.”

“It’s a five-minute trip. Let me drive. I promise to bring you back to your car as soon as you want me to.”

“It’s not that—”

“Is this some balk against chivalry? Because if it’s equality you want, Corinne, I’ve got no issues letting you pay for the drinks.” He’s grinning like a fool, thinking he’s so damn funny.

“Screw that,” I reply finally, giving in and falling into step beside him. “You’re totally paying.”

“I’d be glad to.”

“I’m ordering the most expensive espresso on the menu.”

He heaves his hockey bag up into the back of the Explorer, slamming the back door, then meets my eyes. “Wouldn’t expect anything less,” he smirks. “Now, get in the truck before I toss you in there myself.”

As I round the side of the vehicle, I mutter laughingly, “Wouldn’t expect anything less.”

***

The coffee shop is a locally-owned one I’ve frequented a handful of times, only a few blocks from the arena. It somehow seems different to be seated at one of its bar-height tables with a vanilla latte in my hand—one that wasn’t the most expensive thing on the menu but that Brody did pay for—with someone else across the table from me instead of a book or my iPad to keep me company.

Especially when that someone is Brody Marsh.

“I must admit, Corinne, I didn’t think you would agree to come here today.” Brody is perched on his chair, a large cup of dark roast coffee with two sugars between his fingers.