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

He’s shown me his cocky, playful side during the last few days, sure, but there’s more to it tonight. It’s like the skates on his feet and the rink that stretches out in front of him have released a new level of playfulness in him, a renewed energy that had been shut up inside him since he came back to Cardon Springs and put on his game face to be the responsible single daddy he’s supposed to be.

But that’s not all there is to Craig, I can see that now. And I kind of like it. Kind of like him.

And only minutes ago, I blurted out that I think he likes me, too, which has made things brutally awkward in the time that has followed. Craig has said little since he came into the locker room. I’ve been blushing like mad since I turned away from him, but I tried hard to act like I meant to say what I did, like it was only a joke. A flirtatious one, but a joke, nonetheless.

He takes his place on the bench beside me and expertly unties his skates, pulling them off and shoving his feet into his shoes. Then, without asking him to, Craig kneels down in front of me and very gently pushes my hands away from my own laces. He begins to loosen the knot, untying the skate I was struggling with and pulling it from my foot. His eyes flit up to meet mine and he offers me a momentary ghost of a grin, then begins to tackle the other skate.

Which is fine, because I’m still shocked by what I just saw in his dark chocolate eyes. There’s no mistaking it, no way I could misinterpret the blazing heat that smoldered in his gaze.

Lust. Barely contained, but barely noticeable, too. Well concealed unless you know what you’re looking for.

And I do, because a similar blaze of simmering warmth has been plaguing me all night, each time his hands touched mine or his fingertips grazed my ankle while he helped me with my skates.

Being in the presence of Craig Connelly has just become a whole lot more dangerous.

Thankfully, when his gaze returns to mine after he rises from his crouched position and reaches for his belongings, the blaze has been extinguished and I can look at him again without feeling the telltale crimson seeping into my cheeks.

“Ready to get out of here?” Craig asks, plucking the pair of skates from the bench with his free hand.

“Y

eah.”

I let him lead the way back out to the truck. Craig opens the passenger door for me, and I climb into the cab while he puts the skates into the truck bed. He goes around the back of the truck and climbs into the driver’s seat, silent. I wait for him to say something, anything, while I hold the seatbelt in my hand. But I’m too focused on the way his hands are clutching the steering wheel, knuckles white with the pressure. He’s staring ahead, through the windshield. At what, I don’t know, but he’s fixated on it.

If it weren’t for the look I’d seen in his eyes inside the arena, I’d be starting to think I’ve done something wrong. Then again, maybe I misinterpreted what I read in them. Maybe it was a flash of anger that had ignited. Maybe he’s downright livid I would assume such a thing and then jokingly toss it in his face. Maybe he’s—

Craig moves so fast I don’t see him clearly. But I feel him—God, do I feel him—as he dives towards me and crashes his mouth against mine, silencing any chance I have at words as well as any thoughts that had been screaming loudly in my mind.

Everything about his kiss is urgent. The way his tongue tangles with mine, the way his lips press against my own, dominating my mouth as though it’s his to own, his to protect and possess.

To hell with my thoughts, my apprehension and reservations about Craig, or about men in general. They don’t matter. All that does is the taste of this man on my tongue and the seductive way he consumes me, as though he’s familiar with the shape and taste and feel of me, but has been starved for me since the beginning of time.

I gasp, the sound lost somewhere between him and I. His fingers are slipped up under the hem of my sweater, exploring and caressing the soft, heated flesh just above the waistband of my jeans, and the electricity of his touch sends a raging storm of desire coursing through me. The sensation is too much and not enough all at once.

The muffled sound is enough to halt Craig’s fingers from going any further, and he breaks the kiss with a palpable reluctance, hovering so close to me that I can feel the damp heat of his breath still scorching my lips. “Are you okay?” His voice is hoarse, breathless. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”

He pulls away, putting a distance of only inches between us, but it may as well feel like miles. Hands running through his hair, Craig turns to face me. “Megan, say something,” he pleads, apology lacing his words. “You can tell me it was a bad idea. I’m sorry.”

A bad idea. Hell, judging by the tingling of my skin and the racing beat of my heart, I’d have said it was a phenomenal fucking idea. But my brain is finally catching up, finally winning the battle over my very aroused body. “Right,” I say after a moment. “It was a bad idea.”

His expression falters.

“It’s okay,” I sigh. “It is, I swear. It’s fine.” It’s not fine, my body screams.

Craig seems to be mulling over what to say next, his hands pressed hard against the back of his neck as he lets out a long, steadying breath. He must choose to respond with silence because he turns the key in the ignition and shoves the shifter into drive.

Without a word. Without another glance in my direction.

It hurts to think that’s how this night is going to end—with a passionate kiss that leads to awkwardness and undoubtedly a ruined friendship before it even had time to start.

Craig drives past Alder Street, the street we would turn onto to go to Aunt Nancy’s. “Hey...” I turn to watch the street pass me by in the window, then wrench around to stare at him. “You missed the turn.”

But he knows that. He’s lived here almost his whole life. He would know these streets with his eyes closed.

He remains silent as he turns the pickup truck onto Main Street and takes the corner recklessly when he pulls the truck into the repair shop’s parking lot. He reaches over to the visor above the passenger seat and pulls it down, pressing the button on the square device clipped to it. The huge garage door screeches and rumbles as it opens. He drives ahead, parking the truck in the empty bay, beside my own rusty car.

“Craig?”