Hawke (Cold Fury Hockey 5)

"You take all the fun out of me," I tell him halfheartedly, because really, this is way more fun than me walking on an uneven wall in the dark after drinking several shots of Jack.

"I've got an idea for fun," he says ominously, and another shiver follows the first. I recognize that tone in his voice. It's one I love hearing, especially after he took my virginity on my eighteenth birthday four months ago.

"Oh, yeah?" I whisper as my fingers curl deeper into his hair and then clutch hard. I give a tiny pull so his face lifts and his eyes slam into mine. "What's that?"

"Let's go back to our apartment," he says gruffly. I moved in with him just two weeks after my eighteenth birthday much to my dad's dismay.

"Want to make love to me?" I tease, enjoying my new sexual freedom now that I've reached adulthood. Hawke impatiently waited, out of respect for my dad, until I attained majority. I'd have given it up sooner, but Hawke was ever the romantic, wanting to make it a special occasion on my birthday.

"No," he says with a dark laugh. "I want to fuck you."

"Dirty boy."

"That I am," he mutters, and grabs my wrists to pull my hands away. "Let's go."

He manages to tug me two steps before I dig my heels in. "Wait."

Hawke turns to look at me and my breath seizes in my lungs.

Absolute hunger on his face.

For me.

And love.

Always love.

"What?" he says impatiently.

I look around...left, then right. It's dark, secluded. No one else around.

"You could just fuck me here," I suggest coyly, and even bat my eyelashes at him. I think it's a wasted move in the gloom.

A low growl emits from deep within Hawke's chest and he tugs on my hand. "We might get caught."

"So?" I challenge him as I wrench my hand free of his and reach for the hem of my T-shirt. "You've seen one dick, you've seen 'em all." I stare at him a moment and then whip the tee over my head, tossing it onto the rock wall.

His posture is stiff with tension and he looks around with uncertainty. I use the opportunity to kick my tennis shoes off and unzip my jeans. His head snaps back to mine and he watches me guardedly.

"Come on, baby," I urge him quietly. "Get naked."

He looks around once more, then his shoulders go lax. He grabs his shirt and pulls it off.

Hawke advances on me and mutters, "A fucking nut job."

"But you love me," I assert as my hands go to my bra.

"Too fucking much," he agrees.

--

My alarm goes off and my hand slaps at it. It takes two tries, but I manage to quiet it and open one bleary eye, which confirms it is indeed five A.M. Rubbing my hands over my face, I try to shake off the foggy dregs of my dream.

Freaking Hawke.

Of course I had to dream about him, didn't I?

A dream about the glory days of my youth, really only but seven years ago. Walking around with my head held high and my eyes gleaming with the possibility of unparalleled fun. Laughing, joking, and getting drunk. Spending every free moment with Hawke because we were young and in love and so into each other we could barely see anything else. But in seven years, my life has changed so drastically I'm nothing but a mere ghost of that same person I was then.

And I've been thinking about that since yesterday.

Ever since seeing Hawke at the team meeting.

It wasn't a surprise to me that he would be there; not the way I know it shocked him. I could see it in his expression when I turned to face the crowd of hockey players staring down at me. Long before I saw him saunter into the meeting room, I had been preparing myself for when he'd first lay eyes on me again. While there's no doubt in my mind that Hawke never kept track of my whereabouts, I couldn't say the same. Of course I knew he'd been traded to the Cold Fury, so I was somewhat prepared for this. But that's only because I know everything that goes on in the hockey world. It's my passion and always has been, compliments of being Dave Campbell's daughter. I follow the sport religiously. Can tell you anything you want to know about the "Q," the Western Hockey League, and the Ontario Hockey League, and those are just the Canadian juniors. I know all the American minor leagues and without a doubt, I follow the NHL with an eagle eye. I do this not only because I was raised in hockey, but because I now want to work in hockey. I've put in my fair share of job applications from the juniors all the way up to the top. My time working in college football wasn't a desire but a lack of options, but here I am now. At the top with nothing more than one well-placed call by my father to Brian Brannon, his old college buddy, and I became a Cold Fury employee.

It was a terrible twist of fate that I ended up joining the team at the same time Hawke did. Just as it was a terrible twist of fate, my needing to come to the Cold Fury--and trust me when I say, I desperately needed to relocate.

With a sigh, I swing my legs out of the bed and grab my iPhone, unplugging it from my charger.

There's a text from Todd that came in at 9:45 p.m. last night and I wince slightly as I read it. Waited for your call. Assume you fell asleep. I miss you.

Crap. I was so exhausted last night after I got home from the gym I just completely forgot to call him. I remember taking a shower, eating a quick sandwich, and then lying on the bed to rest my eyes for a bit.

I shoot him off a quick reply. I'm so sorry. Was exhausted. Heading to gym now but will call later. xoxoxo

Todd would understand. It's one of the reasons I adore him so much.

He just gets me, and not many people do anymore.

--

"Fuck, dude...that hurts like a motherfucker," I hear Kip Sutherland snarl as another piece of kinesiology tape is ripped from his back.

"Not my fault you got a hairy back," Goose says with a dry look.

I twist my neck to look at the two of them and yeah...Kip does have a hairy back. He's a third-line defenseman for the Cold Fury and he just came off the ice with some lower back spasms. Goose is the other assistant athletic trainer. No clue what his real name is, but this is technically my first day on the job, so there's still a ton to learn. I figure his real name is the least of my problems at this point.

My head swings back down to the laptop in front of me. I have it propped up on a therapy table, reviewing the procedural manual for the Cold Fury athletic training program. Our head trainer, Bruce Duvall, handed me the laptop and suggested I just set myself up somewhere and get it read. I don't have an office, and I suspect that's because the Cold Fury wasn't actively seeking another trainer when I got the job offer. Bruce told me I could share desk space with Goose, but one look at the top covered with binders and medical charts and I decided it was just easier to set up in our large training room. Practice had been running for thirty minutes, so all the men--minus Kip and his hairy back--are out there and it's dead quiet in here.

R-i-i-i-p.

"Fuck," Kip groans. "How many more pieces are there?"

I grin to myself and reread the first paragraph on the chapter entitled "Medical Charting."

"Three more, you big sissy," Goose says with a chuckle. "Then we'll get you in an ice bath."

"I need something for my head too," Kip grumbles.

"Why? Did you hit it?" Goose asks.

"Nah, dude. Just went out with a few of the guys after Coach's party last night and I'm hungover as shit. That goddamn Therrien, man, he can drink like a fish and I about killed myself just keeping up with him."

Figures.

Hawke was still partying hard, but that has been his reputation within the league. Play hard, party hard. I bet he even has that tattooed somewhere on his body.

I force myself away from their conversation, trying to absorb the content on the screen before me. I have a notepad next to me on the vinyl-covered cushioned table but I haven't taken any notes. The stuff is easy, straightforward, and pretty much in line with the way things were done at my last job. Still, I want to make sure I do things right because it's imperative I k

eep this job. And let's face it, they don't really need me here so I have to rise and then shine brighter than Goose to maintain my position.

A knock on the door doesn't quite disturb me from my reading, but the voice that says, "Hey, man...I need my knee taped," does, and my head swings up.

Hawke stands in the open doorway in full gear minus his helmet, his forehead sweat slicked and his long hair sticking to his temples. He stares straight at Goose and I use the moment to try to still my beating heart, which started running away from me the minute I saw him.

But damn...why does the man have to look so freaking good?

I just saw him but a few hours ago in my early morning dream, and yet even that memory of what we had was dull and faded next to him up close and personal. Dark brown hair that he still wears long. It curls just above his shoulders with a heavy wave and his blue eyes are set deep below darkly slashed eyebrows. The one thing that's different in this man just seven years later is that he now sports a beard. While we are well out of playoff season, Hawke apparently liked the look and decided to keep it. It's full but well trimmed; dark with some subtle lighter strands woven in.

I have to say, it does him justice, only serving to highlight his high cheekbones and strong jawline.

He's perfection, and while I want to tear my eyes away, I just can't. Besides, he hasn't spared me a glance, and while we were over years ago, I can't say it's a chore staring at him like this. What woman in her right mind wouldn't stare at that?

"Be just a few minutes," Goose says with good nature as he pulls another piece of tape from Kip's lower back, who in turn groans dramatically. "Then I need to get him in an ice bath."