Hot Puck (Rough Riders Hockey 2)

“Fights,” Tori finished. “I’ve heard.”

“Figures, right?” The first guy who’d created any kind of interest in her in two years had violence in his blood. “Am I a freaking magnet for these guys or something?”

“It’s not like you’ve dated dozens of guys and they’ve all been bullies.” Tori slowed, checked an intersection, and pushed through. “Do you like him?”

“I don’t even know him.”

“You know what I mean. Was there a spark?”

“He was an ass the first fifteen minutes, pissed they’d pulled him out of the game. When he calmed down, he was more tolerable, but he was arrogant, cocky. You know the type.”

“Sure—successful, driven, good-looking, built. The kind of accomplished guy who’s got something to be cocky about.”

“Doesn’t mean he has to be.”

They approached an intersection where cars were stacked at a red light. Tori pulled into the oncoming lane to pass. Once she was on the correct side of the road again, she said, “He had to be tolerable or you would have called him a creep or a jerk or a loser by now. Let me ask it this way, if he wasn’t a hockey player, would you be interested in seeing him?”

That turned Eden’s mind a different direction. As the siren blared in the background, Beckett?

??s smile flashed in her head. Then the way his brown eyes lightened when he laughed. A pang of desire hit Eden. A pang that grew to a craving when she thought of the fantasies she’d created over the last week involving him. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

“Eden,” Tori said, her tone a compassionate reprimand. “It’s been two years. You left California so you could have a life, but all you do is work and study. That’s not a life.”

“I know,” she grumbled. She wasn’t living, she was existing. Had been from the moment she’d escaped to the East Coast. She kept telling herself she’d venture out when she could cut back on work or when school eased up, but that never happened. And she was tired of the isolation, the stress, the loneliness. There was no fun, no relaxation, no love in her life. Her friends were all from work or school, and they were all superficial. All except Tori. “But, honestly, the thought of that whole boyfriend thing…” She shuddered with an involuntary sound of aversion. “Makes me feel all…boxed in. Makes me want to squirm to get out.”

“Screw the boyfriend idea. How about a hookup buddy? He seems like the prime candidate for a booty call. He’s hot, he travels, he’s got a demanding career. Not to mention he’s intensely fit, so you know he can go the distance in bed, if you know what I mean.”

Oh man, did Eden know what Tori meant. The thought had heat building between her legs. It had been so long since she’d had good sex. Fun, carefree, fulfilling, healthy sex. And, damn, she missed that part of her life.

“Hmmm.” Her gaze blurred over the street through the windshield as Tori navigated into a residential area. “A hookup situation does sound like a better option.” At least it did until her memory flashed with the look on his handsome face when he’d rammed the other player into the boards. “Maybe just not with this guy. If you’d seen him on the ice, I think you’d agree.” She scanned the numbers on the street. “It’s the third town house on the left. The one with the shiny black door.”

Tori pulled to a stop at the curb and put the rig into Park. “Don’t make any decisions right now. Just thank him for the flowers and leave it open-ended. See where it goes.”

They both bailed out of the truck to open the back. Tori dragged out the stretcher, and Eden tossed the jump bag on top, then grabbed the oxygen tank and followed Tori toward the house.

“Eden,” Tori nagged. “Promise me you’ll at least consider it.”

“Yes, fine.” She took hold of the foot of the gurney and started up the brick steps. A small part of her was relieved Tori made the demand. Because it gave Eden permission to consider something her common sense wouldn’t. “I’ll think about it.”

An older African-American man stood on the porch, holding the storm door open.

“My wife,” he said, his voice tight with worry. “She’s having trouble breathing.”

And just like that, all thoughts of hooking up with Beckett Croft faded into the background.

4

Beckett’s whole body felt like one big cooked noodle by the time he filed into the locker room along with his teammates. Their spirited comments over the game mixed with heavy breathing and the clack, clack, clack of equipment.

At his space on the bench, he dropped his butt to the wood, uncapped a bottle of cold water, and downed it without pausing. Once everyone was settled, Coach Tremblay gave a short talk, congratulating the team and pointing out their strengths during the game.

The floor then transitioned to Rafe Savage, the player named MVP during the previous win. Rafe pulled the ceremonial Revolution-era tricorne hat, a symbol chosen to represent the team’s name, from his locker. The brown leather was worn, the gold trim frayed from the hat’s many travels with the team.

Savage stood and worked the leather back into shape as he spoke. “Passing this on tonight is easy. For single-handedly cultivating college funds to support the children of the Blackhawks’ team dentist, I hand this over to Beckett Croft.” Group laughter erupted around the room, peppered by hoots and hollers. Savage handed the hat to Beckett with a grin and a “Way to clean house, bud.”

Beckett felt every one of those hits tonight. But he stood as if he were twenty-two with no scars, and firmly positioned the prize on his head, then posed for a few photos. And since the love of his life was currently ensconced in a Disney-movie marathon with her cousins at her grandmother’s house, he said, “I guess drinks are on me.”

After showering and changing back into the clothes he’d worn to the stadium, Beckett wandered toward Top Shelf with the other guys, lingering behind to call his mom. Before he could tap into FaceTime and connect, his attorney’s name lit up his screen.