Hot Puck (Rough Riders Hockey 2)

He slid a phone into the pocket of his blazer and greeted other customers as he sauntered toward the bar. With an easy smile, he accepted handshakes and slaps on the back and stopped to talk with everyone who wanted a minute. He signed a few autographs and took a few photos, all with an I’ve-got-all-the-time-in-the-world attitude.

He exuded confidence and ease, happiness and positivity. His face was scruffy, and the way he wore that suit… Damn, he was ridiculously sexy. He stirred all sorts of heat inside Eden she hadn’t felt in forever.

Hello, mojo.

Once he’d satisfied fans, Beckett melted into the busy scene at the bar. With one foot pressed to the brass rod near the floor, his forearms leaning on the glossy surface, Beckett relaxed into a conversation with the man Eden had met as she and Gabe transported Beckett to the ambulance. Donovan, if she remembered right.

Beckett laughed, and his bright smile created crinkles at the corners of his eyes. Eden’s stomach squeezed so hard, her throat ached. And, holy shit, the first flash of real fear came out of the shadows and seared her gut.

It was way easier to think and talk big when what she wanted was a fantasy. Now that he was here in the rock-hard flesh, she suddenly realized he was too much. Too sexy. Too confident. Too charismatic.

Her mind darted to John, just as sexy, just as confident, just as charismatic. It made a sick sort of sense that she would be attracted to the same kind of man. And look how badly that had turned out. Eden should really start off with someone more like a milquetoast and build her confidence from there.

But her gaze slid down the length of Beckett’s big body again. His suit covered a crisp white dress shirt pulling across muscled abs, decorated by a deep red tie, pulled loose at his neck. His slacks hugged muscled thighs. She’d spent her life surrounded by men in suits, but she’d seen only a handful who could really wear one well. And she could honestly say she’d never seen anyone look as good in a suit as Beckett Croft.

Why all the players were wearing suits was a mystery. But none of them looked like bankers or accountants or IT guys. There was something very different about these men. Something about their posture, their attitude, their vibe. A confident, careless, undeniably attractive swagger Eden had never experienced before.

Tori was right. Eden did need to start living. If she kept hiding, she was only continuing to let John control her—two years later and three thousand miles away. If she didn’t at least try for Beckett tonight, everything she’d done to drag herself up from the darkness was wasted.

Eden took a breath and pressed her hands against the table to stand. Before she got to her feet, two pretty women several years younger than Eden approached Beckett. She released her breath and sat again. Disappointment and regret landed heavily in her gut as she prepared to watch him pick up a woman—or two—and get cozy. The weak, scaredy-cat part of her hoped he took them up on their offer. It would give her a legitimate out.

After a moment of conversation, Beckett turned, called two of his teammates over, and introduced them to the women. Then he extricated himself from the conversation and made his way to another area of the bar, where a few guys watched ESPN. As he wandered, he scanned the bar, glancing over the tables.

When his head turned toward Eden’s dark corner, she held her breath. How mortifying would it be to have him find her sitting alone, waiting for him, only to have him brush her off because she’d waited too long?

The answer was: extremely.

But the bartender drew his gaze before he found her little table, and Beckett reached across his friends to take a clear drink from the other man.

The wave of relief that swept in made Eden realize she couldn’t take this roller coaster. She had to do something.

She tapped into her phone’s messages. Her nerves were strung so tight, her hands shook. But she wanted to test the waters before she approached him, because the truth was that no matter how badly she might want him, no matter how strong she could pretend to be, she was feeling pretty damn fragile.

She quickly sent a message to the number he’d left on the florist’s card.

Hi, it’s Eden. Thank you for the flowers. They are exquisite and the gesture was thoughtful. It’s been a hectic few days for me, but I wanted to tell you that I appreciated them.

With his gaze bouncing between his friends, the television, the door, and the tables, Beckett pulled his phone from his pocket with a lazy, distracted air. He was lifting his drink to his mouth when he looked at his screen.

His hand froze. His eyes scanned the message. And a smile broke over his face.

The sight uncorked a giddy kind of joy inside Eden. One she hadn’t felt in forever. One she also knew was as dangerous to her well-being as it was essential.

He set his drink down, wandered away from his friends, and, still smiling, returned the text.

Eden bit her lip and tried to breathe through the nervous tingles in her stomach as she waited for his message. When her phone dinged, she looked down.

Hey. Good to hear from you. I’m glad you liked them. Thanks for putting up with my shitty mood the night we met. I’m really sorry I was such an ass. I’m leaving town tomorrow for away games. Can I take you to dinner tonight?

She tilted her head with a confused smile and responded. Little late for dinner, isn’t it? Saw the game tonight. I don’t know anything about hockey, but the sportscasters have been praising your hitting ability. Not sure if that relates to the guys you ran into the wall or the ones you got into fistfights with.

She was curious to see how he responded to the topic.

Beckett wandered toward the jukebox, turned his back, and leaned against it, tapping out his response. It is late, but I figured your schedule probably wasn’t the standard 8-5. As for my work on the ice, I do a lot more checking and pushing than fighting, but with some teams like the one we played tonight, fights are inevitable. How about drinks? Or dessert? Or even coffee? I’ll bring it to you if you don’t want to go out.

Checking? What the heck was checking?

Eden bit the inside of her cheek. Did she want to chance spending time with a guy who thought hitting and pushing—or this thing he called checking—didn’t fall into the realm of fighting? A guy who talked about it with a careless all-in-a-day’s-work attitude, then asked her out for drinks in the next breath?