Pucking Trouble, page 17
Windbreaker unzipped, sleeves shoved to his forearms, hair a little mussed from the helmet and the noise and the win—God, the win—he looked like every reason Eau Heights would tell their grandkids about this game. Coach Nicholas DeLear, lungs like thunder, a pulse steady enough to bring a rink back to itself.
“Hey,” I said, and it came out softer than I meant.
His gaze swept the room; desk, lamp, my ridiculous attempt at straightening the chaos he calls “filing”. Then landed on me and didn’t move. One heartbeat. Two. Something in his shoulders eased. Something in mine did, too.
“Your voice carries,” I said, leaning on a smile I couldn’t tame. “Pretty sure the banners learned new vocabulary.”
“Did they?” His mouth edged toward wicked.
“I felt it in my ribs.”
He didn’t rush me. He just crossed the room as if the decision had already been made somewhere between the final horn and now. One finger hooked the hem of my Warriors jersey and tugged, barely anything, somehow everything.
“You were there,” he said.
“Wouldn’t have been anywhere else.”
I kissed him first because I wanted to. Because I’d been wanting to since the first whistle and because he wore triumph like a second skin. He tasted like heat and winter and something I could live on. He kissed me back like he’d been starving for exactly this—present, greedy, careful, all at once. His thumbs skimmed my jaw; my hands slid under his collar to find bare skin and spare him from restraint.
“Still good?” he asked, voice destroyed, breath catching on the word.
“Green,” I breathed, and felt his self-control slip a notch.
He laughed once, low, shaky, and sat hard enough that the old chair complained. I went with him, standing between his knees, the hem of my jersey grazing the tops of his thighs. His hands settled on my hips like he was learning me by touch alone, thumbs stroking slow lines that made my pulse misbehave.
“I like you in this,” he said, thumb brushing the stitched W, eyes gone hot.
“I wore it for you.” I let the answer kiss his mouth.
“Dangerous woman.”
“Big talk for a man who can’t stop staring.”
“Can’t,” he admitted, and there was reverence in it.
He kissed me deeper, open, coaxing, taking, and the room tilted. I fit a knee to the chair between his legs and pressed in; he let me, then answered with a grind of his hips that drew a sound out of me I’d never made for anyone. His palm slid under the jersey, dragging heat up my waist, the roughness of his hand against my soft a friction I wanted everywhere.
“Melanie,” he said like a prayer that was also a warning.
“Uh-huh.” My fingers found his belt by accident. Then on purpose.
He caught my wrist; not to stop, to look me in the eye. The check-in was a look, not a lecture. I nodded once, sure as I’d ever been. He let go, and the way his breath left him when I bent to his throat made my knees weak. I licked a line to his ear; his hands flexed hard on my hips, dragging me closer, the chair biting at the backs of my calves as he pulled me flush.
“You’re going to ruin me,” he murmured.
“That’s the plan,” I whispered, and felt the laugh in his chest.
He tipped me onto his lap like I weighed nothing, sitting me sideways across his thighs. The jersey rode up scandalously; his palm didn’t rush to fix it. He smoothed it higher, slowly and proprietary, until air hit the back of my legs and the only thing between us was fabric and willpower. His mouth found my shoulder, teeth just this side of gentle. I arched; he rewarded it, dragging his mouth up the line of my neck until my head tipped back and my fingers clawed at his hair.
“Say it,” he asked against my throat.
“What?”
“That you want me.”
I laughed, wrecked. “Nick, I’m sitting in your lap in an empty office in nothing but your town’s jersey. How much clearer—”
“Crystal,” he said, and hauled me against him like he’d been waiting to do it all season.
We lost the thread for a minute. Hands rushed under fabric, heat building in dizzying spirals, his thigh slotting perfectly between mine and setting a slow, devastating rhythm I had to chase. He cupped me through the jersey’s hem, a broad palm and a low curse that went straight to my head. I rocked to the press of him, breath breaking into pieces; he caught every one with his mouth.
“Look at me,” he said, and when I did, the hunger there didn’t scare me. It made me brave.
I rode the muscle of his thigh shamelessly, caught between his mouth and his hand and the way his body told mine exactly what to do without a single word. When my breath went ragged, his tightened; when I pushed, he met me. It was filthy and gorgeous, and I stopped caring about anything except the way he said my name when I hit the angle that knocked sound out of both of us.
“Green?” he managed, half-groan, half-mockery because he knew the answer.
“Nick,” I said, which was yes, and more, and don’t you dare stop.
He didn’t. He stood, crowding me back until the backs of my thighs met the desk. The lamp rattled; the clipboards slid. His mouth found mine again, deeper, hungrier, and the jersey bunched under his hands as he hauled me up onto the edge like I weighed nothing.
“Wait,” he breathed, forehead to mine, fumbling one-handed in the top drawer. The soft rip of foil snapped through the room. Responsible could be devastatingly sexy; who knew? He kissed me carefully. Almost practiced. And then kissed me harder, like patience had finally run out.
Everything narrowed to heat and pressure and the way he fitted us together, slow at first, the kind of slow that felt like reverence. I clutched his shoulders; his fingers threaded behind my knee and tipped me closer, deeper. The room fell away: the lamplight, the scuffed wood beneath my palms, his name against my mouth like a secret. He moved with purpose, finding that line between us and tracing it again and again until my thoughts went to static.
“Mel,” he said, like a promise and a warning.
“Please,” I said, and forgot what I was asking for the second he gave it.
He set the rhythm, and I met it, the desk creaking under us, breath tangling in the small space between our mouths. He didn’t rush. He adjusted when I chased, steadied when I trembled, his hands everywhere I needed them. One on my hip, one splayed low under the hem of the jersey, anchoring me to him. When the edge rose, bright and inevitable, I heard myself more than I heard the room; he caught the sound with his mouth and held me there, riding it out with me, murmuring yes and good, like he could speak it into my bones.
The afterglow came in waves. With the air returning to the world, light sharpening, the lamp threw gold across his shoulders. I folded into him, loose-limbed and smiling against his throat. His heart hammered under my cheek; mine tried to keep up and failed. He stayed inside the circle of my legs, forehead resting to mine, breath skimming my lips as his hand smoothed over my thigh and back again, steadying both of us.
For a long, suspended beat, it was just that: his warmth; the jersey hitched around my waist; the quiet click of the clock on the wall; and the startling, certain thought that I didn’t want to be anywhere else.
Afterward, I folded into him, boneless and smiling against his throat. His heart hammered under my ear; mine tried to show off and keep up.
“You okay?” he asked into my hair, wrecked and gentle.
“Better than,” I said, and he laughed, breathless and stupidly proud.
“This is where I say good game,” I added, voice wobbly.
“This is where I don’t throw you over my shoulder,” he said, forehead dropping to mine, “and prove I’m a responsible adult.”
“How’s that going?”
He looked at my mouth as if it were a dare. “I’m losing.”
“We have a team to celebrate,” I reminded him, even as my hips made a traitorous little shift against him and his jaw clenched.
“Right.” He steadied himself like a man on a moving deck, then tucked me in tight for one last, possessive kiss that said later in every language I understood.
I slid off his lap on trembling legs; he caught the hem of my jersey and tugged it down with a frown he tried to hide and failed. I found my leggings. He half-turned, polite in the most absurd way given the last ten minutes. The spell didn’t break; it just changed key. Coach mode slid over him without smothering the softness.
“Practice at seven,” he said, zipping his windbreaker. “We’ll let them drink like champions and skate like contenders.”
“Translation: two beers and a bedtime.”
“Translation: I’m old enough to have learned,” he said dryly, grabbing his clipboard.
“At least you still have the legs,” I teased, smoothing his collar. “And the…everything.”
“Keep talking like that and I’m putting a lock on this door.”
“Make it two,” I murmured, and felt his hand find the small of my back on instinct as we headed for the hall.
He flipped the light; the fluorescent snapped on; reality rushed back in. He paused at the threshold, scanning like he always does—noise, hallway, exits, the shape of the night. Not to hide me. To keep me whole.
“It’s still there,” I told him.
“What is?”
“The thing in my ribs.” I touched my sternum. “Still buzzing.”
He softened the way only he does with me. “Good.”
We were almost out when my stomach growled in protest. His answered in sympathy; we grinned like thieves.
“Come on,” I said, threading my fingers through his. “If we don’t show up at Puck ’N Pour, Slab’s going to climb behind the bar and the beer will taste like glove.”
“God help us,” he deadpanned, locking the office.
“And the glassware.”
We stepped into the corridor. The Zamboni thudded somewhere far off, a stray cheer bounced up the stairwell, and Eau Heights kept humming around us like a town that had decided to believe again.
At the exit he paused one more time, weighing weather, noise, and whatever trouble might be lingering. Angel’s protocols had the press pointed elsewhere, but we still moved like we were carrying something precious.
“Ready?” he asked.
I thought of Peyton telling me I sounded brighter, of my mother’s face when I’d told her I was happy, of this man whose mouth could ruin me and still ask if I was okay. I squeezed his hand.
“Yeah,” I said, full up. “Let’s go make sure your boys don’t burn down my place of employment.”
He laughed and let me tug him into the noise, the win, the town. And the kind of night that changes everything by degrees.
28
NICK
It shouldn’t have shocked me when Melanie wiggled her way behind the bar, despite the fact that she had the night off. Still, it gave me time to scan the bar in order to make sure the boys weren’t disrespecting any of the property they came into contact with after our win.
Fucking hell, if we kept playing like we did, we could take everything.
“Hey, hey, hey!” Ziggy exclaimed as he came out of nowhere and tossed his arm around my shoulders. “Look who it is! The man of the hour!”
The bar erupted in applause and whistles as Ziggy patted my chest. I just shot him a look, though.
“Oh, come on now, Coach,” Ziggy said as he walked backwards into the crowd, his hands extended outward. “Don’t tell me you’re going to go all night and not crack at least one smile.”
I peered over at Melanie, who tossed me a wink before she settled herself behind the bar. She slapped that rag over her shoulder, began cleaning and disinfecting glasses, slinging drinks and margaritas and cracking open beers as if she were made for the job.
Huh.
I never realized how comfortable she felt behind that bar.
“There’s the smile!” Ziggy exclaimed, which brought me back to reality long enough to realize that I was, in fact, smiling. I quickly melted it off my face, which only made Ziggy laugh harder. That was until he looked in the direction I was looking.
His gaze returned to mine before he gave me two thumbs up.
If he wasn’t careful, I’d break those fucking thumbs.
Can’t wound the boys; you have a season to play.
Everyone stopped me on my way to the bar. People wanted to shake my hand and take pictures. Patrons were already asking about the game next week and who we were going against. There were half-price drink specials for cocktails with names that I’d never heard of before, and all the beer on tap was 31% off.
Since the score was 3-to-1, us.
Finally, after what felt like a journey into fucking Mordor, I bellied up to the bar and placed a coy smile on my face.
“And what do we have here?” I asked as Melanie walked over to me, her curves jiggling softly beneath that goddamn jersey I wanted to rip off her. Again.
It would look spectacular on the floor of my kitchen.
Melanie gave me the brightest smile as she rested her forearm against the bar and winked. “Lookin’ for some food tonight, Mister? Or, maybe a nice bourbon?”
I licked my lips as my eyes scoured the parts of her body that I saw. “Depends. What’s the magic order that gets you to share some of this food with me?”
She giggled as she rose, her cheeks tinted with a soft blush. “You’re insane. You want me to get you a bourbon?”
She was already reaching for it when I shook my head. “No.”
She paused. “No?”
I shook my head. “No. Just tonic water with lime, and maybe a splash of Coke in there for something sweet.”
She tilted her head. “You know if you wan—”
I pinned her with my voice. “I know exactly what I want.”
She swallowed hard, and I watched that beautiful neck of hers flush. I drew a deep breath to steady my voice. But she beat me to the punch, and her words were certainly a punch to my gut.
“What is it you want, then?” she asked breathlessly.
I leaned forward, resting my forearms on the top of the bar as my gaze locked with hers.
“Everything,” I said with such sincerity that I thought my heart might burst. “But I’ll start with tonic water with lime and a spritz of Coke, along with a batch of those double-crisped fries for us to share.”
She shook her head and put my drink order together. “I don’t eat when I’m behind the bar.”
“Well, you’re not supposed to be behind the bar tonight, but you are. So you’ll eat.”
She slid me my drink before she parted her lips to say something, but before she could speak, another flood of patrons entered the bar. She put on her best smile and chirped above the swirling sounds of the bar, and I just watched her. I watched how she smiled for everyone. I watched how she called all of them out by name. I watched how comfortable she felt in her atmosphere, and I swear, for someone who had alternative plans for her life, she sure as hell looked comfortable working in that place.
I lost myself so much in my thoughts that I didn’t come up for air until she slid the order of fries I’d completely forgotten about in front of me.
“One large order of double-crisped fries,” Melanie said as she reached for the ketchup and slammed it playfully onto the bar in front of me. “And ketchup, if you’re that kind of person.”
I reached for the ketchup and squirted some onto the side of the container of fries. “Are you not a ketchup person?”
She grinned. “Nope.”
I paused. “So, you don’t dip your fries in anything?”
“I do.”
Now, I was just curious. “What do you dip your fries in?”
She giggled. “Honey mustard.”
“Huh,” I said as I picked up a bare fry and held it up to her mouth. “Open.”
“Nick.”
I didn’t move. “Open, Melanie.”
She shot me a look. “I can feed myself.”
“I know,” I said as I moved the fry a bit closer. “Now, do as I ask. Open.”
Despite the flat look on her face, she did as I asked, and when I fed that fry, it sparked a very recent memory of how easily she let me lead . I released the fry and swiveled around in the bar stool chair, surveying the packed bar and the way the boys bounced from table to table, recounting their game with the fans, taking pictures, and generally having a good time, without destroying a damn thing in the process.
“Hey!” Tank barked over everyone’s heads. “Anyone seen Angus!? Him and I have a pool score to settle!”
“Oh boy,” Melanie muttered as she cracked open a couple of beers and passed them to a woman on my left, “better go make sure all of the pool tables are set up for playing.”
I stood. “I’ll take it. Tank plus a cue stick is a liability.”
“Nick, I can—”
“Tag-team me,” I said, squeezing her elbow. “You run the taps; I’ll herd the chaos.”
She smiled. “Deal.”
“Back in two.”
As I made my way over to the pool tables, my head was on a swivel for our center. He should’ve been out here celebrating with us. After all, him and Ziggy’s pulling off that play was reason enough to get a drink or two. But as I took the long way around the bar, heading to the alcove where the jukebox and pool tables were, I realized something.
Angus wasn’t at the bar with us.
“Huh,” I said as I pulled pool balls out of the pool table holes and racked them on the tabletop.
“I’ve got ten on Tank!” a patron of the bar shouted.
“Oh, hell no,” a woman said as she came up with a ten-dollar bill in her hand, “if Coach is playing? My money’s on him.”
I quirked an eyebrow as some of the team gathered in the miniature pool hall off in the bar's corner. Before I knew it, all five pool tables were taken up with me and the guys from the hockey team, and the bar patrons all pooled together a betting pool to see who’d win in their games. Some of the men drew brackets, readying to whittle us down as each of the winners were scheduled to go up against one another until there was only one left standing.
As I chalked up my pool cue, I looked over everyone’s heads toward the bar, only to find Melanie already looking at me.
