Page 9 of Power Play

“What’s the matter? This bother you, Kit?” He held his arms out. “It’s not like you haven’t seen it before.”

For a moment, startled and weak – I stared. I gaped even. Liam Locke was a thing of beauty. Muscles on muscles. Groomed chest hair that narrowed to a thin strip that bisected his strong stomach and disappeared down the low waistband of his clingy fucking boxers.

Hockey player legs – which meant they were like tree trunks. Requiring custom tailoring for every fancy suit he wore. Shoulders so wide they could carry his whole team. A chest so thick it made a girl want to rest her weary head against it. Arms so strong they could curl around that girl. Keep her safe.

His unreasonably handsome face lit up at the sight of me and my cat costume. That I’d handed him such amazing ammunition to use against me delighted him.

“Shit, she wasn’t lying about the cat thing. You look ridiculous,” he said.

“You look…” I froze. The next word caught just barely in my teeth. Because of all the stupid things I could do, telling Liam Locke that he looked amazing, would be top of the list. But he did.

He looked delicious.

His playoff beard was scruffy bordering on mountain man. His blonde hair hadn’t seen scissors because of playoff superstition. It was so long in the back it brushed his shoulders. A mullet shouldn’t look good on anyone, but Liam Locke was just that kind of asshole.

He was a beautiful, beautiful man.

And I was a black cat.

Literally.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that. How do I look, Kit?” he asked, stepping forward, making all those muscles ripple. I noticed bruises on his forearms and a scrape across his cheek. The black eye. I wanted to touch each of those injuries. Press my lips against them like I could make them better. After all these years, that instinct hadn’t changed.

“Like you’ve been in a fight.” I said, pretending all that skin did nothing to me. And it didn’t. I hardened my heart and my lady parts. I was impervious to Liam Locke. I didn’t even care about that sizeable bulge in his underwear.

Barely noticed it.

“You watch the game?” he asked.

“What game?” I was playing dumb, but it was one of the few moves I had left with him.

Last night’s game had been a brutal one and he’d been in the thick of it. The Bruisers had won, but barely.

Not that I would ever in a million years reveal I’d watched the game. Or seen that hit behind the net or that I’d held my breath waiting for him to get back up. I didn’t see him score the game-winning goal either. The bar where I worked had gone nuts and I’d forced myself not to cheer. To not feel anything.

My dad had always said Liam Locke was one of the most talented rookies he’d ever seen on the ice. Touched by God, he’d said. My dad had always been good at spotting true talent.

And taking all their money.

“Come on,” Liam said. “I know you watched.”

“Too busy,” I said with a shrug.

“Out on the prowl?”

A cat joke. He really could be funny, sometimes. “Something like that.”

“Well, it’s too bad because you would have seen my hat trick-”

“Oh please, you only scored one,” I shot back. “And it was a lucky shot off Lukov’s skate.”

He jabbed his finger at me. “I knew you watched.”

I snorted. “I watched you not capitalize on the power play in the second period.”

“Made up for it in the third.”

“Barely. Your brother had your number all night long.”

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