Page 7 of Body Check

I wait for her Southern drawl to holler again as I chew . . . and nearly choke swallowing the chicken down.

Shit, that’s awful.

After thirty-four years of drawing air into my lungs, there’s no hiding from the fact that my skills don’t extend to the kitchen.

Holly knew it.

I know it.

My goddamn stomach knows it.

I eye my dinner with distaste.I should have ordered takeout.

“Jackson!” she shouts, voice tinny as it echoes through the front wall of my Back Bay condo, followed by the insistent hammering of her fist on the door. “Jackson, open up right now or I’ll-I’ll—”

There really should be a rulebook on dealing with ex-wives. Then again, I’ve never been all that good at following the rules—not when it comes to Holly, the only woman I’ve ever loved. She had me wrapped around her finger the minute we met at Cornell during my junior year and not much has changed since then. Divorced or not, there’s not a damn thing I wouldn’t do for her if she needed me.

But there’s only one reason she’d show up unannounced today, which means she’s out for blood. Once upon a time, Pissed-Off Holly came in second place only to Sexed-Up Holly, our limbs tangled together after a round of hard sex.

Since the sex is off the table and has been for the better part of two years, I set down my fork and ditch dinner in favor of heading for the front door.Time to face the music . . .

And prepare for the knife that’s bound to be angled for my jugular the moment we’re face to face.

I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror opposite the door. Thanks to extra physical conditioning at practice today—one of the guys decided to mouth back to Coach Hall—I look like hell. Not that it matters much.

Holly isn’t here to do the admiring stint.

More heavy knocking that’s loud enough for my neighbors on the floor below to hear. Then, “Jack—”

The rest of my name is swallowed by a short-lived shriek when I swing open the door and catch her off guard. She rights herself at the last moment, color blooming on her cheeks as her fingers accidentally graze my chest in her struggle to keep from wiping out.Myfingers twitch at my sides, which is better than giving into the disastrous urge to haul her upright and touch my skin to hers. Would she feel the same? Taste the same? I’ve got no shame in admitting that the questions haunt me more nights than not.

Keeping my treacherous fingers to myself, I give her a quick once-over that’s done sooner than it began. Wavy, long, blond hair tucked behind her ears. Blue eyes that have always—always—reminded me of the Texas sky in my hometown, Zachsville. A trim body: small breasts, nipped in waist, narrow hips. Holly has always been small in everything but personality, graceful entrances notwithstanding.

Dipping my chin, I look down and meet her gaze. “You stop by for dinner?”

We both know that she didn’t stop by for my half-assed cooking, and she does that Holly thing where she scrapes the inside of her thumb with the nail of her index finger. When she’s pissed, the finger scraping commences.

Willing to press my luck so I can see her all fired up, I casually lean against the doorjamb, arms linked over my chest. “Havin’ baked chicken in case you were wondering what’s on the menu.”

Her glossy, pink lips part. Clamp closed a second later.

“Gotta give you a disclaimer, though.” I lift my left hand, index finger and thumb millimeters apart. “It’s aboutthisdry.”

More finger scraping. And then she ups the ante by blowing out a long breath that does nothing to alleviate the stick from her ass that’s keeping her back ramrod straight. “You set the temperature on four-fifty again. Didn’t you.”

Not a question. She knows me too well.

Shewasyour wife.

Was. Operative word there.

“You caught me.” In another life, I would have winked and turned up the charm. Had her laughing hard enough at my pathetic cooking skills that she’d drag me down for a kiss and simply order pizza instead. I don’t wink now. I do, however, turn up the charm, knowing that it’ll drive her up a wall and I’ll reap the benefits when her cheeks turn rosy and her eyes darken from a sky blue to the turbulent navy hue of Boston’s harbor. Shrugging, I drawl, “Never fails that I forget I’m cooking in the first place.”

“Too busy watching clips again?”

Always. You don’t get to where I’m at in the NHL by not making the most out of every hour of the day—and, for over a decade, I’ve done nothing but breathe in hockey and exhale league-crushing stats. I’m the two-time winner of the Art-Ross trophy for most points scored during the regular season, once during my short, one-year stint with the Dallas Stars and the other time with the Boston Bruins, andamalsothe winner of The Conn Smythe award. I’ve hoisted the Stanley Cup up in the air with the aid of my former team, the Bruins, and have made the playoffs every year that I’ve been with the Blades. “Watching clips” is my adaptation of scrolling through Facebook or Buzzfeed.

I’m a man with tunnel vision, but sometimes that tunnel vision has got faulty wiring.

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