Page 31 of One Night Only
I shuffle in the crease, watching him steal the puck away from Logan. On a breakaway, he careens up the ice at breakneck speed, dekes left, then right, then left again, narrowly avoiding Happy. When there’s nothing left between him and me, the roar throughout the arena fades, making way for nothing but the sound of my own blood pumping, hammering loudly against my ear drums.
Tracking the puck, I’ve watched enough of TJ’s game footage over the last week to anticipate his move. I push right and drop down into a butterfly, but I fuck up, and at the last second, the asshole shifts left. As if in slow motion, all I can do is watch as the puck goes sailing toward the gap.Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.With a grunt, I kick my left leg out as far as my hip will allow, throwing the weight of my body with it, the puck only just hitting the very edge of my blade and rebounding right as the siren sounds.
Falling onto my back, I release a heavy breath, staring up at the cross bar, which is when I’m piled upon by Josef and Loganin the kind of celly you’d expect off the back of a Stanley Cup win.
“Save of the year, Tex!” Logan yells, his face pressed right up against my cage. “Save of the fucking year!”
I lie on the physio table, staring up at the fluorescent lights, a towel draped over my dick, still sweaty after tonight’s game. Apparently, I pulled a muscle in my groin during that last save. I was so hyped up on adrenaline, I didn’t even realize until I was following the guys down the tunnel and it was suddenly painful to walk.
Jace, our head trainer, the one with the magic hands, is rubbing me down and the pain is almost intolerable, but I breathe through it, still on a high after my shutout. I’m the first goalie of the season to score a shutout against TJ Lewis. Robbie even came in to see me after press, telling me they’re already claiming it one of the best saves of the last few seasons. Ha. Take that, online trolls who called me nothing but a pretty boy with a shit C-cut.
“Fuck!” I shout out when Jace goes deep.
“Sorry, man,” he murmurs, unrelenting with the pressure.
“What are we looking at, Jace?”
Coach McManus, goaltender coach and all-round thorn in my side, walks into the treatment room and stands next to Jace, looking down at me with a furrowed brow, his arms folded over his chest.
“I don’t think it’s anything too serious, but Doc’s scheduled an MRI first thing in the morning to double check,” Jace says. “Just rest, hot and cold therapy through the night, and tomorrow I’ll do some more work on the area.”
“You hear that, Tex?” McManus nudges me, the look in his eyes knowing as he repeats firmly, “Rest.” He knows me too well. At least, he knows theoldme too well. The old me who’dpromise to rest, when really, an hour later, he’d be out in a bar, searching for a hottie to go home with for a night of anything but rest. Well, I’m a changed man, McManus.
I flash him a grin and hold up three fingers. “Scout’s honor, Coach.”
“Yeah, right,” he mutters with an indulgent roll of his eyes, turning and walking out.
I glance up at Jace as he shakes his head, a knowing smirk playing on his lips as he continues rubbing me down. And it kind of pisses me off that everyone on the team has the same opinion of me. I used to wear my playboy title like a badge of honor, but now? Now, not so much. And I suddenly feel the need to prove that I’m no longer the league’s biggest man-whore—to the team, to the fans, to the league, but mostly, to a certain blonde who has unknowingly turned me into the pussy-whipped, one-woman asshole I never thought I’d be.
CHAPTER 13
EMILY
Iknow Andy said I wasn’t required to work the event tonight, that I was attending as a guest and nothing more, but not long after I arrived, I caught sight of Dallas, grinning broadly next to Robbie and another HMC client, NFL superstar Joey Tanner, and when my eyes met with Dallas’s across the red carpet, I did the first thing any normal thirty-five-year-old woman in her right mind would do; I fled.
Making up some bullshit excuse about a missing auction item, I excused myself, scurrying into the back area, where I’ve been for the last fifteen minutes because Gayle, the event coordinator, saw me and put me to work.
Now, however, after three trips between the kitchen and the ballroom in sky-high heels and a form-fitting gown, I’m a disheveled mess. My perfectly curled hair is now limp and frizzy, my makeup undoubtedly smudged, and I have a serious case of under-boob sweat. But sweat patches are a small price to pay to avoid Dallas Shaw.
We’ve been texting non-stop since last night when, after a few too many wines—and some unnecessary encouragement from Tess—I sent him a good luck text. I vowed it to be just the one. But, of course, that was a big fat lie. And since then,it’s been constant. Over the last twenty-four hours, the texts have gone from casual banter to blatant flirtation, and I hate myself.
When I caught sight of Dallas earlier, all I kept thinking about was the last text he sent me, the one that feels as if it’s burning a hole through my phone—and my panties.
DO NOT ENGAGE: Trust me, baby, when I finally get you back into my bed, you’re never gonna wanna leave.
I manage to make a swift and seamless escape from Gayle’s tyrannical gaze, slipping out into the corridor. Hurrying as best as I can toward the bathroom so I can put myself back together before heading out to the event, I come to an abrupt stop the moment I turn a corner, colliding face first into a solid wall. Of muscle.
It’s the scent that I notice first. The scent that immediately renders me intoxicated and weak at the knees. Forcing my chin up, dread and something vaguely familiar and not at all unpleasant pools low in my belly at the sight of the one person I’ve been desperate to avoid for no other reason than to prevent this exact reaction.
I meet his twinkling green gaze, my skin pricking at the tension that settles between us, and I force my focus downwards, taking a much needed step back. When I get a good look at him, I swear I almost swallow my tongue because of course he looks even better up close. His hair is tamed, perfectly styled and swept back, face clean-shaven, all six-foot-four of him impeccably styled from head to toe, dressed in a fitted and very Christmassy red and green tartan suit that I’m sure would look ridiculous on anyone else but he somehow manages to pull off exceptionally well. Frankly, I get the feeling the man could wear a cardboard box with some armholes poked through it and still look amazing.
I swallow the lump that always seems to find itself in theback of my throat whenever he’s around, tucking one of my limp curls behind my ear. “What are you doing b-back here?”
Dallas takes a step forward, closing the gap I’d forced between us seconds ago, and I feel the backs of his fingers skate over the sensitive skin of my upper arm. He ducks down, his voice dangerously close as he whispers, “What do you think?”
I swallow hard, unable to meet his eyes. If I meet his eyes, then I risk seeing the want and lust that I witnessed in them from across the red carpet earlier, and being this close to him, in this dangerously low-lit corridor, with no one around, I don’t trust him. Or myself.
“You look beautiful,” Dallas says, pulling me from my thoughts.
