Page 8 of Offside

Now I’m stuck with the repercussions of that decision and I’m now on the receiving end of Karis’s icy glare.

“Karis, will you let me explain?”

Her green eyes grow cold and dark with contempt. She pushes out of her chair again, sending it careening wildly back into the bookshelf behind her. Several trophies and plaques displayed on the shelves wobble precariously. She moves over to the bank of windows looking out over the cityscape, standing stiffly as she shifts indignantly from foot to foot.

“The clock started ticking two minutes ago. You’ve got three minutes left. Hurry up and get on with it so you can leave.” She hooks a thumb toward the door but her voice quivers slightly, enough for me to tell the fire is weakening in her resolve.

There’s a flash of something in her bright eyes as they narrow at me before she turns away again. I almost forgot how stunningly beautiful she is, and strong. The kind of beauty that knocks men off their feet and the type of strength that puts even hockey players like me to shame.

I’m not called Ballas the Beast because I’m sweet and cuddly. I’m a six-foot-five Oscar the Grouch on a pair of motherfucking skates.

But one night with Karis turned me into a gooey sap, and it scared me shitless.

When she had looked up at me while we sat vigil for her uncle, tears glistening in her eyes, with such need for stability, like I was some kind of savior or knight in shining armor, I panicked. I am no one’s goddamn savior. I don’t have an empathetic bone in my body and she was pinning her hopes on me to be there when she needed someone the most?

Not a chance in hell was I that guy and I didn’t want to give her that impression, which would’ve happened had I stayed. The moment she’d fallen asleep, slumped in the uncomfortable hospital chair next to Marv’s bed, I took off and hightailed it back to Vancouver. I didn’t look back. No goodbye, no thoughtful floral arrangement and sweet condolence card, no number left on a piece of paper on the night table by her uncle’s bed.

I was a chickenshit and ran as fast as I could in the other direction.

Jesus, now that I think about it, maybe my rehearsed apology speech won’t even come close to mending the hole I dug for myself.

I never expected we’d be in the same room together again. She lives in Seattle and oversees the ownership responsibilities for a basketball team. I’m in Vancouver and play hockey.

Then everything changed in a strange and tragic twist of fate when Marv Spurlock slipped into a coma and she was the beneficiary of all his businesses.

Which leaves me here to clean up the mess I made with the woman who stubbornly refuses to look at me or allow me to apologize.

I take a tentative step toward her, so close now that I can smell the sweet candy on her breath.

“You have every right to be furious with me. I deserve it.”

She whips back around and her shoulder brushes against my chest. A patronizing smile lifts at the corners of her mouth, her tone bone-dry. “Why would I be mad? You—” she gestures between us—“mean nothing more to me than a name on my team roster. You, Ballas Keeney, are just a hockey player.”

Damn. That one was a solid puck shot to the gut.

A steely expression curtains over her face, betraying nothing but polite professionalism now. She takes a step back and shoves a delicate hand out at me to shake.

I should just shake her hand and be on my way. Let this serve as a lesson to me for any future interactions I have with Karis Spurlock. She despises me and there’s no apology I can give that will change that.

There’s a hundred and one reasons why I should just turn around and walk out that door and leave this conversation behind. And why I shouldn’t do something as stupid as kissing her.

First and foremost being our working relationship.

Karis is not simply some random hookup anymore. She’s the team owner and my boss’s new boss.

Second, kissing her now would be imprudent, not to mention highly inappropriate.

And third, she obviously hates me.

Karis hates me with the same level of intensity as the Boston Bruins hate the Montreal Canadiens.

Or at the very least, she strongly dislikes this situation we’ve gotten ourselves into. Therefore, there is no doubt she wouldn’t want me to touch her, much less kiss her.

Yet none of that stops me from what I do next.

Taking a solid step into her space, I snag her wrist, tug her into my chest, and throw caution to the wind when I crush my mouth to hers.

Her next words die on her tongue, her breath hitches, and I swallow down her gasp of angry surprise. Karis pushes at my chest with her palm. I pause to peer down at her, hoping to read her expression. Her mouth opens and she lets out a shuttering breath.

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