Coasting (Gold Hockey Book 8) Page 8

  His eyes softened. “Your job.”

  “Yes.” A sigh. “No. Yes. I don’t know.” She reached up to tug at her ponytail then remembered she’d taken it down and carefully brushed it before the game, wanting, vainly, to look her best on camera.

  “Sweetheart, I get it,” he said. “I’ll just go so you don’t have to—”

  Sweetheart. Her heart pulsed. God, what would it be like if she lived in a reality where she could be with him, where she could hear him calling her baby and sweetheart for the rest of her days? She wanted that reality so badly, even as she knew it would never happen. Because, aside from the conflict their jobs brought, no man in his right mind would want to be with a newly pregnant woman who was carrying another man’s baby—let alone one as beautiful as Coop, who was a talented athlete and hotter even than her favorite celebrity to crush on, Idris Elba.

  And yet, she didn’t want Coop to think she didn’t want him. The thought of hurting the lovely, sweet, wonderful man she’d come to know over the last two years was untenable.

  Which was when her tongue went on another mutiny.

  “I-don’t-want-you-to-kiss-me-because-I-just-puked.”

  His brows lifted. “What was that?”

  Oh God. She spun around, hands coming up to cover her face. She couldn’t say it again. She couldn’t—

  “I don’t want you to kiss me because I just puked,” she said softly, dropping her hands but hanging her head. “I’m gross and probably taste horrible, and I can’t have your mouth on mine or your tongue—” A short breath. “I want to, but—”

  Just. Stop. Talking.

  Silence.

  Then the click of the door opening and closing.

  A slice of hurt cut through her. Well, she’d done a good job of running him off by being honest. She should have just tried that from the beginning, pushing him away by telling him the truth and revealing—

  “Oof.”

  She was spun around, her front plastered to Coop’s front, belatedly realizing that the click she’d heard was the lock engaging, not the door opening and closing.

  “Why in the fuck do you think that I would give a shit about you being sick?” he growled, mouths millimeters apart, hot breath on her lips.

  “Because I might taste—”

  “You had a fucking mint,” he snapped. “You drank water.”

  “I—” She had done that.

  “Does your mouth taste bad to you?”

  Mutely, she shook her head.

  “So, why would I think that it would?”

  Her chin came up, muteness faded. “People have bad breath all the time without realizing it.”

  He inhaled. “You smell like mint and roses and sugar. You smell good enough to lick.”

  Mute came back.

  “I’ve smelled Max, sweetheart. I’ve spent my life around gross hockey players who seem to think it’s their job to spit and snot everywhere. Why in the would you think that a beautiful woman who smells like peppermint and roses would turn me off?”

  “You’re insane. Any other man would think—”

  “I’m not any other man.”

  Her heart skipped a beat, a wave of heat washed over her from head to toe. No. No, he wasn’t like any other man she’d ever met.

  Probably, she should have focused or stepped back or made up an excuse to get him to leave.

  But she didn’t.

  Because she wanted him to kiss her, more than she’d ever wanted anything else.

  And that was the last rational thought she had.

  “I’m going to kiss you now,” he murmured and paused, probably waiting for another tongue mutiny and when it didn’t come, his eyes went hot, his grip on her tightened, and she found herself pressed even more firmly against him.

  His mouth dropped, and he closed the last few millimeters between their lips.

  Nine

  Coop

  Honey.

  Calle tasted like honey—sweet and earthy albeit with a hint of mint. But he had the barest moment to think of that before her lips parted and heat exploded through his body. He swept his tongue into her mouth, coaxing hers to dance with his.

  Frankly, it didn’t take much coaxing.

  Her hands gripped his shoulders tightly, and she pulled him toward her. Fuck, just the feel of her breasts plastered against his chest had him going hard. He slid his hand down her back to her ass, tugged her closer, and she jumped into his arms, legs going around his waist, mouth pressing more firmly against his and sending him from hard to granite.

  All the while, they kissed like the world was ending or as though they were each other’s favorite drug and they were desperate to get their next fix.

  Then her hips tilted, and Coop stopped thinking.

  Instead, he felt.

  The soft globes of her ass in his hands. The smell of her filling his nose. The heat of her pussy grinding against his cock.

  Fuck, he needed to be naked.

  Fuck, he needed her to be naked.

  Her head jerked back, and she sucked in air, chest rising and falling in rapid succession. He let his mouth drop to her jaw, nipping the soft, honey-sweet skin there, dragging his tongue down her throat, tracing it along the collar of her almost-prudish dress shirt. She always wore them to the games, and he’d lost count of the number of times he’d imagined unbuttoning the column of white circular fastenings, of spreading the boring cotton wide and getting his mouth on all of that pale, silky skin.

  Her legs tightened and he took a step forward, setting her on the edge of her desk, before bending further and opening the top button with a flick of his fingers.

  She moaned, hands moving toward his hair, winding tight.

  He dropped his head.

  Just a quick taste.

  His mouth hit her throat, and he groaned, the scent of her stronger here and more intoxicating than the catnip she’d been mentioning earlier. He kissed her there, laved his tongue gently over the slight indention, but he couldn’t reach much more than a small triangle of skin.

  Okay, just one more button.

  He reached up to open it, but then Calle tugged his head back up and slanted her mouth across his.

  Fuck, the woman could kiss.

  Not shy, not hesitant. Just lips and tongue and teeth . . . and a whole lot of enthusiasm. Coop’s head spun and his cock was aching, especially when her thighs tightened around his waist and he got to feel the heat of her pussy grinding against him again.

  Thanking the universe for small miracles—namely that the dress pants they both wore were thin and didn’t dim much of the sensation—he ran his hand back up to the buttons, flicking one . . . then two . . . then fuck it all, three open.

  They both groaned when he cupped her breast over her bra.

  But he wanted skin. He needed skin.

  He slipped his hand under her shirt and was rewarded with silk, with a breast that fit perfectly in the palm of his hand, its pebbled nipple making him shift his grip and lightly pinch it between thumb and forefinger.

  “Coop!” she gasped, arching into his hold.

  He slanted his lips against hers again, swallowing her moans as he continued to tease her nipple, to massage her breast. His pulse thundered in his veins. His head spun. He wasn’t getting enough air and yet he couldn’t stop kissing her, couldn’t find the strength to break away from the fucking goddess in front of him.

  And she seemed to feel the same.

  She tugged his head back when he broke away to suck in a breath, her thighs so tight around him he was lucky to still have feeling in his lower extremities, let alone blood flow to his dick, arching up to offer her breast to his hand, pressing her pussy more firmly against him.

  He kissed her, kept kissing her.

  And now he was ten seconds away from fucking her on her desk.

  One more button.

  Another.

  Reaching behind to flick open her bra.

  Releasing her mouth, bending to take one nipple
then the other into his mouth, drawing deeply. He undid the last button—this one being the one on her pants—and slipped his hand beneath the waistband, beneath the scrap of material underneath, into the damp folds between her thighs.

  She spread her legs as much as she was able.

  But it was enough.

  His fingers dipped down and found—

  Hot. Wet.

  For him.

  “Fuck, Coop,” she groaned, hips jerking. He circled the hard bundle of nerves at the apex of her thighs, finding a rhythm that quickly had her writhing on her desk, head thrown back, brown hair spread out like a cape behind her. “More,” she gasped. “Just a little harder on my clit. I’m so close . . . Yes. I’m going to—”

  He heard the knock before she did.

  Thankfully, he managed to reach up and cover her mouth with his palm, to stifle the groan as she came against his hand, her nipple against his tongue, her pussy soaking wet against his fingers.

  So. Fucking. Beautiful.

  She slumped back, face completely relaxed, cheeks flushed, eyes sliding closed for one glorious moment.

  Then the knock came again.

  And those eyes flashed open.

  Horror washed over her face. Chased by panic. Followed again by horror.

  Coop was two steps ahead of her. Well, what he was feeling definitely wasn’t horror or panic, but he knew that being discovered splayed out half-naked on her desk wasn’t what Calle would want . . . even if he’d just given her what seemed to be a long-overdue orgasm.

  Hence, the two steps.

  He’d slipped his hand free, buttoned her slacks, and was working on her shirt when she finally processed what was happening.

  She sat up, shoved him away, fingers frantic on the buttons, making such a mess of the discs that he knocked her hands away and did them up himself. That she let him, told him almost as much as her pale face and wild eyes did.

  He’d miscalculated.

  He shouldn’t have kissed her.

  He certainly shouldn’t have undone the buttons.

  Fuck.

  But he didn’t have the ability to go back in time. He could only move forward, so Coop nudged her around to the back of the desk, opened the tablet, and then reached into his pocket to pull out his earbuds.

  He’d just handed one to her and pulled up the video she showed him earlier when he heard the click of the lock disengaging just before Bernard poked his head in.

  Coach looked surprised to see them, his eyes tracking from the earbuds in Coop and Calle’s hands to the iPad on the desk.

  Silence.

  “Door was locked,” he said, gruffly.

  “What?” Calle asked, and it was bewildered . . . no doubt from the orgasm and near desk-fucking, but luckily it also fit this situation.

  “Coach was just showing me some tape,” Coop interjected.

  Bernard’s eyes went down and up again. “Didn’t hear the knock?”

  “No, sorry,” Coop said. “Had the earbuds in.”

  “Ah.”

  Another long searching look. “The bus is scheduled to leave in ten.”

  Coop stood, leaving the earbud on Calle’s desk and hoping she’d grab them both and find a way to get them back to him because otherwise it would be a long-ass flight with all of Max’s nattering about the latest—and best in the history of all bests—fantasy show on television.

  But he thought it would be even weirder to ask for it back from Calle while Bernard was still there, and he’d lied enough.

  “I’d better hurry and go grab my stuff,” he announced to no one in particular.

  His eyes caught Calle’s just before he left, and the look in them cemented the sinking sensation in his gut. He might have explained the situation, might have managed to not make Bernard suspicious—or minimally so, anyway—but she was terrified and already retreating.

  Already pulling back and out of grasp.

  Just like before.

  Fuck.

  Coop had really screwed the pooch on this one.

  “Hi, Mom,” he said, hugging her and tugging her down the hall, carefully skirting the locker room where a bunch of naked dudes—and at least until a few minutes ago, one naked dudette—

  And had he really just said dudette?

  Because seriously, California had corrupted him. No self-respecting Georgian said dude, let alone the female equivalent. Also, side note to ask one of the native Californians on staff, was dude a gender-neutral term? It seemed like it should be and—

  His mother squeezed his arm, thankfully tugging him out of the mental rabbit hole he’d wandered down. “Is that Brit Plantain?” she asked, wonder in her words.

  “Yeah, Mom,” he said, leading her over to his teammate.

  “She’s my favorite player,” his mom whispered.

  “I know,” he whispered back, not even giving her his usual shtick about his rights as her son to be in that role. He glanced over his shoulder, saw his dad was smiling, already realizing what Coop had done.

  His mom had been devastated the last time his parents had visited the team—bringing enough delicious Southern food to feed an army, thankfully on a cheat day from Nutritionist Rebecca’s diet plan—only to miss Brit. The goalie had been visiting a local school that day and hadn’t been to the arena, and then the timing for a post-game meet-up hadn’t worked because of his parents’ return flight.

  When Coop had heard his parents were going to catch his game here in Anaheim before heading to San Diego to visit his sister, he knew he’d remedy that.

  His mom’s feet started to drag when she recognized the direction he was taking her. “Coop, stop. I can’t meet her now. My hair”—she reached up and patted her perfectly coiffed locks—“my shirt”—a sharp shake of her head. “No. She wouldn’t care about that.” Wide eyes swiveled to Coop’s. “What if I mess up her post-game routine and—”

  Brit was already chatting with Mandy while doing her usual stretching routine, one that involved a wall and a series of exercises to keep her bum shoulder intact. She also never shied away from a chat with a fan, and he’d already cleared this meet-up with her.

  She knew he was bringing his mom over.

  After more than a few seasons in the league, she was also really good at reading social situations.

  And she used her powers for good.

  For the most part.

  Today, thankfully, her gaze drifted over and dipped, probably taking in his mom’s attempts to halt his forward progress. She turned back to Mandy, said something, and then pushed off the wall and headed toward them.

  His mom froze, and Coop heard her inhale sharply.

  Then Brit was there.

  “Hey,” Coop said. “This is my mom, Doreen.”

  Brit smiled widely—the same one that had garnered her more than a few endorsements over the years. “You made that delicious mac and cheese!” she exclaimed, reaching out and shaking his mom’s hand. “Thankfully, Stefan saved me some before the hoard devoured it all. It’s so nice to meet you!”

  His mom’s mouth opened and closed a few times, but no words came out.

  Thankfully, Brit was nonplussed. She tucked her arm into his mom’s and turned to face Coop’s dad.

  “Hi,” he said, reaching out to shake her hand. “I’m Daniel. Thanks for saving my son’s butt on the breakaway.”

  Brit’s lips twitched. “Technically, it was my hubby’s fault that puck slipped out, but I’ll take it out of his paycheck later,” she said with a wink. “It’s nice to meet you, too. Now, Coop tells me your daughter recently moved to San Diego. Have you gone down to visit her already?”

  “We’re actually driving down tonight,” his mom answered, having relaxed enough to actually form words.

  Then the conversation was off, Brit and his mom chatting like old friends, discussing the drive and things to do and then Coop’s sister and her plans for her new job in California.

  “We may have to move out here now that two of our kids have
switched coasts,” his mom said. “The weather’s beautiful and . . .”

  They discussed the beaches and how SoCal was lucky enough to have an ocean that was warm enough to not hurt one’s feet when they walked the waves—which was Brit’s preference and definitely not the case up in the Bay Area. Mandy popped in briefly with a Sharpie—smart, considerate, and sweet were the top three terms to describe their trainer out of the PT suite; in it, she was often called evil, tormenting, and unsympathetic—but either way, she brought the pen and then his mom got her jersey signed by none other than Brit Plantain.

  Coop could have sent her a signed one at any point during the last few seasons, but it wouldn’t have been the same, and he wouldn’t have gotten to see the look on his mom’s face.

  Joy.

  He’d brought her joy.

  His dad nodded approvingly then Brit drew him into the conversation as well. He watched his father slip his arm around his mom’s waist and draw her into his side, felt a pulse at knowing he didn’t have that yet.

  That being a partner who fit as perfectly into his life as his parents did into each other’s.

  And at the rate he was going, it was unlikely he ever would.

  Stifling a sigh, he tried to focus back on the conversation, but then he looked up and saw Calle.

  One glance was all it took for his heart rate to spike, for a sliver of heat to shoot down his spine, but then she came closer, in an intense conversation with Bernard, the both of them apparently unaware of the collection of Armstrongs jamming the hall. Calle was close enough for Coop to smell the floral scent of her shampoo—or maybe that was just him hallucinating because he’d dreamed about her the night before. Either way, she and Bernard halted, their conversation breaking off.

  This is where you talk.

  Except, his brain wasn’t working. Calle was there and the tips of his fingers burned remembering the wet heat of her, his cock twitched wanting a repeat, and his heart twisted upon seeing the look on her face.

  Panic chased by a mask of indifference.