The Crease: A Rochester Riot Sports Romance Page 9

  A look of panic widened the whites in his eyes. “No shit.”

  Her neck swiveled to look at him squarely. “Shit. Complete bullshit, in fact. Gotcha.”

  He let out a relieved breath and started to laugh again. “Yeah. You got me good, Kylie Rose. You’ve got quite the sense of humor.”

  “Yes. I always say you haven’t lost everything until you lose your sense of humor.”

  “Oh? What have you lost? You look like a girl who has everything to gain.”

  She looked over but kept her chin tilted down. “Including you.”

  A moment of silence followed until Shredder broke it. “Is that a come-on, Miss Rose?”

  “I certainly hope so, and I’ll come over for Italian fare under one condition.”

  He sighed and rolled his eyes, gripping the wheel until his knuckles turned white. “Another condition?”

  “Behave yourself. Just because I took you to naked yoga doesn’t make me a gold-digging hockey tramp.”

  He turned his head then and speared her with a knowing look. “Not for one moment since knowing you did I ever think of you as a gold digger or a tramp. And Kylie…Natasha Politski raised a gentleman. Count on it.”

  ***

  “So this is the place where the fabled Cole Fiorino hangs out, is it?” Kylie asked as she entered Shredder’s apartment. He watched her take in the surroundings of his classic bachelor pad; comfy couch, giant coffee table capable of supporting the weight of several large pizzas and 40-pack wings, galley kitchen with dining nook, and the inescapable 50-inch flat screen on the wall. “And Eloise has been here? And she survived?”

  “Excuse me,” he said, jokingly indignant. “Also the home of the unflappable Shredder Politski, if you please. I had this place before Cole joined the team. He’s the interloper here. And in answer to your question…Ms. Robertson has indeed been here and left in one piece.”

  “Oh.” Kylie grinned and nodded. “Where’s Cole?”

  Shredder shrugged. “He’s not here much these days. He’s moving in with Eloise soon. But I’m sure you knew that.”

  Her reaction seemed cool, as though his comment was news to her. He’d thought she and her former boss were close, but her expression revealed otherwise. He decided to change the subject.

  “How about that glass of wine while I get cooking. Red or white?”

  She smiled up at him. “Red would be lovely. With pizza. Like you said.”

  That pixie smile nearly undid him. He’d noticed it the night he met her. In spite of his dumping a beer in her lap, she’d held her spunky smile aloft like a flag. Her lips curved up in a bow shape, perfect and pink, like the rest of her. He wanted to know what other parts of her would bloom into shades of her favorite color. Her cheeks blossomed into rosy mounds, dusted with tiny freckles. Her petite and pointy nose divided them, flanked by the big, blue-gray orbs of her eyes framed with spiky black lashes and eyebrows that arched outwards. Walt Disney’s Tinkerbell came to mind. The reflection off her pearly white teeth could light up a hockey rink, not to mention the brilliant pink and white streaks that defined the swath of bangs angled across her forehead. He wanted to eat her like a sweet dessert.

  Instead, he offered her a seat in one of the tall chairs surrounding the bar-height dining table. He watched as she snuggled her comely butt into the padded leather. The same round delicious buns he’d been locked onto as she climbed the wall; the ones he’d longed to cup in his hands as she bent over on the yoga mat. He shook himself into the present and set the oven to heat. Then he opened the stainless-steel wine cooler that sat in the corner of the dining nook.

  “Trust me?” he asked, his fingertips poised over a particular bottle. “Of course, our new friend Joe says that you should, and I always knew I liked that guy.”

  “How could I not, after tonight?” she said, her eyes twinkling.

  Good, he thought. Because in a few hours, he might not trust himself in spite of all his promises, swearing on the grave of Natasha Politski. He’d never overstepped himself where a woman was concerned. They’d always been more than willing so he’d never really been put in a position where he had to rein it in.

  Lord, please give me the strength not to throw this impish woman down and spear her with my cock like I’ve been dying to do since I spilled beer between her perfect legs.

  He selected a three-year-old Merlot from his father’s collection; a few minutes on the counter would bring it to sixty-five degrees, the optimum temperature for red wines. He peeled the neck wrapper and inserted the double handled opener into the cork. The most elegant and reliable method, in his opinion. He drilled down and levered the handles until the cork yielded with a soft pop.

  He could feel her eyes follow him as he poured two glasses through an aerator, the gurgling sound echoing in the tall-ceilinged space. He hadn’t meant to go all sommelier on her, but he did love the finer things in life, in spite of his ice monkey reputation.

  Kylie giggled. “What’s that?”

  “Just a gadget that breaks up the surface tension of the wine, releasing its full flavor.” He swiveled to face her and handed her one of the glasses.

  Her fingers brushed over his as she took it and electricity ripped up his arm. He could feel the pulse at the base of his neck throb and wondered if she noticed. But she didn’t say anything, just held her glass to her nose and sniffed.

  “Sounds like you know a lot about wine,” she said.

  “About the same as what you know about hot yoga,” he countered.

  “Touché.” After smelling the wine, her face lifted toward his, a euphoric expression lacing her eyes. The fact that she approved and looked forward to tasting it made the splurge worth it. She was worth it.

  Maybe she was worth everything.

  She offered her glass in a toast. He touched it with the rim of his own. The full-bodied liquid warmed a path down his throat, and he welcomed the burn. Anything to take his focus away from the tightening in his crotch. It had been awhile since he’d been alone with a girl. Hopefully, his demons would remain at bay this time and allow him to enjoy it and not screw it up. Because he wanted to see Kylie again. And again and again.

  He went to work on his pizza dough that had been rising since the afternoon. After kneading, flouring and tossing, he pressed it into two pans with generous slathers of olive oil. Kylie got into the act, spooning on the tomato sauce and layering on the sliced meats, veggies, and shredded cheese under his watchful eye. His favorite Latin/Jazz music blared from a satellite channel on the TV while they worked.

  The fluffy, buttery aromas of freshly baked dough permeated the room as they consumed their handmade feast. His privileged life had presented him with countless gourmet meals, and yet none of it compared to the satisfying intimacy of cooking for oneself with fine ingredients and pleasant company. He hoped Kylie felt the same. She folded the thin-crust wedges into a V in her fingers and bit into them, seeming to revel in pulling the melted mozzarella into drooping strings as she ate. Her simple joy in the act of eating turned him on. But just about everything about her turned him on. Maybe because she was so different from the women he knew from home. Privileged daughters of other wealthy Polish immigrants like his parents.

  When they finished, only crumbs remained in the pans. “Well?” he asked. “Has my pizza prowess measured up?”

  Kylie swallowed the last of her wine and set the glass down. “I didn’t bring a tape measure, but I’m sure it would have run out of tape. You’re a fantastic chef…does Mama Fiorino know about this? I’d watch your back for the Italian mafia if I were you.” She leaned back and copped a fake Sicilian accent. “Ole’ Mama F. might want to make you swim with the fishes.”

  Shredder laughed. “No way. I’m staying under her radar. My shoe collection doesn’t need any of the cement variety. I only cook for personal friends.”

  He fixed on her eyes for a reaction. The one he deserved. The one he found he desperately wanted. Didn’t his culinary skill impress her
at all?

  Her gaze caught his through a web of spiky lashes. “So I qualify in that number? Shredder Politski, did you just put me in the dreaded friend zone with that comment?”

  Shredder couldn’t tear himself away. He held her glance steadily, his mind rifling through any number of clever replies, ultimately rejecting the need for one. He reached for the Merlot and refilled their glasses. Damn it. He wanted to kiss her. Protect her. Never let her go.

  “Shall we retire to the living room, Madame?” he asked, grabbing both and rising from his chair.

  Kylie nodded and followed him to the oversized sofa, settling against him as he made himself comfortable in one corner. “Would you like some different music? Or a movie?”

  “No, I like this,” she said, nodding to the jazz sounds emanating from the speakers.

  “Me too,” he said, placing an arm tentatively around her shoulders. Kylie twisted to look up at him as she leaned against his chest.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “Can I touch your head?”

  He laughed aloud, passing his free hand over his scalp. “Go ahead.”

  She reached out and copied his motion, gliding her palm over his cranium from forehead to crown, then down to his ear.

  “Mmm,” she purred. “Smooth as a baby’s bottom. How often do you shave it?”

  “Every day, mostly,” he said, a hidden shiver running through him at her touch. “If the outgrowth gets too long, it itches. Nothing worse than an itchy head under a face mask so you can’t scratch it.”

  “Agreed. Nothing worse than an itch you can’t scratch.” She gave a lift of her eyebrows. Seems feisty Kylie had returned after her double dose of premium vintage. He liked it. “Doesn’t the constant shaving get to be a pain?”

  He shrugged. “I’ve been doing it so long, I don’t think about it.”

  “What color is your real hair? Do you ever let it grow in during the off-season just for kicks and to save time in the bathroom?”

  “Not recently. Sort of dirty blond, I guess. Last time I saw it. Could grow in gray for all I know,” he said with a chuckle. “I could be the only silver fox in the NHL.”

  “Don’t say that,” she replied. “You can’t be more than thirty, am I right? No way is your hair all gray. You’re still a pup.”

  “I’m thirty-one,” he said. “How old are you?” He held up a hand. “I know, I’m not supposed to ask a lady that. But if you answer, I promise I won’t commit another faux pas and ask you how much you weigh.”

  “Twenty-five,” she said immediately. “I don’t know why women like to lie about their age. It is what it is, you can’t change it.”

  “Very true. That means a six-year gap between us. Does that bother you?”

  She looked him in the eye. “No. Should it?”

  He wagged his chin in the negative. “I don’t see why.”

  “Good,” she said, resting her head on his chest.

  “Why do you dye your hair?” he asked, turning the tables. “Pink?”

  She fell silent, her bright pink head rising and falling with his chest as his lungs worked. Everything had been going so well, and now he’d gone and blown it with a boneheaded question born of pure curiosity without any ill intent.

  “Don’t you like it?” she asked in a tortured whisper. He’d hurt her feelings.

  “That’s not my question,” he teased. “I know you can change it in a heartbeat. Don’t you like your natural color?”

  “It’s my name,” she interrupted. “Rose. I like pink.”

  “Okay,” he said. “But like you said at Blues & Brews, ‘a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.’ I’m sure your natural color would be just as stunning.”

  Her arm curled around his ribcage, and he liked the sensation of her drawing nearer. His cock hardened involuntarily. Could she feel it? Her hand hovered dangerously close to his waistband. He clamped his eyes shut against the vivid mental image of her hand traveling down the rest of the way to unbutton his fly and slip inside.

  “I don’t remember what color it was,” she murmured. “I guess I’m trying to paint my world the way I like it. Pink.”

  “Rose-colored glasses, huh?”

  His heart thudded several beats before she answered. “Maybe. But what about you? Why do you deny yourself a physical asset like hair? Women love to run their fingers through a man’s silky tresses.”

  “It’s convenient,” he explained, not understanding how someone with pink hair would be concerned about vanity. It was one of the things he liked about her. “My mask fits better without hair in the way.”

  “Bullshit. Is it really because you’ve got a bald spot you don’t want to draw attention to?”

  “No,” he answered in a knee-jerk response, but his pulse accelerated as he pondered her question. Her direct manner made him think deeper on the subject. His mask supplied a convenient answer, but not the fundamental one. Deep down, he knew he did it to make himself less attractive. Especially to other men. “I guess I want people to see the real me,” he said. He reached out to fondle a swatch of her colorful tresses, committing to memory the silky texture as it passed between his fingers. “Don’t knock it till you try it,” he added. “If you shaved your head, think about all the time you’d save. Shampooing, conditioning, combing, styling – coloring,” he leaned on the last example for her benefit.

  She squirmed and tilted her face to meet his again. “Would you still like me if I were bald?”

  Her eyes scanned his with an intensity he couldn’t ignore, an invitation and a challenge lurking within their depths. Her lips quivered almost indiscernibly, just inches from his own. And the whisper of her breath. Wine laced and sweet. He felt the tug in every cell of his body. His hand moved to cup her chin and draw her closer, hold her captive until he could do as his body urged him. He dipped his head to be even nearer.

  “Yes,” he murmured the admission, his mouth landing home on hers.

  It was soft and moist, untouched and untainted, like a first kiss should always be.

  He claimed its untested potential, exploring with his tongue and staking his mark upon it. She accepted his advance and responded in equal heat, searing her own indelible mark on his conflicted, ice-hardened heart.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Wow,” Kylie whispered as their lips parted. “You kiss like a goalie.”

  Shredder’s eyebrows shot up, feeling the skin on his forehead ripple into something resembling a retread tire. “What is that like? And just how many goalies have you kissed?”

  “You’re the first,” she said with a shy grin. “I meant that you commit to the shot and don’t give it up, just like a puck.”

  He smiled, warmed by her offhand praise of his prowess. “I guess that’s a compliment,” he said, giving her a gentle squeeze. “You kiss like a flower.” Her blue-gray eyes widened in curiosity. “One that blooms and opens with the right care and attention…like a rose.”

  For a second, he thought he saw those expressive eyes gloss over with moisture. Had she never been complimented in such a way? He surprised himself with how easily the comment had come to mind and then spilled from his lips. Her kiss was all that and more. By far his best first kiss ever, but then, he’d known it all along.

  “That’s beautiful,” she murmured, her irises minutely flicking back and forth between his. Uncharacteristically, she seemed at a loss for further words. “Thank you,” she finally said.

  “You’re…” His next word was lost as she reached up for another kiss.

  He gave it up gladly and kissed her back, harder and deeper than before. He became aware of her breasts pressing against him, and the pressure of her leg draped over his as his tongue bathed in the warm wetness of her willing mouth. All of the above sent a rush of blood southward, turning him harder than he’d planned on getting. He didn’t want to break his promise to her from the ride home.

  “…welcome,” he finished as she withdre
w. His lips mourned the loss of her contact, and so did his swelling cock.

  “You won’t repeat that to anyone, will you? I wouldn’t want those words tainted by touching anyone else’s ears,” she said, a wide smile curving her glistening lips.

  “It’ll be our secret,” he assured her, gliding his hand up and down the length of her arm.

  She relaxed and laid her head on his chest, her arm snaking more tightly around his midsection. “Hey, speaking of secrets, did you hear Murphy hired a new COO?”

  Shredder smiled at her sudden change of topic. She was like a whirlwind, this girl. Changing direction and spinning away, always moving but always with the chance of an unexpected switch back to snatch you up again.

  “Is that a secret? Didn’t you just blog about it?”

  She shrugged, her mounded breasts rubbing up and down his chest with the movement. “I suppose not, but I didn’t get a chance to post it on the team website even though I planned to. Know what else though? Seems like a complete dufus…a real piece of work. Face like an accountant, shapeless and totally devoid of either character or charm. And his handshake felt limper than a piece of used hockey tape.”

  “Hey, I have friends who are accountants,” he chuckled and threw his hands up in the air in a defensive posture. “Who is this loser?”

  “Name’s Bernie Griffiths,” she said. “Seems like an odd choice for such an important role since he’s only coached in the past, never been a front office exec. Guess he’s a friend of Murphy’s. You know what they say, it’s not what you know but who you know.”

  Shredder felt his body go tense, and not with lustful excitement. In fact, his burgeoning erection slackened in fear and shame. Regret permeated every cell. This was terrible news at a terrible time. The embers of his happy evening withered into ash.

  “Yeah,” he agreed. “It sure is. Too bad I don’t know Wayne Gretzky.”

  Kylie laughed and Shredder breathed easier that she hadn’t caught on to his sudden discomfort. The last thing he wanted was her thinking his retraction had anything to do with her or her desirability.