Brody Croft circled the pool table, his eyes sharp as a hawk’s as he examined his options. With a quick nod, he pointed and said, “Thirteen, side pocket.”
His young companion, wearing a bright red Hawaiian T-shirt that made Brody’s eyes hurt, raised his eyebrows. “Really? Tough shot, man.”
“I can handle it.”
And handle it he did. The ball slid cleanly into the pocket, making the kid beside him groan.
“Nice, man. Nice.”
“Thanks.” He moved to line up his next shot when he noticed his opponent staring at him. “Something wrong?”
“No, uh, nothing’s wrong. Are—are you Brody Croft?” the guy blurted out, looking embarrassed.
Brody smothered a laugh. He’d wondered how long it would take the kid to ask. Not that he was conceited enough to think everyone on the planet knew who he was, but seeing as this bar was owned by Luke Stevens and Jeff Wolinski, two fellow Warriors, most of the patrons were bound to be hockey fans.
“At your service,” he said easily, extending his hand.
The kid gripped it tightly, as if he were sinking in a pit of quicksand and Brody’s hand was the lifeline keeping him alive. “This is so awesome! I’m Mike, by the way.”
The look of pure adoration on Mike’s face brought a knot of discomfort to Brody’s gut. He always enjoyed meeting fans, but sometimes the hero-worship went a little too far.
“What do you say we keep playing?” he suggested, gesturing to the pool table.
“Yeah. I mean, sure! Let’s play!” Mike’s eyes practically popped out of his angular face. “I can’t wait to tell the guys I played a round of pool with Brody Croft.”
Since he couldn’t come up with a response that didn’t include something asinine, like “thank you,” Brody chalked up the end of his cue. The next shot would be more difficult than the first, but again, nothing he couldn’t manage. He’d worked in a bar like this one back when he’d played for the farm team and was barely bringing in enough cash to feed himself. He used to hang out after work shooting pool with the other waiters, eventually developing a fondness for the game. With the way his schedule was now, he rarely had time to play anymore.
But with rumors about a possible league investigation swirling, thanks to allegations made in a recent interview with the team owner’s soon-to-be ex-wife, Brody might end up with more free time than he wanted. Mrs. Houston apparently had proof that her husband had bribed at least two players to bring forth a loss. And that he’d placed substantial—illegal—bets on those fixed games.
While there was probably no truth to any of it, Brody was growing concerned with the rumors.
Around five years ago, a similar scandal had plagued the Colorado Kodiaks. Only three players had been involved, but many innocent players suffered, their reputations dragged through the mud thanks to the tarnished franchise.
Hell would freeze over before he’d accept a payout, and he had no intention of being lumped in with any of the players who might have. His agent was in the process of renegotiating his contract, since his current one was due to expire at the end of the season. He’d be a free agent then, which meant he needed to remain squeaky clean if he wanted to sign with a new team or remain with the Warriors.
He tried to remind himself that this morning’s headlines were nothing but rumors. If something materialized from Sheila Houston’s claims, he’d worry about it then. Right now, he needed to focus on playing hard, so the Warriors could win the first playoffs round and move on to the next.
Resting the cue between his thumb and forefinger, he positioned the shot, took one last look and pulled the cue back.
From the corner of his eye, a woman’s curvy figure drew his attention, distracting him just as he pushed the cue forward. The brief diversion caused his fingers to slip. The white ball sailed across the felt, avoided every other ball on the table and slid directly into the far pocket. Scratch.
Damn.
Scowling, he lifted his head just as the source of his distraction drew near.
“You could do it over,” Mike said quickly, fumbling for the white ball and placing it back on the table. “It’s called a mulligan or something.”
“That’s golf,” Brody muttered, his gaze glued to the approaching brunette.
A few years ago an interviewer for Sports Illustrated had asked him to describe the type of women he was attracted to. “Leggy blondes” had been his swift response, which was pretty much the exact opposite of the woman who’d now stopped two feet in front of him. And yet, his mouth went dry at the sight of her, his body quickly responding to every little detail. The silky chocolate-brown hair falling over her shoulders, the vibrant green eyes the same shade as a lush rainforest, the petite body with more curves than his brain could register.
His breath hitched as their eyes met. The whisper of an uncertain smile that tugged at her full lips sent a jolt to his groin.
Fuck. He couldn’t remember the last time a single smile from a woman had evoked such an intense response.
“I thought I’d play the winner.” Her soft, husky voice promptly delivered another shock wave to Brody’s dick.
Stunned to find he was two seconds away from a full-blown erection, he tried to remind his body that he wasn’t a teenager any longer, but a twenty-nine-year-old man who knew how to control himself. Hell, he could control the puck while fending off elbows and cross-checks from opposing attackers; getting a hold of his hormones should be a piece of cake.
“Here, just take my place now,” Mike blurted out, quickly pushing his cue into her hands. His gaze dropped to the cleavage spilling over the scooped neckline of the brunette’s yellow tank top, and then the kid turned to Brody and winked. “Have fun, man.”
Brody swallowed, then focused his eyes on the woman who’d managed to get him hard with one smile.
She didn’t look like the type you’d find in a sports bar, even one as upscale as this. Sure, her body was out of this world, but something about her screamed innocence. The freckles splattering the bridge of her nose maybe. Or perhaps the way she kept biting on the corner of her bottom lip.
Before he could stop it, the image of those plump red lips nibbling on one particular part of his anatomy slid to the forefront of his brain like a well-placed slap shot to the net. His cock pushed against the fly of his jeans.
So much for controlling his hormones.
“I’m guessing it’s my turn,” she said. Tilting her head, she offered another endearing smile. “Seeing as you just blew your shot.”
He cleared his throat. “Uh, yeah.”
Snap out of it, man.
Right, he needed to regroup here. He played hockey, yeah, but he wasn’t a player anymore. His fuckboy days were in the past. Not only that, but he was sick to death of women fawning all over him because of his career. Nowadays, all he had to do was walk into a place—club, bar, the public library—and a warm, willing woman was by his side, ready to jump his bones. And he couldn’t even count the number of times he’d heard, “Do you like it rough off the ice, baby?”
Well, screw that. He’d been down the casual road, had his fun, scored off the ice as often as he scored on it, but now it was time to take a new path. One where the woman in his bed actually gave a shit about him, and not the hockey star she couldn’t wait to gush to her friends about.
The sexual fog in his brain cleared, leaving him alert and composed and completely aware of the flush on the brunette’s cheeks and the hint of attraction in her eyes. If this woman was looking to score with Mr. Hockey, she had another think coming.
“I’m Hayden,” his new opponent said, uncertainty floating through her forest green eyes.
“Brody Croft,” he returned coolly, waiting for the flicker of recognition to cross her features.
It didn’t happen. No flash of familiarity, no widening of the eyes. Her expression didn’t change in the slightest.
“It’s nice to meet you. Brody.”
Her voice lingered on his name, as if she was testing it out for size. She must have decided she liked the fit, because she gave a small nod and turned her attention to the table. After a quick examination, she pointed to the ball he’d failed to sink and called the shot.
Okay, was he supposed to believe she genuinely didn’t know who he was? That she walked into a sports bar and randomly chose to hit on the only professional hockey player in attendance?
“So…did you catch the game last night?” he said with a casual slant of the head.
She gave him a blank stare. “What game?”
“Game one of the playoffs. Warriors and Vipers. Seriously good hockey, in my opinion.”
Her brows drew together in a frown. “Oh. I’m not really a fan, to be honest.”
“You don’t like the Warriors?”
“I don’t like hockey.” She made a self-deprecating face. “Actually, I can’t say I enjoy any sport, really. Maybe the gymnastics in the summer Olympics?”
He couldn’t help but grin. “Are you asking or telling?”
She smiled back. “Telling. And I guess it’s very telling that I only watch a sports event once every four years, huh?”
He found himself liking the dry note to her throaty voice when she admitted her disinterest in sports. Her honesty was rare. Most—fine, all—of the women he encountered claimed to love his sport of choice, and if they didn’t truly love it, they pretended to, as if sharing that common interest made them soulmates.
“But I love this game,” Hayden added, raising her cue. “It counts as a sport, right?”
“It does in my book.”
She nodded, then focused on the balls littering the table. She leaned forward to take her shot.
He got a nice eyeful of her cleavage, a tantalizing swell of creamy skin spilling over the neckline of her top. When he lowered his eyes, he couldn’t help but admire her full breasts, hugged firmly by a bra he could only see the outline of.
She took the shot, and he raised his brows when the ball cleanly disappeared into the pocket. She was good.
All right, more than good, he had to relent as she proceeded to circle the table and sink ball after ball.
“Where’d you learn to play like that?” he demanded, finally finding his voice.
She met his eyes briefly before sinking the last solid on the table. “My dad.” She smiled again. Those pouty lips just screamed for his mouth to do wicked things to them. “He bought me my own table when I was nine, set it up right next to his. We used to play side by side in the basement every night before I went to bed.”
“Does he still play?”
Her eyes clouded. “No. He’s too busy with work to relax around a pool table anymore.” She straightened her back. “Eight ball, corner pocket.”
At this point, Brody didn’t even care about the game Hayden was certain to win. The sweet scent of her perfume, a subtle fruity aroma, floated in the air and made him mindless with need. Man, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so drawn to a woman.
After sinking the eight ball, she moved toward him, each step she took heightening his desire. She ran her fingers through her dark hair, and a new aroma filled his nostrils. Strawberries. Coconut.
He was suddenly very, very hungry.
“Good game,” she said, shooting him another smile. Impish, this time.
His mouth twisted wryly. “I didn’t even get to play.”
“I’m sorry.” She paused. “Do you like to play?”
Was she referring to pool? Or a different game? Maybe the kind you played in bed. Naked.
“Pool, I mean,” she added quickly.
“Sure, I like pool. Among other things.”
A cute rosy flush spread over her cheeks again. “Me, too. I mean, I like other things.”
His curiosity sparked as he stared at the enigma in front of him. He got the distinct impression that she was flirting with him. Or trying to, at least. Yet, her unmistakable blush and the slight trembling of her hands betrayed the confident air she tried to convey.
Did she do this often? Flirt with strange men in bars? Looking at her again, now that he was able to see through the fog of initial attraction, it didn’t seem like the case. She wasn’t dressed to seduce. Sure, the top was low-cut, but it covered her midriff, and her jeans weren’t skintight like those of most of the other women in this place. And hot as she was, she didn’t seem to be aware of her own appeal.
“That’s good. Other things can be a lot of fun,” he answered lightly.
Their gazes connected. Brody could swear the air crackled and hissed with sexual tension. Or maybe he just imagined it. He couldn’t deny the hum of awareness thudding in his groin like the bass line of a sultry jazz tune, but maybe he was alone in the feeling. It was difficult to get a read on Hayden.
“So… Brody.” His name rolled off her lips in a way that had his body growing stiff. That didn’t say much, considering that every part of him was already hard and prickling with anticipation.
He wanted her in his bed.
Fuck.
Five minutes ago he was telling himself it was time to quit falling into bed with chicks who didn’t give a damn about him. To look for something more meaningful. So why the hell was he anticipating a roll in the hay with a woman he’d just met?
Because she’s different.
The observation came out of nowhere, bringing with it a baffling swirl of emotion. Yes, she’d somehow managed to elicit primal, greedy lust in him. Yes, her body was designed to drive a man wild. But something about her seriously intrigued him. Those damn cute freckles, the shy smiles, the look in her eyes that clearly said, “I want to go to bed with you but I’m apprehensive about it.” It was the combination of sensuality and bashfulness, excitement and wariness, that attracted him to her.
He opened his mouth to say something, anything, but promptly closed it when Hayden reached out to touch his arm.
Looking up at him with those bottomless green eyes, she said, “Look, I know this is going to sound…forward. And don’t think I do this often—I’ve never done this actually, but…” She took a breath. “Would you like to come back to my hotel?”
Ah, her hotel. An out-of-towner. That explained why she hadn’t recognized him. Yet, he got the feeling that even if she did know what he did for a living, she wouldn’t care.
He liked that.
“Well?” She fixed him with an expectant stare.
He couldn’t stop the teasing note to his voice. “And what will we do in your hotel room?”
A hint of a smile. “We could have a nightcap.”
“A nightcap,” he repeated.
“Or we could talk. Watch television. Order room service.”
“Maybe raid the minibar?”
“Definitely.”
Their eyes met and locked, the heat of desire and promise of sex filling the space between them.
Finally, he shoved his pool cue in the rack and strode back to her. Screw it. He’d told himself no more sleazy bar pickups, but damn it, this didn’t feel sleazy. It felt right.
Barely able to disguise the urgency in his tone, he curled his fingers over the hot, silky skin of her arm and said, “Let’s go.”
