Pucking Revenge : Chapter 18

WHILE I’M interested in the secret fear Beckett is alluding to, the oil in the pan is crackling, signaling that it’s time to put the chicken on the skillet. When I was a teenager, Aunt Zoe insisted I know how to prepare at least three meals. According to her, the knowledge would come in handy when I went to college, where I’d no longer have access to a whole host of staff like I was used to.

What I discovered when she taught me those three basic meals was that I really enjoyed cooking. In college, I cooked for the team once a week. It was a bonding activity.

Though I have no interest in having my teammates over while I hang with Sara tonight, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to start up weekly dinners with the Bolts. I considered it years ago, but Coach talked me out of it. Convinced me to use that time to focus on the game.

At this point, I could give two shits about his opinion. And since I found out about Seb and Sara, things with the guys have felt a little off. This might be the perfect way to make sure we stay in sync as a team, and it wouldn’t require including Coach in the activity. Not to mention cooking has always been soothing for me. Maybe it will help me get focused again.

I hate that my anger at Seb is affecting other parts of my life. I’m grumpy—which is so my oldest brother’s MO, not mine—and I’m snapping far too much. Even War looked surprised at my outburst in the laundry room.

Or maybe he was reacting to the way I was staring at my best friend’s lips like they were my salvation. God, I was practically panting for a taste.

We need rules. A set of parameters to remind me that what we’re doing is for show. That my feelings for Sara have to remain on lockdown. I can’t forget that the way she was looking at me down there—all heart eyes and soft smiles—wasn’t real.

“What are you making?”

Her voice startles me, and the chicken slips from the tongs with a splat. The hot oil pops and hisses, singeing my skin.

“Fuck.” I jump back and shake out my hand.

“Jeez, you know how much those hands are worth?” Sara yells, eating up the space between us. In a heartbeat, she’s standing in front of me and tugging on my burned hand so she can inspect it. While she examines my almost microscopic injuries, I study her. Her vibrant blue eyes, her tiny nose, the wisps of blond hair that have escaped her messy updo.

When she brings my hand up and presses a kiss to my wrist, I suddenly understand why little boys always ask pretty girls to kiss it better. That simple gesture instantly takes away the sting. Probably because I can focus on nothing but the sensation of her soft lips on my skin and the electricity that arcs through me at the contact.

“I’m going to get the Neosporin. Step back from the stove. You’re too important to the team to risk those hands on me.”

As she walks away, her burnt-orange sweater falling off her shoulder and her perfect ass on display in a pair of black tights, I can’t help but imagine my hands on every inch of her.

My stomach sinks. Dammit.

Outside my brothers, War is my best friend. We went to college together and roomed together while we played in the NCAA. After two years, we were both called up to the NHL. We’ve been playing hockey together for over twelve years. Other than Aiden, there isn’t a soul in the world who understands quite how much this game means to me.

If I could tell him the truth, he’d be devastated over my uncle’s betrayal, just like I was. He respects him as much as I used to. Looks up to him. While he probably deserves to know what’s going on, not only with Coach, but with me, Sara deserves her privacy more. She’s putting her ass on the line for me, and she’s mortified, because even though Seb lied to her, she was still the other woman.

And if the guys found out, they’d look at her differently. And then she’d probably start looking for another job. If she did that, I’d lose her. And I can’t lose her.

I don’t know how the fuck to respond to War, so I don’t. He doesn’t text again, thank fuck. He knows me well enough not to push it.

“C’mere.”

Sara’s soft voice startles me again. It’s becoming a habit, getting lost in thoughts of her.

She’s standing before me, Neosporin in hand. Still in my head, I let her take the lead.

“Lennox is coming to the game tomorrow. I kind of want to sit with her. Think Gavin would mind?”

I clear my throat and pull back so I can check on the chicken. It’s crisping up nicely, and this time I concentrate on my movements when I turn it over to keep the oil from splashing.

“Not a problem. We have family seats too, if you’d rather sit there.”

She ducks her head and blushes. “Yeah, I don’t think that would be appropriate.”

“Why? You’re my girlfriend.”

Her eyes go wide then, so I rush on, hoping to smooth things over.

“At least to everyone else.”

“Yeah, but your mom sits there. I don’t—” She shakes her head and looks away from me. “I’d rather sit near the team. That way I can still do my job. I just thought I could have Lennox there too.”

“Whatever you prefer. Are you, uh…” My face goes hot, but I push through and ask the question. “Are you going to wear my jersey again?” This time I’m the one who looks away. I take the opportunity to slice into the cucumber I plan to add to the salad.

“If that’s okay with you. I could wear Aiden’s number if you’d prefer.”

Instinctively, I clutch the knife handle and squeeze. It slips when I press down a little too violently on the cucumber.

Sara lets out a light laugh beside me. “Jeez, you’re too easy to rile up.” She pokes me in the side, then holds out a hand, silently urging me to give her the knife. When I do, she bumps me out of the way with a hip and takes over. “Who knew Saint Brooks had a jealous streak? If I wore Aiden’s number, at least it would still be your last name on my back.”

I blow out a breath and fold my arms across my chest, watching the smooth way she slices the cucumber into chunks. “The only number you’ll wear is mine, understood?”

She peers over at me, batting her lashes dramatically. “Perfectly. Now, instead of worrying about which number will be emblazoned above my ass, how about you focus on those noodles? They’re boiling over.”

In the next instant, the telltale hiss of water dripping down the sides of the pot and onto the burner fills the kitchen. With a grunt, I spin and simultaneously turn down the heat and lift the lid off the pot.

I’m back to impersonating grumpy Beckett, but Sara is still laughing at my jealousy.

She’s right to laugh. I’ve never been a jealous man. Especially when it comes to my brothers. But Sara is the exception. For everything. And she’s the one person I won’t share.

“We’re playing in North Carolina next month. You going to visit your family while we’re there?”

Across from me, fork midair, Sara pauses for a heartbeat, then shoves the food into her mouth. After she takes her time chewing, she picks up her glass of red wine. I’ve got a game tomorrow, so I opted for water, but I poured myself a small glass of wine too so she wouldn’t feel awkward.

“Yeah, I’ll stop by and see them during the day.”

“Want me to get tickets for them? I could probably get your brother down on the ice before the game too.”

Sara drops her attention to her plate and shakes her head. “No. They’re not big hockey fans. No need to waste the seats on them.”

“They’re your family, Sar. You could spend more time with them if they came to the game, but if you don’t think they’d enjoy it, that’s fine. Will I get to meet them?”

She looks at me when she shakes her head this time, wearing a tight smile. Clearly, she doesn’t want me to meet them.

I try not to let that truth claw at me. Yes, this relationship is fake, but we’ve been friends for over a year. Why is she so against me meeting her family?

“I just—I don’t want to have to lie to them about us. But I don’t want to tell them the truth either.” She brings her glass to her lips again, but she can’t hide the way her eyes dull as her fake smile slips. “My mom would be so disappointed if she found out about the affair.”

I cup her hand on top of the table and squeeze. “You did nothing wrong.”

“Intentional or not, I slept with another woman’s husband.”

It takes everything in me not to flinch when those words escape her. If I give away the disgust that hits me every time I think about her sleeping with my uncle, it will only make her feel worse. So I take in a deep breath, school my features, and rub my thumb over the back of her hand, focusing on how warm and soft her skin is rather than the images of these hands anywhere near my uncle.

She tips her glass and downs the rest of her wine in one go, then she pulls my glass toward her. “You’re cute pouring yourself a glass so I wouldn’t feel awkward.”

With a laugh, I lean back and watch her. The wine has left her cheeks rosy. God, she looks so damn pretty sitting across from me. “True, you’ve done far more embarrassing things than drink wine by yourself.”

She rolls her eyes and tilts her head. “Ha ha. You are so funny, Brookie baby.”

I grunt at the annoyance stabbing me in the gut. “I thought we settled the nickname thing.”

She licks her lips. Her tongue is stained red from the wine, making her that much more alluring. “Oh, you want me to call you secret lover?”

My dick hardens on the spot. I try to drag my focus away from her mouth, but the sexy smile she aims at me makes it difficult.

“Should I scream that tonight while I come? Make sure your uncle knows it’s you who’s taking me to the edge.”

“Fuck, Sar.” I’m at full mast instantly, and the pain in my chest is so acute I worry I’ll need her to call the team doctor.

She stands and steps toward me, never taking her blazing blue eyes off me. “Or should I yell your name? Or maybe number thirteen?”

I clutch the edge of the table to keep from reaching out for her as she saunters past me. With a hum, she stops behind me, then her lips are grazing the shell of my ear. “Is that what the bunnies yell when you make them come?”

“Sara,” I grit out, my knuckles going white. If I let go now, I’ll reach behind me, pull her over my lap, and spank her ass for turning me on like this when she knows damn well I can’t do anything about it.

“Oh, right,” she whispers, her lips ghosting my neck, sending goose bumps rippling across every inch of my skin. “You don’t fuck during the season.”

The way she says it, enunciating the ck, makes my balls tighten. I want her so goddamn bad I might lose it.

“Brookie it is, I guess.”

Sara’s warmth disappears from my shoulder, and she shifts behind me, as if she’s going back to her spot. Without giving myself time to second-guess the move, I grab her wrist and tug her close. I slap her hand to my chest, making sure her palm is flat against my beating heart. The move is so fast her body collides with my chair and her head snaps back. When she steadies herself, her cheeks are flushed and her eyes are bright.

“You’ll call me Saint when you come, because I’m a goddamn saint for not spreading you across this table right now and eating you until you forget all those goddamn nicknames you love teasing me with.”

Sara gapes for a moment, her lips parted and her chest heaving, but she’s finally speechless. Then she blinks once, twice, three times, and lets out a light laugh. “Saint it is.”