Page 27 of One Good Puck (Denver Bashers #5)

Gavin

T here’s a knock at my office door.

“Come in,” I say while staring at my laptop screen. I’m studying plays from our last game.

When I look up and see Gregory Macer, the team owner, standing in my open doorway, I stand up and try not to look as shocked as I feel.

Greg is hardly ever at the arena. He’s a pretty hands-off sports team owner, preferring to leave the everyday stuff to Alan, me, and the rest of the team staff.

He shows up for big media and charity events, and that’s about it.

He’s in his early sixties and spends most of his time jetting around the world, checking on his companies and investments.

I’ve had a couple of one-on-one meetings with him before, but he’s always emailed me to set up a time first.

Nerves fire off inside of me. A surprise visit from the team owner can’t be good.

I try and think of what could be up, but nothing comes to mind.

The team has been performing well. It’s the middle of October, so still early in the season, but our record is strong, and all of our players have been putting out solid performances on the ice .

“Greg. Hi.” I gesture for him to come in.

“Sorry to drop by unannounced,” he says, straightening his tie.

“It’s alright. Have a seat.” He sits down, and so do I. “What can I do for you?”

A small frown rests between his eyebrows. “I wanted to talk to you about my daughter Madeline.”

“Okay…” I try and fail to hide my confusion. I’ve met his daughter twice, ever. Why does he want to talk to me about her? I barely know her.

“She’s been having a hard time adjusting since her…performance during the last Winter Olympics. I’m sure you remember what happened.” He clears his throat.

“Right,” I say. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

He lets out a heavy sigh. “Look, I know the times you and I have talked, it’s been about the team. But I was hoping right now I could talk to you, father to father. You have a daughter around her age. I’ve heard you two have a good relationship.”

I nod, still unsure of where he’s going with this. I don’t know a lot of personal information about Greg. I know that he’s a billionaire businessman who’s been married four times and that Madeline is his youngest child. That’s it.

“Yeah, I feel lucky to be close with my daughter and be able to work with her,” I tell him.

“Madeline’s had too many injuries to ever compete in figure skating again.” A sad look flashes in Greg’s eyes. But then he blinks, and that serious expression is back. “I was hoping you could help me carve out a role for her here on the team.”

“What kind of work do you have in mind for her?”

“Something that would get her out on the ice,” he says .

I nod as I process everything he’s saying. I think back to when I saw her at friends and family skate, that defeated look on her face.

“She was known for her power skating, right?” I ask.

His brow lifts slightly, like he’s impressed that I knew that. “Yeah. She was.”

“Maybe she can work with our players on their skating,” I say. “Quite a few hockey teams hire figure skaters to help their players with their edge work, balance, and speed. I’ve been meaning to talk to Alan about doing that for our guys, but haven’t had the time yet.”

Greg’s expression turns thoughtful as he nods. “I like that idea.”

“I, uh, haven’t met with Terry in accounting yet this quarter though, so I don’t know how adding another full-time position would factor into the team’s payroll budget,” I say.

Greg waves a hand. “Don’t worry about that. I’ll take care of her salary, no problem.”

His phone buzzes in his suit jacket pocket. He frowns at the screen. “I have to get going,” he says when he looks back at me. “Can we talk more about this later? Maybe sometime in the next couple of months?”

“Yeah, of course. Call me or send me an email, and I’d be happy to get things rolling.”

He stands up, shakes my hand, and thanks me again.

“And hey, you’re doing a great job with the team,” Greg says. “I’ve been impressed with their performance so far this season.”

“Thank you.”

I walk him out of my office and close the door behind me, then get back to work. I finish out the day and head home. I walk into the kitchen and throw some leftovers from the fridge into the microwave, then skim through some emails on my phone while I wait for my food to warm up.

“How do I look?” Abby asks.

When I look up from my phone, my eyes almost pop out of my head.

Because there’s Abby, standing a dozen feet in front of me, looking sexy as fuck.

She’s wearing this tight black dress that hits right at her knees and with a low neckline that shows off her breasts.

My mouth waters.

I force myself to tear my gaze away from her perfect tits back up to her face. She’s smiling, but she looks nervous. I’m not sure why. She looks fucking incredible.

“You look…” My brain is in a frenzy trying to find the right words.

What I really want to say is that she looks insanely fucking hot, but that seems pretty inappropriate to say to the woman who’s my housemate. Especially after we’ve reinforced the boundaries of our friendship.

“You look beautiful,” I finally say.

Her smile is bright. She lets out a breath like she’s relieved. “Thank you.” She walks over to where I’m standing next to the kitchen island, sets her purse on the counter, and grabs a bottle of water from the fridge.

“You had me scared for a second with that long pause you took,” she teases after taking a sip. “I thought you were going to say I look bad.”

I scoff. “Abby, you’re beautiful, no matter what you wear. You couldn’t look bad if you tried.”

Her eyes widen the slightest bit, like she’s shocked at what I’ve said. Does she not know how she looks? Does no one in her life compliment her? She’s stunning. I’ve seen the way people look at her. They can’t take their eyes off of her. Maybe she just doesn’t notice.

Her full cheeks flush a pretty pink shade. She flashes a shy smile that’s so cute.

“Thank you,” she says. “I haven’t had a reason to get dressed up in a while, so I’m a little nervous to wear something like this.”

She gestures at her black dress.

I hold her gaze. “You have no reason to be nervous. You’re stunning.”

The corners of her mouth curve up into a gorgeous smile. “You’re sweet.”

I tear my gaze from her and start going through the stack of mail on the counter in front of me, so I don’t keep staring at her.

“Where’s Emma tonight?” I ask.

“Sleepover at her friend’s house.”

“Oh, that’s right. So you’re going out for a girls’ night or something?” I ask.

“No, I have a date.”

A tinge of jealousy flashes through me. I have no reason to be jealous. Abby is my friend. She can date whoever she wants.

But if she weren’t currently living with you, you’d ask her out.

I ignore that thought and look at her, hoping my expression is natural and not as worked up as I feel.

She fidgets with the hem of her dress, a hesitant look on her face.

“It’s that guy you told me to message on that dating app,” she says .

“Oh. Cool.” I try to smile, but I can already feel the strain in my face, so I turn around and pretend to check on food in the microwave and resist the urge to punch myself in the face.

I convinced Abby to go out with another guy. Just great.

“I hope it’s not weird that I’m talking to you about this,” she says.

I turn back around and take in the way she’s nervously fidgeting.

I shake my head, feeling guilty for making her feel so nervous. “It’s not weird, Abby. We’re friends. Friends talk about what’s going on in their lives. Like dates.”

I’m proud of how easygoing I sound. Because I really do want to be friends with her. I really do want her to feel comfortable talking to me about anything. I just need to get my jealousy under control.

“It’s not weird that I’m talking to you about going on a date with another guy?”

“It’s really not.”

A relieved smile pulls at her mouth. She leans her hip on the counter and looks at the chicken breast and broccoli on my plate.

“So, um, have you dated much since you’ve been a single dad?” she asks.

“No, not much.”

“That’s surprising. You’re a catch.”

I smile at her compliment. “I’ve dated over the years, but nothing stuck. I work an intense job with a crazy schedule. And I can be a bit of a workaholic during the hockey season. Not a lot of women want to be in a relationship with a guy who they can only see once a week.”

“When’s the last time you went on a date?” she asks .

I squint at my plate of food, trying to remember. “Five years ago? Maybe six?”

Her eyes widen the slightest bit. “Wow, really?”

“Told you. Workaholic hockey coach over here.”

She chuckles. “This is my first date in, like, three years. I’ve just been so focused on raising Emma on my own that I never really thought about dating.”

I want to ask what made her change her mind about this dating app guy, but I hold back. I don’t want to hear her gush over some other guy, as petty as that is.

“You were prioritizing your daughter, Abby. That’s a good thing.”

Her eyes are warm as she looks at me. “Thanks for saying that.”

“But good for you for getting back out there.” I try to smile. “So who’s the lucky guy?”

“Jared. We’ve been texting on and off this past week, and he asked me out for a drink.”

“Where is he taking you?”

“Wilson & Graham,” she says. “I guess he’s really into speakeasies.”

“Are you?”

She shrugs. “Not really. I don’t drink hard alcohol, but I looked at their menu online and I think they serve wine too, so I’ll just have a glass of that.”

I nod, despite the irritation I feel. Did this guy even ask what she liked to drink? Did he ask what kind of places she likes to go to?

I swallow back those questions and tell myself not to be a buzzkill.

“I’ve heard that place is good,” I say, trying my best not to sound annoyed on her behalf .

She glances at the clock on the microwave. “I’d better get going.”

When she turns to set her water glass next to the sink, I notice that the back of her dress isn’t zipped all the way.

“Oh, hey, your dress is open in the back,” I say.

She shakes her head and laughs. “I always forget what a pain this dress is to zip up.”

She reaches behind herself but struggles for a few seconds. She sighs and drops her hands to her sides, and turns to me. “Could you zip me up?”

My brow lifts. “Oh. Um, sure.”

I close the space between us and step behind her. When I breathe in, I get a lung full of her perfume. It’s sweet and floral and a little citrus-y.

I almost choke. Fuck, she smells incredible.

I clear my throat and focus on the shiny gold zipper. I grab it between my fingers and tug up, but it doesn’t budge.

“Try holding the top of the dress while you zip it up,” Abby says.

I do what she says and grab the top of her open dress. When my fingers graze over her bare back, I have to swallow back another choking sound.

Her skin is so fucking soft. Like silk.

A second later, my caveman brain takes over.

I imagine tugging the zipper of her dress down. I imagine running my mouth along her delicate back, dragging my tongue along her impossibly soft skin…

I imagine running my hands through her thick blonde hair and kissing her deep and hard, until she’s panting. Until she forgets all about her date.

And then I imagine pulling up the skirt of her dress, bending her over the kitchen counter, and having my way with her …

My cock twitches. Fuck.

A second later, my other brain catches up. What the hell am I doing, imagining something so dirty?

Guilt throttles me. I shouldn’t be thinking about Abby in this way. She’s my friend. She’s my housemate.

Even though my brain is back on track, my dick isn’t. It’s still half-hard at the X-rated fantasy I just thought up.

I make myself take a slow, deep, quiet breath.

Think about hockey sticks. And hockey pucks. Think about the gross smell of the locker room after a hard practice, and it’s riddled with sweaty gear. Think about that disgusting egg salad Jason brought into the office the other day.

Think about literally anything except the fact that Abby smells incredible and her skin feels so fucking soft and I want to rip this dress off of her, haul her over my shoulder, and take her to my bed.

I clear my throat, willing my eager dick to stop twitching. A second later, it does. Thank fuck.

I refocus on the zipper and pull it up. Then step away from her.

“There. It’s zipped,” I say, my voice low and rough.

She spins around and gives me that pretty smile I can’t get enough of.

She looks at me for a second. “You okay? You look a little tense.”

I cough and shake my head. “Yeah, I’m good, just thinking about a meeting I had today.” Terrible fucking lie. But it’s better than saying, “I’m tense from fighting back a boner from smelling your perfume and touching your skin.”

“Thanks again,” she says with a smile.

“Sure thing. Have fun tonight.”

She grabs her purse from the kitchen island and walks off. I listen to her high heels click down the hallway. Then I hear her open and shut the front door.

The second she’s gone, I let out a frustrated groan. I run a hand through my hair and shake my head, annoyed at myself for just how far I’ve let my crush on Abby go.

And wishing more than anything that I could be the guy to take her out on that date tonight.