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CHAPTER NINE

Dozer

I don’t see Marissa for several days. I think about texting her, especially when I’m alone in my apartment at the end of the day. I’m most tempted when I’ve been away for a game and come home to my dark, empty condo.

Is she a night owl? Would she still be up? Would she be willing to talk to me over text? What about come over and have a beer?

Normally I wouldn’t think a woman like her would drink beer. But given how handy she is with tools and fixing a car … Solid chance she’s a beer drinker on top of drinking fruity cocktails when the opportunity presents itself.

And let’s be real, fruity cocktails are delicious. I don’t understand those dudes who think they’re too manly to drink a cocktail, calling them “girly drinks.” At home, I mostly drink beer because it’s easy to pick up at the store. But if I’m somewhere serving cocktails? You better believe I’m gonna get one.

Which, thinking about that, makes me wonder what Marissa would think if we went out somewhere and I ordered a cocktail. Would she think less of me?

Jenny did. And so did a few other women I’ve dated, parroting those same ideas that men should drink beer and whisky or tequila shots. Not the fun ones, either.

Why aren’t men allowed to enjoy delicious cocktails? I work hard. If I’m paying for it, I’m going to get what I want, and fuck anyone else’s ideas about how that makes me look.

“Yet another reason that I should just stay away from women for now,” I mutter to myself, grabbing a sparkling water and a snack from my fridge. I have a game tomorrow, so no alcohol for me tonight.

It didn’t used to make a difference, but since I hit thirty, I feel the alcohol more the next day. Even if I’m not hungover, my reaction time is slower, and I make dumb mistakes.

With our eyes on the Stanley Cup, we can’t afford mistakes. Not even in the preseason. And especially not preventable ones.

And there’s another reason I should just leave Marissa alone. Even if she didn’t care if I drank cocktails, she’s still a distraction I can’t afford. My focus needs to be on hockey.

Women never caused you to make mistakes on the ice before … whispers a little voice at the back of my mind. It’s the same voice that tells me how hot she is when I see her. And when I’m in the shower.

It’s the voice of my little head, the one who only cares about getting laid.

“Shut up,” I say to my dick. “I’m not taking relationship advice from you anymore.”

Because that’s what’s gotten me into trouble before. Following my dick to beautiful women who pretend to like me.

Marissa doesn’t pretend to like me, though , whispers that same voice again.

And … yeah. It’s hard to argue with that. She busts my balls and doesn’t seem all that impressed by the fact that I play hockey.

Which is weird for me. Girls have been impressed by me playing hockey ever since I was old enough to care what girls thought about me. So to have a woman find out and act like it’s as commonplace as being a teacher or a banker is new and different.

I kinda like it.

And that’s why I’m so tempted to reach out to her. I think if she were just perfect and pretty—which she definitely is—I could easily keep my distance. But she feels safe in a way I’ve only experienced with Tina, my teammate Nick’s wife. Though Anna, the chick our former teammate Troy Easton got together with over the summer, gave off similar vibes.

If —and that’s a big if—I decide to get into a relationship again, that’s the kind of woman I need. Someone who’s not overly wowed by my career. Who has their head on straight and isn’t swayed by the false promises of fame, even fame by association.

Maybe Troy had the right idea—wait until retirement to settle down.

I’ve still got years left in me, assuming I don’t wind up with some kind of catastrophic injury—knock on wood. But eventually age will catch up to me. Right now I’m still having fun with hockey. I know the older guys start groaning and moaning more—and I’ve found myself joining them a time or two since preseason started, which has been a shock. I always heard the guys over thirty complaining and groaning, especially before morning skate, and thought they were ridiculous. Milking their age. Acting like turning thirty’s the end of the world.

But now …

Those aches and pains are more tenacious, less easily resolved with some stretches and warmups. The pain’s deeper and longer lasting. The fatigue less easily overcome.

I’m nowhere near ready to hang up my skates, but I’m starting to get it now.

It’s another few days before I bump into Marissa in the hall, on my way to morning skate. She’s dressed to kill in a fitted skirt suit, a black leather tote settled on her shoulder, her hair up and out of her face in some kind of classy hairstyle that I have no idea what it’s called. And, as expected, her makeup is flawless.

Unlike our previous hallway interactions, she smiles when she sees me. “Hey there, stranger.”

I lay a hand over my chest. “ I’m the stranger? I thought you were going to text me to help you hang pictures.”

Her gaze darts away, and she shifts her feet while tucking an invisible strand of hair behind her ear. “Oh, uh … right. That.”

“Oh, Marissa. You didn’t.”

She brings her wide eyes back to mine. “Didn’t what?”

“You did, didn’t you? You hung pictures without me. How am I supposed to pay you back now?”

She flips her hand back and forth in a dismissive wave. “Oh, please. It’s not like you were actually going to do it. You’re a busy guy, aren’t you? I’m sure you have better things to do than come hang pictures in my new place.”

Letting out a groan, I lean against the wall like I’m wounded. “Ouch. I can’t believe you. We had a deal!”

The slightly guilty look on her face dissolves into a tiny smile at my antics. Victory . “I’m not sure why you’re all put out. You’re getting the better end of the deal, after all.”

Wagging a finger at her, I straighten up. “Nu-uh. That’s not how it works. I owe you, and I intend to pay up. You won’t let me buy you dinner. You won’t let me hang pictures for you.” I tap my finger on my chin, thinking.

Glancing down at the delicate silver watch on her wrist, she straightens. “Well, I’ll leave you to figuring that out. But I have a client appointment in Lynnwood, so I have to get going.”

“Can I walk you to your car at least?”

She looks me up and down, taking in my casual gear. “You don’t have somewhere you need to be?”

I shrug. “I’ll be fine.”

Her eyes narrow, but she shrugs as though she doesn’t care either way, which I take as agreement and fall in step beside her.

“You seem like the kind of woman who just gets what she wants when she wants it.”

She glances up at me, her brows pulled together. “What do you mean by that?”

“Just that you don’t seem like the type to wait around hoping someone else will buy things for you. Am I wrong?”

“No,” she answers after a beat, her tone grudging.

“Great. So if I ask you if there’s anything you need for your new place, you’ll tell me you’ve got it, or not to worry, or that you can get your own things. Right?”

She presses her lips together, but I can tell she’s fighting a smile.

“Right,” I continue. “So that means I need to come up with something you wouldn’t think to do or get for yourself but that you’ll enjoy.”

She’s silent as we walk along the row of cars, heading for hers.

“Ooookay,” I draw out. “No help from the peanut gallery.” That gets a chuckle at least. And just in time, too, because she’s slowing in front of her car, reaching for the handle of the back door. “In that case, you’ll just have to hope I’ve got you figured out enough to get you something good.”

“Wait, what?” She straightens from setting her tote in the back seat. “What are you gonna do?”

I point a finger at her, giving her a crooked smile. “Guess you’ll just have to wait and find out.”