Hot Puck, A Rough Riders Hockey Novel

Eden tapped the screen of her phone to check the time and found it five minutes later than the last time she’d checked.

Beckett’s game had ended almost an hour ago. She was pretty sure at this point, the closest she was going to get to Beckett Croft tonight was the recaps on the television over the bar. She’d begun to think maybe that was a good thing, judging by the sportscaster’s praise of Beckett’s work on the ice tonight. In this case, “work” translated into dozens of brutal hits and three fistfights.

Evidently, not only was it okay to fight in hockey, it was encouraged, reminding Eden that even the idea of a hookup probably wasn’t a smart move. In fact, she’d started to wonder if it might even border on pathological.

Though, halfway into her second lemon drop, Eden wasn’t sure she cared. Right now all she really wanted was a roll with a hot guy. She wanted the wet heat of a man’s mouth on hers. Ached for the heaviness of a man’s body pushing her into a mattress. Craved the burn and stretch of a man’s hard cock inside her.

What she’d really been dreaming of when she’d come here tonight was the idea of reclaiming a little of that spontaneous, sexually liberated woman she used to be years ago.

God, she hoped she still had some. She hoped it wasn’t something that shriveled and died when neglected. Because if that was the case, hers was dust in the attic.

A wave of young, handsome men in suits and ties and smart-looking overcoats or parkas streamed into the bar, and Eden’s pulse jumped. A few had women at their sides, but most were alone. And they didn’t look like businessmen or guys who’d bailed on a wedding reception to find some fun. They were unshaven, their hair was damp, and they had that just-worked-out glow. But it was the Rough Rider jerseys worn by the women at a few of the men’s sides and the way the staff and some of the customers greeted them that told Eden for sure that these men were members of the team.

But that didn’t matter to her, because the door closed behind the men, and Beckett wasn’t among them.

Disappointment tugged at her gut. From her tiny table in the shadowed corner, she scanned the men, searching for one who might make a halfway decent replacement for Beckett. But despite several fine specimens standing at the bar, none interested her.

Beckett had inspired her to dress up, do her hair, even put on a little makeup and come out alone in the hopes of seeing him postgame. No one at the bar even gave her enough incentive to get her butt out of the chair to start a conversation.

And wasn’t that just perfect? A battered woman only interested in hooking up with the baddest of the bad boy hockey players? If that didn’t scream psychiatric problem, she didn’t know what did. Which made her wonder where a girl went to get a mojo tune-up.

Evidently, the universe had its head screwed on way straighter than Eden did. Maybe tonight was meant to be more about lessons than action. After all, the realization that she could get past the nerves for the right man was a good first step—even if Beckett hadn’t been the right man.

“Not meant to be,” she reassured herself and glanced around for the cocktail waitress to ask for her check. “Excuse—” But the woman passed in a blur, and Eden dropped her hand, exhaling, “me.”

She fished through her purse and—painfully—parted with thirty dollars. After laying it on the table, she reached for the drink and took one more sip.

When she tilted the glass back, her gaze fell on another man entering the bar, sliding out of an overcoat. Underneath, he too wore a suit, black and well cut for his large muscular build. His dark hair fell in a wave over his forehead, the sides layering out in an effortless sort of roguish carelessness.

Beckett.

Eden’s stomach lifted and flipped. Her throat closed in the middle of her swallow, and she had to consciously focus on getting the drink down without choking.

Lord, he was even better looking than she remembered.

He slid a phone into the pocket of his blazer and greeted other customers as he sauntered toward the bar. With an easy smile, he accepted handshakes and slaps on the back and stopped to talk with everyone who wanted a minute. He signed a few autographs and took a few photos, all with an I’ve-got-all-the-time-in-the-world attitude.

He exuded confidence and ease, happiness and positivity. His face was scruffy, and the way he wore that suit… Damn, he was ridiculously sexy. He stirred all sorts of heat inside Eden she hadn’t felt in forever.

Hello, mojo.

Once he’d satisfied fans, Beckett melted into the busy scene at the bar. With one foot pressed to the brass rod near the floor, his forearms leaning on the glossy surface, Beckett relaxed into a conversation with the man Eden had met as she and Gabe transported Beckett to the ambulance. Donovan, if she remembered right.

Beckett laughed, and his bright smile created crinkles at the corners of his eyes. Eden’s stomach squeezed so hard, her throat ached. And, holy shit, the first flash of real fear came out of the shadows and seared her gut.

It was way easier to think and talk big when what she wanted was a fantasy. Now that he was here in the rock-hard flesh, she suddenly realized he was too much. Too sexy. Too confident. Too charismatic.

Her mind darted to John, just as sexy, just as confident, just as charismatic. It made a sick sort of sense that she would be attracted to the same kind of man. And look how badly that had turned out. Eden should really start off with someone more like a milquetoast and build her confidence from there.

But her gaze slid down the length of Beckett’s big body again. His suit covered a crisp white dress shirt pulling across muscled abs, decorated by a deep red tie, pulled loose at his neck. His slacks hugged muscled thighs. She’d spent her life surrounded by men in suits, but she’d seen only a handful who could really wear one well. And she could honestly say she’d never seen anyone look as good in a suit as Beckett Croft.

Why all the players were wearing suits was a mystery. But none of them looked like bankers or accountants or IT guys. There was something very different about these men. Something about their posture, their attitude, their vibe. A confident, careless, undeniably attractive swagger Eden had never experienced before.

Tori was right. Eden did need to start living. If she kept hiding, she was only continuing to let John control her—two years later and three thousand miles away. If she didn’t at least try for Beckett tonight, everything she’d done to drag herself up from the darkness was wasted.

Eden took a breath and pressed her hands against the table to stand. Before she got to her feet, two pretty women several years younger than Eden approached Beckett. She released her breath and sat again. Disappointment and regret landed heavily in her gut as she prepared to watch him pick up a woman—or two—and get cozy. The weak, scaredy-cat part of her hoped he took them up on their offer. It would give her a legitimate out.

After a moment of conversation, Beckett turned, called two of his teammates over, and introduced them to the women. Then he extricated himself from the conversation and made his way to another area of the bar, where a few guys watched ESPN. As he wandered, he scanned the bar, glancing over the tables.

When his head turned toward Eden’s dark corner, she held her breath. How mortifying would it be to have him find her sitting alone, waiting for him, only to have him brush her off because she’d waited too long?

The answer was: extremely.

But the bartender drew his gaze before he found her little table, and Beckett reached across his friends to take a clear drink from the other man.

The wave of relief that swept in made Eden realize she couldn’t take this roller coaster. She had to do something.

She tapped into her phone’s messages. Her nerves were strung so tight, her hands shook. But she wanted to test the waters before she approached him, because the truth was that no matter how badly she might want him, no matter how strong she could pretend to be, she was feeling pretty damn fragile.

She quickly sent a message to the number he’d left on the florist’s card.

Hi, it’s Eden. Thank you for the flowers. They are exquisite and the gesture was thoughtful. It’s been a hectic few days for me, but I wanted to tell you that I appreciated them.

With his gaze bouncing between his friends, the television, the door, and the tables, Beckett pulled his phone from his pocket with a lazy, distracted air. He was lifting his drink to his mouth when he looked at his screen.

His hand froze. His eyes scanned the message. And a smile broke over his face.

The sight uncorked a giddy kind of joy inside Eden. One she hadn’t felt in forever. One she also knew was as dangerous to her well-being as it was essential.

He set his drink down, wandered away from his friends, and, still smiling, returned the text.

Eden bit her lip and tried to breathe through the nervous tingles in her stomach as she waited for his message. When her phone dinged, she looked down.

Hey. Good to hear from you. I’m glad you liked them. Thanks for putting up with my shitty mood the night we met. I’m really sorry I was such an ass. I’m leaving town tomorrow for away games. Can I take you to dinner tonight?

She tilted her head with a confused smile and responded. Little late for dinner, isn’t it? Saw the game tonight. I don’t know anything about hockey, but the sportscasters have been praising your hitting ability. Not sure if that relates to the guys you ran into the wall or the ones you got into fistfights with.

She was curious to see how he responded to the topic.

Beckett wandered toward the jukebox, turned his back, and leaned against it, tapping out his response. It is late, but I figured your schedule probably wasn’t the standard 8-5. As for my work on the ice, I do a lot more checking and pushing than fighting, but with some teams like the one we played tonight, fights are inevitable. How about drinks? Or dessert? Or even coffee? I’ll bring it to you if you don’t want to go out.

Checking? What the heck was checking?

Eden bit the inside of her cheek. Did she want to chance spending time with a guy who thought hitting and pushing—or this thing he called checking—didn’t fall into the realm of fighting? A guy who talked about it with a careless all-in-a-day’s-work attitude, then asked her out for drinks in the next breath?

John pushed into her mind, and a nagging ache pulled deep inside her. Eden slid a hand over the discomfort with a soft “Goddammit.” She needed to let the past go. She thought she had. But when she darted a glance toward Beckett and found him almost meditatively staring at his phone, waiting for her response, a little voice in her head kept asking, Why? Why me?

She looked for the two young women who’d come in earlier and found them cozied up to Beckett’s teammates. They were pretty and fit, and Eden couldn’t help but wonder why he’d hooked them up with teammates instead of keeping them for himself. Eden truly didn’t know whether to be flattered that a man as confident and good-looking as Beckett had shown an interest in her, or concerned that his interest stemmed from some victim vibe she emitted.

Eden? Did I lose you?

His text pulled her out of her own head. God, she was a bigger mess than she’d realized. Coming out to meet Beckett had prodded insecurities she thought she’d overcome. And, man, this really pissed her off. She was sick of living like a goddamned psycho woman, locked in her tiny apartment when she wasn’t at school or work.

Still here. She typed, then murmured, “Breathe, Eden.” And added How about if we share dessert? What do you like?

When she chanced another glance at him, she saw his smile was back.

It would probably be inappropriate to say you, so anything with chocolate and whipped cream would be my second choice.

Tingles erupted all over her body. Good tingles. Tingles that made all the icky feelings disappear.

“Oh God,” she whispered, her heart beating hard and fast against her ribs. She pushed herself with “Type, Eden.”

Then I’m ordering the Sticky Chocolate Pudding Cake. Make your way over to me in the corner when you’re ready to indulge.

She took a breath, whispered, “I can do this,” and hit Send.

His smile slowly faded as he read. And it seemed like forever before his head came up. As the waitress passed, Eden caught her attention and placed the order. Beckett looked straight ahead, his brows drawn in a little furrow before his gaze jumped to all the corners of the bar, landing on hers last. Surprise lit his eyes, and his lips moved with something she couldn’t hear but what looked like “Holy shit.”

She rested her chin in her hand and grinned while her belly did somersaults and triple flips.

He pushed off the jukebox and started toward her, dodging other people in the bar with an expression of excitement and determination. Eden stood to meet him, but when he stopped short a few feet away, and scanned her from the top of her head all the way to her toes, a fresh surge of self-consciousness prickled along her limbs.

This was an outfit she wouldn’t have thought twice about wearing a few years ago. An outfit she’d worn to parties and events she’d attended with John in Los Angeles. She loved the sweater dress for its soft texture, beautifully stylized pleats, gently flared short skirt, and the way it showed all her curves without clinging like Lycra. Her black suede boots had three-inch heels, rose above her knees, and were adorned with rhinestones.

She used to feel pretty and sparkly and comfortable in this outfit. But now, she wasn’t sure it worked—in this city, in this bar, for this guy, or even for the woman she’d become. And the way Beckett was looking at her—like he’d been hit with a puck between the eyes—she was pretty sure her original feeling of going overboard was accurate.

Before Beckett spoke, a young man approached with two drinks. “Bro, you left your drink at the bar.” He pushed one into Beckett’s hand. “That tonic water’s expensive, and the lime? That shit’s like gold.” Then he turned his smile on Eden and offered his newly freed hand. “I’m Tate Donovan. We met briefly when you were wheeling Beck to the ambulance and he was acting like an ass—”

“She doesn’t need any reminders,” Beckett cut in, his gaze sharp on his teammate.

“Beckett’s right,” she said, teasing him with a grin before refocusing on Tate. “I do remember. Good to see you.”

“You too. And, wow, you look amazing. Way too hot for this guy.” He gestured toward Beckett. “Would you like to join—”

“Donovan,” was all Beckett had to say.

“All right, then. Well, if this guy turns back into an ass, you know where to find the good guys.”

As he walked away, Beckett glanced over his shoulder and groaned. Eden pulled her attention off his delicious body and the way he filled out that suit to follow Beckett’s gaze. She found all the other guys watching from the bar, their expressions filled with joviality and an edge of mischief.

“I didn’t think this out very well when I suggested we meet here,” Beckett said, returning an embarrassed look to her. “The guys are great, but sometimes they’re like—”

“Bratty little brothers who put bugs in your shoes, then make fun of you when you freak out over them?”

He laughed, and the man’s smile made her stomach float. “Sounds like you’ve experienced this.”

“From several bratty coworkers who are about as well-behaved as your teammates when we’re out together socially.”

Beckett set his drink down on her table. “Then you probably wouldn’t be surprised to know how mercilessly they’ve been razzing me about screwing up with you that night you took me to the ER.”

Eden’s nerves ratcheted higher. They were going to eat her alive if she didn’t act. A little voice inside her head started a chant, and it got louder and louder. Live, Eden. So she did what she’d learned to do two years ago when fear threatened to immobilize her—she forced herself to push through.

“Well, let’s solve that problem right now.” She took two steps toward him. Until his heat circled her. Until his scent—something clean and spicy—filled her head.

Live, Eden.

She slipped one hand under his blazer and around his waist. He was warm and hard, and desire flooded in.

Live, Eden.

She met his surprised eyes, skimmed her other hand against his rough cheek, and combed her fingers into his hair.

Live, Eden.

And pulled his head down for their first kiss. Her first kiss in two long years.