The NHL’s most charming player is ready to score a hat trick on and off the ice...
As the star forward for the Boston Blades, I’ve earned a reputation for no-strings attached hookups and a mean slapshot that has all the ladies purring -- but it’s never been the one woman I want to see all fired up and ready to score.
Boston’s own Ice Queen Gwen James has had my emotions all tangled up for years. I’ve played the games. I’ve sat on the sidelines.
No matter her reasons, I’m done being benched.
When she approaches me for a second chance, I accept on one condition: she’s got to prove she’s all in.
No kissing. No sex.
It just might kill me to keep my hands to myself, but it’s time Gwen knows what it’s like to beg.
At the end of the day, I play to win, and I want what no other man has ever had…her heart.
CHAPTER ONE
Gwen
Like mother, like daughter.
Is it wrong that I’m desperately hoping that the old adage doesn’t have a lick of truth to it?
My mother, Adaline James-Fuller-Benn-Corwin, thrusts one hand out from beneath her scarlet red sheets. “He’s gone.” Her palm claps down on the fluffy pillow, and I still haven’t had a peek of her face.
Might be for the best. From the streaks of black mascara painted across the pillow, I can’t imagine this morning has been the easiest.
Unfortunately, we’ve been through this before. Four times and counting. And, considering my mother’s track record for picking husbands who exit stage right in favor of one of her friends . . . well, we’ll probably be here again soon enough.
I settle a hand on her shoulder. At least, I think it’s her shoulder. She’s got so many duvets and pillows and sheets on the bed, it’s tough to tell. I give an experimental squeeze. “Mom, Ty Corwin was an asshole and he never deserved you.”
“But I love him.”
Is love even real?
To many, I’m a coldhearted bitch.
I prefer to think of myself as a realist who sometimes likes to paint myself in happy delusions when the going gets tough. But to my mom . . . . I sigh and pull back, glancing over at the clock seated on the gold-leaf fireplace mantle.
After a lifetime of playing Adaline’s mini-me, I’ve slowly come to realize that women aren’t the enemy. Sure, my mother has a shitty friend-making track record. You’d think that after visiting the same country club where you meet both your friends and your husbands, it’d be time to fish in some other pond. Not for Adaline. I tend to think it’s the comfort zone factor. Ritzy, upper-class Bostonian gentry mingling with other ritzy, upper-class Bostonian gentry.
Is it any wonder that her relationships implode on the regular?
At this point, Adaline’s monthly sojourns with her friends is like Morse code for orgies. Okay, not quite orgies. But, still, we’re looking at Jerry Springer-level stuff—the events aren’t even classy enough for Maury.
According to my mother’s peers, there’s nothing wrong with trading out husbands like a bad hand in poker.
Personally, I think it’s safe to say that my mother’s opinions can’t be trusted.
At the knock on the door, my chin lifts and I meet the gaze of Manny, my mother’s longtime butler. “Your car is waiting downstairs, Miss James.”
Miss James—formalities aside, Manuel O’Carlo is the only father figure I’ve ever known. If it’d been up to Adaline, no doubt I would be dead from pure neglect. “I’ve got—”
Another hoarse cry rips through the room. “I can’t believe the snake bastard! Goddamn snake bastard, sleeping around on me. Can you fucking believe it?”
Oh God, here it comes.
Manny and I trade side-eye glances, neither of us particularly wanting to inch closer and ward off the impending storm. He makes a little sippy-cup motion with his fingers, squinting his eyes.
I shake my head—I don’t want tea right now—and step forward.
He retreats, miming taking bigger and bigger gulps, just before he whirls around and escapes down the hall for afternoon tea he’ll never deliver. No doubt he’ll park himself right by the front door and wait there until I’m ready to leave.
Damn you, Manuel.
As much as I want to escape right along with him, I know that I can’t leave Adaline like this. Even though I’m Zoe’s maid of honor, and even though the engagement party has started … my gaze flits to the clock again.
Now.
The engagement party has started now.
Crap, crap, crap.
Time for my special poison of tough love.
My fingers slip over the blanket and I give one powerful yank, revealing my mother’s tiny body huddled in a ball of despair. “Mom.” Her sniffles increase in volume as she buries her face in the pillow. “Mom, talk to me.”
“He’s a rat-snake bastard, Gwenny. Fuck him.”
If only she’d sung that tune when Rat-Snake Bastard Ty Corwin proposed—despite the fact that he’d been dating Adaline while still wearing a wedding ring from his then-wife.
“You’re right,” I say, swallowing the fight, “he’s a dick, Mom, and you shouldn’t be spending even a second thinking about him.”
“A rat-snake, tree-loving bastard, Gwenny.” She heaves a sob, and the sound squeezes my heart. “He’s a vegan. How can a vegan cheat on me?”
“Because he’s a rat-snake tree-loving bastard, Mom, and that’s their specialty.” And because infidelity is all encompassing—vegans included. I don’t say that. No point in riling her up even more. “Okay, time to get up. You need to shower.”
“I don’t want to shower.”
God help me.
My eyes squeeze shut and I count to ten. One . . . two . . . three . . .
“Gwenny, why are you wearing a dress?”
Because I’m supposed to be at my best friend’s engagement party, celebrating happy love that I don’t know exists, but instead I’m here being shown, once again, that it doesn’t.
“My friend is having an engagement party.”
“Did you tell her that all men are rat bastards?”
“I haven’t had the chance.”
Her blond hair rustles against the pillows. “Never lasts, Gwenny. It never fucking lasts. Her man will walk out on her as soon as that ring is on her finger, just like my Ty did. But it’s not the men—they’re weak. What about the women, your friends?”
Once upon a time, in a far, far away land—all right, let’s cut the shit. Honestly? My mother has been spewing her gospel for years now. Probably since my dad left her because he couldn’t deal with her antics. And, sure, I spent a good number of years believing everything she told me.
How could I not?
From the age of eight onward, when my mother was on her second marriage, I watched each subsequent husband leave her for women Adaline considered close friends. I watched it all happen, and then I digested my mother’s warnings—women could not be trusted—and I reacted accordingly.
What I never saw then, and what has taken me years to truly accept, is that Adaline Corwin is no better than any of her so-called besties. Tangled webs don’t have shit on the group my mother runs in. Adaline has stolen her friends’ husbands, and they, in return, have taken hers.
It’s bat-shit crazy.
Totally nuts.
And I want no part in it.
“Gwen.” My mother finally lifts herself from the bed, her blond hair hanging in front of her face like that creepy girl from the movie, The Ring. “Gwen, what do we always say about other women?”
On a day that I’m supposed to be celebrating my best friend’s engagement, I’m not playing into my mother’s games—not even when she’s reeling from another inevitable divorce. Ty Corwin is the fourth in line, but I doubt he’ll be the last. Christmas is only weeks away, and I bet with every fiber of my being that she’ll have someone new chasing after her by New Year’s Day.
Nothing ever changes with Adaline Corwin.
But I’ve changed.
“I’ve got to go, Mom. I’m sorry and I love you, and I’ll be back in the morning but I can’t miss this.”
I bend to kiss her forehead, sweeping her knotted blond hair back from her face as I do. She turns her face away, unwilling to even give me a slice of affection. Feeling a little chillier than I did when I showed up two hours ago, I head for the stairs.
Manuel is waiting for me by the front door, as predicted, and from the uncomfortable expression on his face, he’s heard the whole thing go down. Still, the man has a heart of gold, and he only offers me a small smile. “Ready to go, Teacup?”
My childhood nickname.
I fight back the sting of tears and accept the arm of the only man in my life who has ever appreciated me for me, and not for what’s between my legs. “Let’s do this, Manny.”
But as he helps me into the car, and I rearrange my dress around my legs, I can only think one thing: I might have changed, I might not view other women as the devil incarnate any longer, but one thing will never change.
Love is still, unequivocally, horseshit.
CHAPTER TWO
Hunt
I’m fucking late.
I’m never late. Call me Mr. Punctual, if you want, but I’ve made it this far in my life by playing it easy, chill—the guy everyone wants to be around because I don’t make a fuss. Ever.
Then days like today happen, and shit hits the fan.
Between my brother calling me for another “business” loan and my washing machine eating the dress shirt I’d planned to wear . . . not to mention the fact that I ran a red light and got pulled over, and oh yeah, apparently, there was the matter of two unpaid (forgotten) tickets on my record.
It’s safe to say that Mr. Chill has been replaced with Mr. Get The Fuck Out Of My Way.
My dress shoes eat up the concrete pavement, frozen over with ice, as I maneuver my big body through the throngs of people waiting their turn to take a spin around the makeshift ice rink in the Boston Commons. The fact that I’m not stopped a single time for an autograph or a selfie goes to show that I’m not acting myself today.
My reputation as the NHL’s most charming forward is about to be blown to smithereens in favor of returning to my roots: just plain, old Marshall Hunt, Pissed-Off Bostonian.
“Excuse me,” I mutter, planting a hand on some dude’s back and giving him a little push to the side, “coming through.”
The sight of the front door of Cheers Restaurant might as well be the Stanley Cup right now, I’m so thankful to finally have it within reach. My teammate, Andre Beaumont, is having his engagement party on the second floor of the property, which, from what I understand, isn’t associated with Cheers.
Even so, I’m Beaumont’s best man and I’m currently . . . I dig my cell phone out of my slacks to check the time, letting out a low groan when I realize that the festivities began an hour ago.
Fucking fantastic.
A body bumps into mine just as I’m about to cross the street. Instinct has me reaching out, wrapping an arm around a set of slim shoulders to keep the person from tumbling down to the icy pavement.
And then I catch it—the scent of lemon, delicious and tart. There’s only one person I know who ever wears that perfume.
Gwen James.
I glance down at her vibrant red hair and think back to a time when she was blonde. Honey blonde, none of that platinum hue for her. But it’s been years since then—six, to be precise—and the honey blond curls I used to imagine fisting as I settled myself between her legs are long gone.
“Excuse me,” she says, her husky voice both familiar and totally foreign all at once. “Sorry about that.”
She tries to untangle herself from my grasp, but I clamp down, keeping her lithe figure pressed against my side. “So nice to run into you this chilly evening, Gwen. Heading to the festivities?”
Her head jerks up at the sound of my voice, and those beautiful blue eyes of hers go momentarily wide before narrowing. “Marshall.”
I grin at her clipped tone. I opted to go by my surname the minute the Blades drafted me from Northeastern University. Besides my brother, Gwen might be the only person I’m still in contact with who calls me “Marshall.”
Coming off her lush lips, I love it.
Though I’d prefer to hear her moaning it while we’re fucking on my bed, but hey, I’ve been hoping for that outcome since I sat behind her in Accounting 201, my sophomore year at Northeastern. When it comes to me, Gwen James has done a pretty solid job of ignoring all my attempts to take her out on a date.
Which means that having her up against my side right now? Yeah, I totally plan to live in the moment.
I give her hip a little squeeze, enjoying the way her brows pull low like she’s not sure if she likes it or if she wants to knee me in the balls. “You didn’t answer my question, Gwen.”
“I’m not playing your games today.”
God, it’s so much fun to tease her. After the shit day I’ve had so far, it feels like I’ve suddenly won the lottery I never even entered. Ducking my chin against her ear, I murmur, “I’m sorry, did I issue you an invitation to play my games?”
I hear her teeth clack together. “We’re late.”
“What’s another five minutes? I’m sure Zoe and Beaumont will be ecstatic when they see us walk in together.”
“We’re not walking in together.”
“What? Embarrassed to be seen with me?” There’s always time for a first. I’ve gained a bit of a reputation over the last few years for only dating supermodels. I’m not going to deny it—the rumors are true. But what can I say? Supermodels work a chaotic schedule just like I do. There aren’t hurt feelings when I’m on the road for a week, and I definitely don’t get my briefs in a twist when a photoshoot or runway show has them taking the red-eye to Paris.
They live their lives, I live mine.
When, and if, we’re in the same place at the same time, we hook up.
It’s a win-win situation.
There’s only been one woman I’d ever consider changing my ways for, and it’s the one currently trying to escape me.
So much for a romantic stroll through the gentle snowfall.
With a sigh, I lift my arm and she doesn’t waste her opportunity. Her fuck-me heels sink into the ice, puncturing the frozen water the same way she takes on her adversaries. Quickly, without a single regret.
Screw it—I’m not wasting my first opportunity to be alone with her in years. I catch up to her in two strides and we cross the street together. “I know why I’m late,” I murmur, “but what’s your deal?”
Her lashes sweep down, and I’m not sure if she’s trying to watch her step or avoid making eye contact. “I . . .” She blows out a deep breath. “I don’t want to talk about it, Marshall.”
She never has.
In her eyes, I’ve always been the too-charming, too-young jock. And, yeah, she’d be right about that. But unlike what most people think, I do have a brain rattling around in my skull—a surprise, I know. Concussions from playing hockey or not, I’m not a meathead.
Just like how I know she’s always been more than what she shows off to the world: standoffish and ice-cold.
I shove my hands into the pockets of my slacks. “Anything that I can do to help?”
That stops her.
Her stride pauses, just as she’s reaching for the wrought-iron railing to Cheers’s front stoop. “Why would you want to do that?”
Cocking my head to the side, I say, “Definitely doesn’t have anything to do with your prickly attitude, that’s for sure.”
She snorts, and then takes the stairs. “I prefer feisty.”
Unable to help myself, my hand goes to her back. Just to make sure she doesn’t fall. Safety and all that. “Feisty? Is that so? In some circles, they might even go so far as to throw out the word ‘bitchy.’ Not that I’m calling you that, of course.”
Her shoulders twitch under her trench coat. “Of course.”
I grip the door handle and pull it open for her to step through first. Heat blasts my face, reminding me that even as a professional hockey player, five-degrees Fahrenheit feels like my own slice of hell. As warmth returns to my bare fingers, I tell her, “I’d be willing to lend an ear, if you wanted—for a price.”
Blue eyes flick up to my face, and for a moment, I’m convinced that the impenetrable Gwen James is going to break into a smile. But then she just shakes her head, purses her lips against happiness, and quips, “I know your price, Marshall, and I’m not interested in being shackled and chained to your basement walls.”
Fuck, but she’s witty when she wants to be. I chuckle softly, enjoying her subtle teasing, and step to the side as an attendant offers to take Gwen’s jacket. “You’ve heard the stories, huh?”
“Every single one.”
“And?” I prompt as she slips the coat off her shoulders. “Feelin’ a little turned on?”
The coat is whisked away and, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I die. Right then and there, I’m fucking dead. Because Gwen James has always been unbelievably gorgeous to me, even in the jeans and university sweatshirts she once wore to class because she couldn’t be bothered to doll herself up for two hours of hell on earth.
But right now . . . I take her in, all of her, not bothering at all to hide my once-over. It’s a game we’ve played for years, and even if it hadn’t been, I doubt I could hide my appreciation. In theory, her red dress should clash with her red hair. It doesn’t.
The material is silk, like rippling water over her bare skin, and though it’s wintertime in Boston, Gwen’s dress can’t be described as anything other than “slinky.” Thin, hardly-there straps arch over her shoulders, and the front V-neck is deep and enticing. A slit creases the skirt, and I spot a toned thigh slipping through.
Like Gwen, the dress is classy with a sexual edge—and a very clear reminder that I’ve never stopped looking and have never been given the opportunity to touch.
Unfortunately, my cock has never gotten the memo, and even now, in the middle of fucking Cheers, I’m hard as a rock.
Gwen’s fingers to my chin snaps me out of it, and I meet her gaze unapologetically. Her plum-painted lips move, and I register the words just as she steps away toward the stairwell leading up to the second floor.
Feeling turned on, Marshall?
She knows I am. And for the first time since I’ve met Gwen, I decide I’m not willing to play our games anymore.
The woman owes me a date, and I plan to finally collect.