I sent a silent prayer of thanks to the academic advisor who’d unknowingly placed Dakota and me in the same creative writing class our freshman year at Connecticut Central. Without her in my life, I didn’t know where I would be. We were the sister the other had never had.
“I love you, Dakota.” I tried and failed to keep my emotions in check.
“Love you, too, Bristol. Everything’s gonna be fine. I know it.”
“Yeah.” I swallowed against the lump forming in my throat. “And remember, not a word to Braxton.”
“I promise,” Dakota vowed through the phone.
“All right. Time to go see if my career can be salvaged.”
“You’ve got this,” came her words of unending encouragement.
“Talk to you soon.”
“Bye, babe.” Dakota hung up, and I forced myself to my feet.
Taking a peek at my reflection in the wall-length mirror above the row of sinks, I winced at how pink and blotchy my face had become from crying. I grabbed a paper towel and dampened it with cool water before dabbing it under my eyes, hoping to soothe the puffiness there. Once I was satisfied I could pass off any remaining redness under the guise of seasonal allergies, I straightened my clothes and unlocked the door.
The second I stepped across the threshold, I plowed directly into the broad chest of one Maddox Sterling.
Chapter 8
Maddox
I knew the firstday of the preseason would be difficult, making the transition from player to coach. But it had gone completely off the rails.
This morning, I’d woken up in the bed of a beautiful redheaded goddess, and I never wanted to leave. She had blown my mind in the best possible way, and I wasn’t sure I would ever find an instant connection like the one we’d shared with anyone else. If I hadn’t in the past thirty-five years to this point, the odds were low.
The urge to pin my number to her fridge on my way out had been overwhelming. To leave some way of contacting me. For whatever—I wasn’t sure what.
But something held me back. Probably the fact that even though I’d been inside her, I didn’t know her name, and that’s how she preferred it. I figured even if I left my number, she might toss it without saving it.
So, I decided to leave it up to chance. We’d run into each other once at Pipes; who was to say it wouldn’t happen again? Wasn’t there some saying about letting something go, and if it came back, it was meant to be?
Never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined that the universe would force us back together only a few hours later.
When I first saw her in the press room, I thought my mind was playing tricks on me. The image of her had been at the forefront of my mind since the moment we said goodbye—her wild red hair betraying how hard I’d fucked her all night long, lips swollen and puffy from our endless kisses, the pale blue of her eyes filled with sadness that I was leaving.
But when she spoke—with that same voice I still regretted not hearing screaming my name as she came around my cock—I knew she was real.
Unfortunately, that was also when the spell she’d cast on me at the bar was broken. She asked a question poking at my deepest insecurity in taking over the head coaching role, and I laid into her—indirectly, but everyone in that room knew it was meant for her.
My blood had been boiling ever since. I’d let those doe eyes fool me, taking me for a ride. In reality, she was just another one of the vipers, ready to strike when they sensed weakness.
When I snuck up to my office, it was to cool down. Staring out over the ice surface I’d once ruled, I let the sight calm me. I was still in charge, albeit in a different capacity. I couldn’t make the magic happen anymore, but I could orchestrate it. That would have to be enough. There wasn’t another option.
At a knock at the door, I expected it to be Jared telling me I was needed downstairs or one of my assistant coaches checking on me. What I never expected was for the woman who had sent me reeling in more ways than one to step inside my office. In my frame of mind, I didn’t care much about what she had to say for herself. She’d fucked me to get ahead, maybe hoping for a little buzz piece on how you could take the player out of the game but you couldn’t take the game out of the player.
When in all reality, I was the one who’d been played.
Even still, I couldn’t tear my eyes away from her stunning form. She looked different in the light of day and in a professional setting but was no less beautiful than when she was sweaty, tipsy, carefree, and singing off-key at the bar.
That unique copper hair—the color women paid stylists hundreds of dollars to achieve but never came close—was as vibrant as ever, twisted away from her face on the sides and pulled back into a low bun at the nape of her neck. Those perfectly plush lips were painted the same pink as her nipples hiding beneath the fabric of her white blouse, which was tied at the neck with a little bow.
A sense of primal satisfaction flowed through me, knowing that she was covering where I’d marked her neck.
Her heart-shaped ass was trapped inside a form-fitting black pencil skirt, showcasing her slight curves. Sheer black tights covered the bare skin between her knees and ankles, where her feet disappeared into black pumps. I wondered if they were pantyhose or thigh-highs, my hands itching to skim up her legs to find out.
