“C’mon, don’t be shy, show me the goods.”
I’m pretty sure the curl of my lips is not the cocky smirk I’m going for but when I drop my jeans, the smile I couldn’t muster two seconds ago blooms bright when the woman in front of me chokes on a sucked-in breath and lowers her camera.
Her gaze is glued to what I’ve revealed. It takes her a minute before she gulps—hard—averts her eyes and stammers, “W-where are the, ah, your, um”—she waves a hand in the direction of my groin as she swallows again—“underwear?”
Keeping her gaze averted, she scans the room and I study her. She isn’t bad looking. Actually, she’s kind of hot and could easily be on this side of the camera but my dick didn’t even twitch when she was looking at it.
One more thing to blame on Kristina, the woman I once thought I might spend my life with. Over the last year she systematically killed any possibility of forever we had right along with my libido.
This morning’s events dealt the final blow to my tolerance of her drama.
And that was before I sat in the doctor’s office and had the professional life I had planned from the age of four completely derailed.
Fuck my life. The whole thing is screwed.
Personal. Professional. Nothing is the way I thought it would be at this point in time.
Whatever relationship I had with Kristina was over months ago, and my career took the final blow today.
The bubble of hope I’ve been living in burst completely during today’s appointment.
I can’t deny it any longer.
As soon as news gets out, I’ll be lucky to keep this sponsorship deal, never mind fucking it up by flashing my dick at the photographer.
I’m reaching down for my pants when I hear, “All right, hot stuff, put that thing away.”
I can’t see the person behind the voice because of the studio lights, but the voice alone gets a reaction below the belt I haven’t felt in over a year.
“You always go commando, hot stuff?”
Clearing my throat, I answer, “No.” I don’t elaborate; there’s no way I’m offering up the reason for my lack of underwear. “This is a shoot for compression shorts, right?”
I’ll be honest. I figured the fact I had no clean briefs and this sponsorship being for Rogue’s latest athletic underwear line, turning up commando wouldn’t matter.
Clearly I should have asked where the merchandise was before dropping my pants.
“Yes, sorry I’m late.” I can hear amusement in the words as well as movement behind the glare of lights but still have no visual of the owner of that sexy rasp. “Although it was totally worth the perv.”
Shit! What the fuck am I doing?
Scrambling to pull up my jeans, I barely get them past my thighs when the hottest woman I’ve ever seen—and believe me when I say I’ve seen plenty of hot women, but this one…Jesus fucking Christ…—comes strolling into view.
In a split second that below the belt quiver goes from a mild tremor to a house-crumbling quake. And that floppy disinterested muscle between my legs turns into a flagpole.
If you Google the phrase ‘sex on legs’, you’ll get a screen filled with the vision walking toward me.
Fuck!
I cup my junk, needing both hands to cover the no longer flaccid appendage—the one that has deserted me in recent months but now shows up in all its glory.
I feel like a teenager with an unfortunate case of hormone overload.
The knowing smirk on the stunning face in front of me doesn’t help me at all. That sexy tilt of her lips makes me want to kiss her until we’re both stupid.
Hell. I’m already there. Stupid as any pre-pubescent boy getting his first look at an in-the-flesh naked woman.
And this woman isn’t naked!
“Tanya, you mind giving us a few minutes?” the wet dream getting closer to me by the second asks.
I hear movement, figure the photographer is leaving us alone, but I can’t take my eyes off the woman bringing my body back to life when only moments ago I thought it was dead.
I need to pull up my pants but I don’t dare take my hands off my dick for fear it’ll stab one of us in the eye.
She gives me no choice but to let go when she stops two feet away and offers her hand. “Hello, Walker Alcott, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
The twinkle in her eyes tells me she knows my predicament and sees the funny side of this encounter, but I can’t be sure and, let’s be real, this could be my last big paying job once the extent of my injury gets out.
Taking her hand, I say, “Pleasure to meet you too, Ms…”
“James. Oakley James.”
Motherfucker. I flashed the goddamn CEO of Rogue!
“Ah, um.” I clear my throat. “The owner of Rogue?”
“Guilty. Although I’m part owner. One quarter of KAW, the parent company of Rogue.” She smiles and the twitching in my dick goes up a notch when images of those lips wrapped around it fill my head.
“Right. Okay.” Letting go of her hand, I yank my jeans up one-handed, struggling to keep my dick covered with the other. “Sorry about that. I, um, had a laundry mishap this morning.”
It’s a lie. It was no mishap. Fucking Kristina took to every last pair of my briefs with scissors. Actually, she took to more than my underwear but that’s beside the point.
Ms. James tips her head slightly to the right, a contemplative look on her face. “Can I ask you a personal question, Walker?”
“Ah, sure.”
“How invested are you in your relationship?”
Relationship? I haven’t been in a relationship for a year, the battle Kristina is waging couldn’t be called one unless you’re talking enemies at war.
And what the fuck? Is this woman reading my mind?
Shaking my head, I say, “I’m sorry?”
“Let’s go over here and sit down.”
Before I can argue or ask her to explain, she spins on her heel and heads back the way she came, disappearing behind the bright glare once again. Snapping out of my stupor, I button up my pants and follow.
By the time I get to where she’s standing beside a small table with two chairs, I can see we are alone. I have no idea where the photographer went or if I’m even going to be doing a photo shoot anymore.
After dropping my jeans and flashing the photographer and Oakley James, the woman is probably preparing to tear up our contract.
“Take a seat,” she offers as she sinks into one of her own.
My ass hits the chair, and I can’t come up with anything to say other than, “Why do you want to know about my relationship? Not that I’m in one. And what does that have to do with me being the face of Rogue’s newest athletic shorts?”
“Nothing. It has to do with this.” She taps a large envelope on the table.
I shake my head again. This woman is confusing me at every turn. “I’m not following.”
“You’re based in New York right now.”
“Yes,” I answer, even though we both know it wasn’t a question.
“Would you move?”
My spine stiffens. She can’t know I’m about to be out of a job. Forced to retire due to injury. Sure the team could keep me on injured reserve for the rest of the season, but why would they when there’s no hope I’ll play competitive hockey again.
I swallow around the lump in my throat and ask, “Why would I move?”
She leans back in her chair and folds her arms over her chest, pushing her mouthwatering breasts higher, and it takes all my strength not to drop my gaze from hers.
My dick is twitching in my pants again too.
I don’t get the reaction I’m having to Oakley James. Shit. Kristina stood naked in front of me numerous times in the last year of our relationship and got no response.
“I’m going to be honest here, Walker, and then we can talk about whether or not you would move.”
I nod. I’m all for honesty from a woman. Especially after the lies I’ve heard pass from Kristina’s lips in recent years.
Hell, maybe everything she ever said was a lie. At this point I wouldn’t be surprised.
“I know it’s highly unlikely you’ll play in the NHL again.”
My lungs fill with air so fast I choke. Covering my mouth with a fist, I cough hard, giving myself a few seconds to digest the words she’s just spoken.
They might be true but no one—including the many doctors I’ve seen over the last few months—has uttered those words out loud.
Until this morning.
And even then, they skirted around the truth, never once coming right out and saying “you’ll never play professionally again.”
“I don’t know what the doctors are saying but from what has been made public and the fact you have not returned to the ice, it’s obvious to me your professional playing career is over.”
Fuck. Her words are like daggers through my chest. How can they have a greater impact coming from her lips when I’d felt nothing but numb when the doctor spoke similar words this morning?
“Here’s where I ask you to sign an NDA.” She slips a sheet of paper from beneath the envelope and hands it to me along with a pen. “You sign that, and we can really talk.”
Glancing down, it takes me a moment to focus on the words. It’s a standard Non-Disclosure Agreement. I have no idea what she could want to talk about that would require one and really, when I think about it, I should get her to sign one because if I tell her I’m out of the league before I tell anyone else, she could leak it to the press.
At this point though, it’s inevitable the press will find out some time today, tomorrow at the latest. As soon as I’m finished here, I have to call Drake, my agent, and give him the news from the doctor so he can get on top of things with my team.
The team that won’t be mine much longer.
“Okay,” I say, and scribble my signature. “Talk.”
“Would you move from New York if you had another career opportunity within the league?”
“Yes. Although I have no idea what I’d do if I can’t play.”
She smiles, a cat that got the canary smile. “Really? I find that hard to believe. Surely you’ve thought about what you’d do after you retire.”
“Sure. But retirement is years away. At least ten.”
“You saw yourself playing until thirty-nine? That’s one hell of a career.”
“It would be.” Except…now it wouldn’t. I can’t stop the sigh that drops my shoulders and slumps me back in my chair.
“Before I tell you what that career could look like now, I want to revisit my original question. How invested are you in your relationship?”
“I’m not. It’s done. Has been for a year.”
“And yet she’s still living in your apartment.”
Fury rolls through me, snapping my spine straight. “She has never lived in my apartment. We maintained separate places throughout our three-year relationship, a relationship I ended a year ago.”
“But she uses your address for all her bills and as her home address.”
My teeth grind just thinking about how many times I reminded Kristina to change that shit back only to find out she took no notice of my demands. One of many things I said she ignored over the years we were together. “I never said she could and—”
“It sounds as though you’ve never been as deeply invested as your practice-wife.”
“Practice-wife?”
“More honesty. I’ve had her investigated because when I offer you the opportunity I think you’re the perfect fit for, I don’t want her interfering with you saying yes. Or coming with you.” She shakes her head. “No. I definitely don’t want her coming with you. Everything my PI found reinforces my own conclusions. She’s after the title of hockey wife and she’s been attempting to steamroll you into being the hockey part of that title.”
“Wow.” I don’t know what to address first. This mysterious offer or the fact she’s had Kristina investigated. “A PI?”
“I take business seriously and what I’m planning will involve enough drama without your practice-wife tagging along for the ride.”
“And what exactly do you have planned and how do I fit in?”
“First, how do you plan to ditch Kristina Bancroft?”
“At this point I haven’t a clue. I took away her access to my apartment, hell, she’s banned from the building, and I returned all her personal effects months ago, and yet she’s still managing to fuck with my life. Hence my commando self.”
Oakley’s fingers drum on the envelope. “I’m sure there’s a story there…”
“Honestly, it’s not worth going into. Although I will be using a different laundry service from now on.”
“I see. Well, when you say yes to my offer, you’ll need to do that anyway.” Flattening her palm on the envelope, she pushes it toward me. “This is going to get her out of your life. Use it however you see fit. It’s my gift to you for hearing me out.”
“I haven’t heard anything yet.”
“You will.” She tips her head at the table. “Go on, open it.”
This is one of the strangest conversations I’ve ever had but I can’t deny I’m curious.
Reaching for the envelope, I flip it over, lift the flap, and peek inside. What I see makes me more intrigued.
“Photos?”
“Hmm.” After that little hum that has my dick twitching again, she remains tight-lipped.
Shrugging, I reach in and pull the thick stack of pictures out. There are at least twenty of them, eight by ten in size.
The first one is hard to work out. Until I turn the pile to the right twice. Then…holy shit! “Is that…?” I squint at the image.
“If you’re going to ask me if that’s a profile shot of Jerry Cantrell, the very much married owner of the hockey team you’re currently contracted to, then yes, it is.” Oakley grins. “Take a look at the rest.”
The next shot is a wider view of Jerry sitting on a bed. A bed with a headboard I have personally leaned against, not in over a year thankfully, but still. The man who is effectively my married boss is sitting on Kristina’s bed.
Naked!
My gaze darts up to Oakley’s. “How’d you get these?”
“Doesn’t matter. All copies are in your hands and on the memory card in the envelope.”
“And you’re giving them to me? How are pictures of Jerry—”
“Keep going.”
I flick to the next one and bile rises in my throat. “What the fuck is he putting in her ass?”
“It’s called a butt plug.”
“I know what a butt plug looks like, and this isn’t it.”
“I believe it’s part of the whole ‘pony play’ thing they both seem to be into.”
“Pony play?”
“Yes, it’s a fetish, obviously. One partner wears a bridle and a plug that looks like a horse’s tail so they—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” I drop the pictures on the table and put up both my hands. “I don’t need to know that shit.” Fuck. I’ll need brain bleach or a full bottle of tequila to wipe that shit out of my head.
Laughing, Oakley reaches over and grabs the photos. “The only one you really need is this one.” She shuffles through and finds the one she wants.
When she holds it out, I really don’t want to look but again, curiosity gets me. Looking down, I see she’s singled out a shot of Kristina riding Jerry. She is mid stride, either down or up, it doesn’t matter; it shows all I need to finally get the woman to leave me the fuck alone.
“Okay. Thanks.” I shove the stack of pictures back in the envelope. I can’t stand looking at them any longer. I’ll deal with them later and decide how to use them. “Now, what’s this opportunity?”
“How would you like to coach the Baton Rouge Rogues?”
“Baton Rouge Rogues? What are they? A high school team?”
I’ve never heard of them. I can’t even work out what kind of sports team she’s referring to. All I know is it isn’t in the National Hockey League.
“You know I play ice hockey, right?”