Chapter Twelve
Per Coach Peppers’s theory that early-morning activities equaled team cohesion, Caleb was in a suit getting half choked by a tie, walking across the tarmac to the team jet at six in the morning. As a solid member of team Sleep In, his eyes were barely open as he climbed the steps. Because he’d hardly slept at all thanks to a continual fantasy reel involving Zara Ambrose in all of her naked glory, he was a walking zombie. He sat down in the first empty window seat and yawned big enough that his jaw popped.
“Good morning, sunshine,” Phillips said, plopping down next to him. “Out late with your date? Will there be another video soon?”
At the mere mention of the word “video,” Christensen’s and Petrov’s heads popped up above the seats in the row in front of them like meerkats on one of those nature shows his mom liked to watch.
“Is she ready to dump your ass yet?” Christensen asked. “Because I would totally tap that. Forget a defenseman—she needs a forward with some skill and finesse.”
“Nah, a center is more her speed,” Petrov said. “I have the flexibility to go wherever she needs.”
The two knuckleheads jabbered between themselves, each stating his case as that all-too-familiar unease had Caleb’s every nerve flinching. There wasn’t a spotlight and he wasn’t standing in front of a class full of people—hell, he knew damn well they were just busting his chops—but still, the urge to play along to sink into the familiarity of the group was there. He could stay silent like he had in the Uber. Zara might never find out, but he would know, and he wasn’t going down that road again. He let out a breath and took the metaphorical puck down the ice.
“You two are idiots,” he said, giving them the glare they deserved. “Stop talking like a pair of privileged assholes—better yet, stop thinking like a pair of privileged assholes.”
If they were offended, they didn’t show it. Instead, they both stared at him, shit-eating, we-got-you grins on their faces.
“I think he likes her,” Petrov said.
“Definitely.” Christensen nodded. “Our little boy is falling in love.”
Caleb flipped off the other men. “Is that what that was, just a way to rile me up?”
“Pretty much,” Petrov said. “Thanks for falling for it.”
Then he sat down, Christensen following suit.
Keeping his mouth shut, Caleb took a deep breath in through his nose, filling his lungs until they were just about to burst and letting it out slow and steady. The jangle of his nerves was more of a hum than a loud clanging, and the tightness in his lower back that always weaved its way up his spine didn’t appear. Mild annoyance instead of gut-churning anxiety that made the back of his throat burn with bile.
“Don’t let them get to you,” Phillips said as he took his earbuds out of the case that looked like a floss container. “They’re just giving you a hard time because neither of them can keep a girl for longer than two dates.”
“It’s not that—it’s that I should have been able to do that months ago in that stupid Uber, shut the rookies down.” Which was the truth of it.
“No argument there.” Phillips shook his head and pushed the button on the armrest to lower the back of his seat. “So was it a pocket-size redhead who helped you understand the stupidity of your ways?”
“Pretty much.” Zara told it like it was, and that was one of the things he really liked about her.
“Sometimes we need someone else to get us to see things from another perspective, and then shit makes sense.”
“Speaking from personal experience?”
“We’re not talking about me,” Phillips said, his tone easy but the pulsing vein in his temple giving away the fact that they were talking about him. “But take it from a fellow moron: text your girl before takeoff and hit her up again when we land. Communication is everything.”
“She’s not my girl.” But the phrase sounded good in his head. “It’s just an arrangement.”
“You forget I’ve been at the fork in the road that either went to the good place or the bad place. Don’t follow my footsteps. Text your girl.” Then Phillips put his earbuds in, hit play on his phone, and closed his eyes.
Okay, taking advice from the guy who had such a messy personal life probably wasn’t the best idea, but the man made sense. Caleb swiped his phone on and hit the text icon. He thumb-typed each word slowly, being careful to make sure each one was the one he wanted.
And being a giant cheese-ass about it.
He hit the back button until all the words were gone.
Hello, it’s Itinerary Man here to text boring things.
Delete. Delete. Delete forever.
And now I’m a motivational bot.
He held his thumb down on the text and clicked select all and delete.
It shouldn’t be this hard—with other women, it wasn’t. He wasn’t a player like Christensen or everybody-just-naturally-likes-me chill like Petrov, but he wasn’t a clueless dork, either. Why couldn’t he figure out what to say to Zara? Finally, after staring at the empty message box for a solid three minutes, he scrolled to the gif section. He picked one of a Great Dane who looked a little like Anchovy pulling a blanket down from on top of a crate as he walked inside of it and lay down, totally covered by the blanket. He hit send.
They were speeding down the runway when his phone pinged with a message from Zara. It was a picture of her and Anchovy sharing a pillow with the Ice Knights ball between them. There weren’t any words, but he didn’t need them. Just seeing her put that goofy-ass smile on his face.
…
For being so small, packing up her miniatures scenes for the Friends of the Library cocktail party was a giant pain in Zara’s ass. Each had to be double-checked for flaws, surrounded by protective Bubble Wrap, and then placed inside boxes that were padded so nothing would move during delivery tomorrow. And she had to do all that while Anchovy kept trying to hand her his Ice Knights tennis ball—no doubt because he could feel the stress stringing her tight and figured a game of catch would loosen her right up.
Good thing being a woman often meant being a stellar multitasker, because she was able to toss the ball, box up the last of the scenes, and dance horribly without even a hint of coordination as Beyoncé sang. She’d just poured a glass of wine, raised a glass in celebration of the end of her period, and switched from Queen Bey to an episode of Law & Order (she really needed to find a new show, but there were so many episodes) when her phone buzzed with a FaceTime request from Caleb.
She tapped accept without thinking twice about her hair or her lack of makeup or that she was in her ratty sleep T-shirt again. “How’s Detroit?”
“The food’s good,” he said as he moved around what looked like an upscale hotel room. “Petrov is originally from here, and he took us to this takeaway place called Chef Greg’s Soul-N-the Wall, where he actually broke this crazy-strict nutritional regimen he’s been on to get a Boogaloo Wonderland hoagie sandwich that was loaded with beef, sauce, cheese, and caramelized onions. The damn thing smelled so good, I had to get one, too. It did not disappoint.”
She curled her legs underneath her and propped the phone up on the edge of the couch. “And now you’re tucked back up in your room?”
“Yeah, the coach is a stickler for curfew and he sets an early one. What are you doing?”
“You know me.” She flipped the camera so he could see the screen of her TV. “It’s Law and Order time.”
“You’ve got a serious problem,” he said, settling back onto a bed, draping his arm overhead so it rested against his upholstered headboard.
The move gave her a very good view of his biceps, and the ornery glint in his dark eyes was all the proof she needed to confirm that he knew it. Hell. That wasn’t fair. Like she hadn’t spent enough time thinking about him since he’d walked out of her apartment the other night.
“What can I say?” she said, fighting not to fan herself right here and now. “I like what I like.”
“What else do you like?”
Long walks on the beach, chatting with friends over tea, coming all over his face…the usual. Thank God her brain engaged to save her from herself before she could say that out loud. “Baby Ruths and red wine, as you found out the other night.”
“And that T-shirt.”
“What’s wrong with this shirt?” She looked down, tugging her shirt lower and holding it out a bit to make sure it didn’t have chip crumbs or anything on it. “It’s comfy.”
“Don’t worry, I like it, too—especially how well loved it is.”
She glanced down again, trying to figure out what he meant, and that’s when she saw it. The dark shadows of her nipples were clearly visible under the threadbare cotton because of course they were. Things couldn’t be simple and uncomplicated when it came to her. She had to have an auto headlight function when it came to Caleb Stuckey.
“When did you realize?”
He didn’t even bother to look guilty. “That first night we watched TV together on FaceTime.”
“And you didn’t tell me?” She wasn’t sure whether to be embarrassed, annoyed, or turned on. In truth, she was a little of all three—okay, a little of two and a lot of the last one. “Is that why you had to change clothes while I was watching?”
“Oh, you noticed that?” he asked as he stood up. The view on her phone was jostled a bit while he set his phone down on something and then stepped back and peeled off his shirt before dropping it to the floor. “And have you thought about it since?”
Warm desire flowed through her as her nipples, the ones she’d bet good money he was staring at right now, stiffened against her sleep shirt, the soft material not providing nearly enough of the rough friction she wanted right now. Caleb’s phone was angled so she only got a view of him from the waist up, but there was no mistaking what he was doing. His hands dropped lower, out of the frame, and he pushed down his pants or jeans or shorts or whatever the hell he’d been wearing on his lower half.
Hot in here? Yes, yes it was. “What are you doing?”
“Getting ready for bed.” He flipped off the overhead light, leaving only the bedside lamp.
The change in lighting did nothing to hide the lines of his body or the dark hint of the best kinds of trouble in his eyes. She should end the call. Say good night. Stop this while she still had the self-control to do it.
Who are you kidding?
“Why, does it bother you?” He picked up the phone and brought it close to his face so her view was now from the shoulder up. “Is that better?”
Oh, she was way past that. Her body was primed and aching for him. “You’re tormenting me on purpose.”
“I’d never do that.” He walked back to his bed, sitting down so he was resting against the propped-up pillows. “I’m just trying to even the score, since I’ve seen you without a stitch on. It seemed the gentlemanly thing to do.”
As if to prove his point, he kept the phone angled so all she got was him from the muscular shoulders up, which let her take in the dark scruff covering his jaw. She didn’t even have to think hard to recall the feel of it against her inner thighs.
Her core clenched, and it took everything she had not to slide her fingers underneath the elastic waistband of her panties right then. “Are you naked, Caleb?”
“I’m not telling,” he said, his voice rough and ready. “This is all the view you get tonight.”
“I know you’re just trying to get me worked up.” Which she’d passed five minutes ago and was now at the door of press-me-against-any-horizontal-surface-and-fuck-me. “It’s not working.”
His gaze dropped from her face to her chest and back up again. “Really?”
“It’s cold in here.” She twisted the side of her sleep shirt around one finger, the move tightening the material across her breasts. If he wanted to play let’s tease, she could do that.
His jaw tightened, and he moved his hand holding the phone, allowing her to watch as his hand slid over his pecs and down lower out of view. “So the flush in your cheeks is from the chill?”
Breath quickening, she ached for him. “Absolutely.”
“Zara, you’re damn good at just about everything I’ve seen you try, but you’re a very bad liar. When I get back, we’re going to have to have a long talk about that.”
He moved the phone again, giving her just enough of an eyeful of his chest and abs to make her sigh out loud. Damn, he was good at this—and the cocky bastard knew it. Time to give him some of his own back.
“Good luck in the game tomorrow.” She traced a finger across the scooped neckline of her sleep shirt, accidentally pushing it down lower, showing off her breasts from the top swells to almost her nipples. “I’ve gotta go and take care of something before bed.”
“Gonna tell me your plans?” he asked, his hot gaze roaming her as good as a touch.
“You’re not the only tease, Caleb.” She dipped her finger lower, under the soft cotton of her shirt, letting her finger graze the stiff tip of her nipple as he watched—not to give him a show but because watching his reaction to the move was a huge turn-on. “Good night.”
He let out a harsh groan. “Night, Zara.”
She ended the call wired, on edge, and desperate for relief. Ever so grateful that she’d already taken Anchovy for his last walk of the evening and that the big dog was asleep on his cushiony bed instead of hers for once, she headed straight for her bed. She had her fingers between her legs when the first buzz sounded on her phone. Ignoring it, she circled her clit, slow and soft, making that tight high-wire feeling last as long as she could.
The second buzz, however, pulled her straight out and she grabbed her phone, more than a little annoyed. That changed as soon as she opened her text messages. The first was a pic of Caleb from the abs down, the thick outline of his hard dick against his boxer briefs breathtakingly visible. The second photo was a side view without any underwear. While his junk was hidden by the way his hips were shifted away from the camera, she had the perfect view of his high, muscular ass in profile.
Her brain stopped functioning, but her fingers didn’t. Forget drawing it out. She rubbed faster, circling her clit and dipping down between her folds to slip a finger in her slick entrance before going back up to her clit, repeating the process while she looked at the photos until her orgasm hit. She was still trying to catch her breath when she took a picture of her own and hit send before she could second-guess it.
…
Caleb was already in the shower, his hand around his cock, when his phone dinged. He reached out past the shower curtain and grabbed it without losing a stroke. It was a photo of Zara’s slightly spread legs from just above the knees down—nothing he wouldn’t see at the beach except for one thing. Her black panties were around one ankle.
The water beating against his back could have been ice chips at that moment and he wouldn’t have cared, even if he’d noticed. His girl was tormenting him in the best way possible. He set his phone down outside the shower before he dropped it and planted his hand against the tile wall.
Hand gripping tighter, moving faster, he closed his eyes and pictured sliding those panties off her. He’d toss them to the side, yank her down to the edge of the bed, and feast on that perfect pussy of hers. Her hands in his hair, her hips raising off the bed to help put his mouth exactly where she wanted it. Hearing her soft pants and the low, husky pleas to lick here and suck there. Then he’d reach down to squeeze his dick as she came all over his tongue.
The fantasy played in his head, so real he could almost taste her on his lips as he jacked his cock rough and fast until he came in a rush of sensation that left him breathless with his forehead pressed against the shower wall.
Zara Ambrose was taking over his brain, his fantasies, his plans. Hell, he’d already added taking her to Chef Greg’s Soul-N-the Wall someday to his list of must-dos in the next off-season. If he kept going like this, he would end up like Phillips, in a messy situation with a woman who couldn’t be his.
He only had her for two more dates. That’s when rule number one would kick in—no relationships.
He was starting to fucking hate rule number one.