Home Ice (3 page)

And then the lift. Oh God, the lift. Bradley swung her up above his head, and her heart pounded harder than it ever did when she was trying to perfect that triple axel. She stayed taut, focused on her posture and the applause of the crowd, and then he eased her down, prolonging contact. Gross. Even that didn’t matter. All that mattered was delivering the show of her life as a metaphorical middle finger to Francesca and the rest of her tormentors.

By intermission, she couldn’t feel her feet. That wouldn’t last forever. As soon as the skates came off, she’d have to deal with bloody blisters, but years of combining ballet into her training had taught her how to contend with that. She leaned against a wall out of the way and was finishing a bottle of water when Francesca passed by and flashed a predatory smile.

“How’re the skates working out?”

Lori grinned. “Great. Thank you so much. You’re a lifesaver. I’ve never felt better out there.”

Francesca’s face went blank, and she stared for a few seconds before walking away.

Hah! I win.
Of course, winning was subjective in this case. Lori had drained the snark from her nemesis, but she’d be feeling the effects for a week. The second half of the show seemed to drag on even at the breakneck pace. Bradley took a few more liberties, but they both knew she couldn’t full-out slap him on the ice. And at this point, she knew how it would go. The first few times, she’d complained to management, but Bradley had pled innocent, saying she’d never really skated pairs before and didn’t understand he
had
to put his hands where he did. Oh, she understood. Management didn’t. They’d tried to placate her, saying things would change. They didn’t. But for Lori, Olympic training was the bottom line. She needed this job to keep her trainer and free use of the ice.

The finale boomed with glitter cannons and sprays of fire, on par with a New Year’s celebration, as she landed her last jump. The cast formed a line. She took her place in the middle and gritted her teeth as she held hands with Bradley and Francesca. They bowed while the arena cheered and clapped. It was a relief to wave to the crowd as she skated off.

The relief lasted ten seconds before two figures stepped out of the tunnel shadows and nearly gave her a heart attack.

• • •

“Lorelai, hey. You were … that was a really good show.” Only now, seeing the shock on her face, did Dylan question the wisdom of surprising her. But the shock melted away after a minute, replaced by a genuine smile. God, she was beautiful. The shiny costume with a tail of feathers worked for her, but few things wouldn’t. The makeup was sexy, but he knew from earlier that she was even prettier without it. She glanced to his left, and his manners came back. “Oh, sorry. This is Madden. He was the Sinners’ assistant GM until last year. Started his own financial business. His sister owns the team.”

“Nice to meet you.” She smiled at Mad briefly, but her gaze returned to Dylan and held. For the first time in a year, that warm rush buzzed through him of not only attraction, but something else, too. Nervous excitement that made him feel like he was still in high school. It’d been a long time since he didn’t know what to say to a girl, but damned if he could think of a single word now.

“What do we have here? Dylan Cole? The hockey star came to our show?” A man with an Oompa Loompa tan stepped up next to Lorelai, putting his arm around her waist. She twisted away. While she didn’t throw the man’s arm off, the disgust on her face was evidence enough. He must be the ass. Dipshit held out his hand. “Bradley Harper.”

Dylan considered ignoring the greeting, but why pass by a chance to let Bradley know what he was up against? He took the offered hand and shook firmly, his grip just shy of moving tendons around. Bradley’s neon-white teeth ground together so hard, it was surprising they didn’t crack. His pleasant, cartoon expression didn’t break either, though that was definitely a hint of alarm in his eyes. Good.

“Well, thanks for coming. Maybe I can get to a game sometime.”

Dylan nodded, and Assman turned on his blade and disappeared down the carpet runner toward the dressing rooms.

“So, that was handsy guy. You sure I can’t rearrange his face for you?”

Lorelai laughed and folded her arms across her stomach. “That is really, really tempting. But the show needs to go on, and unfortunately, the show needs Bradley. I’m, um, surprised you came out. With your schedule, you must not have a lot of free time.”

Madden cleared his throat and jerked a thumb down the tunnel. “Hey, I should get going. Just wanted to stop by and let you know it was a great show.”

Deserter. Wingmen weren’t supposed to leave. Dylan glanced at him with raised brows. Madden only winked then lifted a hand in goodbye.

“Oh. Well … I had a free night, and you got me curious with the circus comment this morning. Gotta say, I kinda get it now.” A line of women walked between them toward the dressing rooms, big peacock feathers swaying from their backsides and bobbing from their heads. Once they passed, he stepped over the carpet runner to Lorelai’s side so it wouldn’t happen again.

She laughed, but it sounded hollow. “Just like the rest of Vegas, nothing is what it looks like.”

“Some things are.”

The cynicism drained from her face, replaced by something harder to figure out. A little surprise, a little apology, a little … hope? He didn’t want to break the moment. He wanted to stare into those green eyes for the next hour. But she kept shifting from foot to foot. Subtly, barely rocking, almost as if she were trying to hide it.

“Um. Are you okay?”

She blinked, the trance broken, and followed his gaze down to her feet then smiled shyly. “Oh. That’s debatable, but do you mind if I sit down?”

“Sure. Of course. Sorry. You must be tired. I’m not saying hockey’s easy, but there’s no way I could do what you did for two hours straight.”

“I’m actually used to that kind of performance. Under normal circumstances.”

“Normal—” Before he could ask, she’d already started for an empty bench by the lockers. As she sat and unlaced her skates, other people from the show watched her even though they tried to hide it. Lorelai either didn’t notice or ignored it until she caught him looking back at them. He angled himself to shield her from the stares and lowered his voice. “What’s their problem?”

She sighed and winced as she pulled off the first skate. “Me.” She turned her foot to look at the bottom and bit her lip. It was pink with dark red patches even through the thick tights.

“Are you bleeding?”

“Yeah. It’s actually not as bad as I was expecting.” She pulled off the other skate, and after a quick check, nodded to herself.

Things started coming together, and he crossed his arms. “Did they mess with your skates?” Even though his profession sometimes demanded otherwise, he wasn’t typically a violent person. So why did he have the urge to get in the face of whoever did this and make sure it didn’t happen again?

“You could say that. I don’t want to talk about it here, okay?” Her tone was mostly neutral with the smallest hint of pleading that pulled at his heart.

“Do you like milkshakes?”

She glanced up at him. “Do I … uh, I guess.” Her smile, half confused, half amused, gave him the courage to keep going.

“I know this place, Holsteins in The Cosmopolitan. I go there sometimes after a rough game. Best shakes in Vegas. Can I buy you one?”

A quiet beat passed, and his stomach fell, but then she smiled full out. “Sure. Just let me shower and change. Do they happen to serve alcohol?”

“As a matter of fact.”

• • •

Lori dressed in sweats and blew her hair dry. Thank God she’d escaped the showers without a stunt from
Carrie
or any other prank.
This is so not worth it
. But honestly, there was no other job that would pay as well or let her continue to train. It also kept her name and face on the public radar as a skater. She ran a brush through the wild, blonde waves around her face and swiped on some mascara. She slung her bag over her shoulder, ready to go, but paused. Was this a date? It felt like one, but it’d been so long, it was hard to tell. Either way, the image of Dylan waiting for her, clean-shaven and an adorable tower of muscle, was motive enough for a coat of cherry lip gloss.

He was still on the bench where she’d left him, staring at the wall of lockers. When he saw her, he stood with an automatic smile, hands in his pockets. “Ready to go?”

“Ready. Do you mind driving? I’ve never been. I could get directions on my phone, but this seems easier.” Not to mention her focus was currently narrowed to the seemingly endless hurdles between her and the next gold medal, and if she tried driving anywhere, she’d end up in another state.

“Yeah, no problem. Happy to.”

She tried to keep up with his long gait, but his extra five inches of leg made it hard. That and the screaming, raw blisters on her feet. He slowed and fell into step beside her without a word. He didn’t ask for an explanation or even give her a curious look. A simple gesture, but she had to blink back tears. After the stress of the night—hell, the past few years—the small kindness hit her hard. Her sport bred competitive backstabbing and Machiavellian attitudes. Who’d have guessed it’d take a hockey player to prove decency and niceness still existed?

He led the way to the underground garage and unlocked a shiny, black SUV. New car smell wrapped around her as she sunk into the soft leather of the passenger seat. As he turned the key in the ignition, the dash lit up like a space shuttle. That combined with the Simply Sinatra radio station took away the last of her tension, and she fought to keep her eyes open. That was rare. For as long as she could remember, anxiety had fueled her insomnia. She’d be lucky to get four or five hours of sleep a night. But something about being with Dylan made her feel … safe. Like she could let her guard down just for a little while.

The next thing she knew, there was a big, warm hand on hers. “Lori?”

Lori? It was how she’d always thought of herself, but no one other than her family had called her that since she was a kid. On his lips, it sounded warm and sweet and … right. Her eyes opened to the bright lights of The Cosmopolitan of Las Vegas hotel and casino and Dylan’s sheepish smile as he took his hand away. The loss of that gentle contact woke her up completely, and she stretched. “Sorry. I’m conscious. I promise. And I’m looking forward to that drink.” He looked like he was about to offer a ride back to the arena, so she set her hand on his this time. “Really.”

“Okay. In that case, I have some recommendations.” He handed his keys to the valet and led the way inside, where they wound their way to Holsteins. It was a riot of bright colors offset by blond wood. Lots of small tables facing long booths. A giant pink and white cow on display. They grabbed a booth in a corner away from the other customers. He ignored his menu but picked up hers and held it up. Even though he was looking at it upside down, he flipped to a page that read Bam-Boozled Shakes. “Depending what you like, you can’t go wrong with the Drunken Monkey, Coffee & Donuts, or A-Chocolypse Now.”

Those were only a few on the long list of incredible-sounding shakes—all containing some form of booze. “Oh my God. Campfire Smores. Done.” Other than vanilla ice cream, the ingredients included marshmallow fluff vodka, chocolate syrup, marshmallow, and graham crumble. Ninety-five percent of the time, she counted calories. This was not one of those days.

“Nice choice. I’m an A-Chocolypse guy myself, but I think I’ll stick with straight chocolate tonight since I’m driving.” After giving the waitress their order, he studied Lori from across the table. There was no judgment in his honey brown eyes and no questions; he just looked thoughtful. However, the pull of attraction was definitely there. It was a heady and scary mix.

“You are so different from most of the guys I know.”

“If most of the guys you know are like Bradley, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“They are. It was. A compliment. Sorry, I haven’t been on a date in a while. If that’s what this is. I didn’t mean to assume—”

“It’s a date. At least I hope it is. I haven’t done this in a while either.”

“Yeah, right.” She may not follow hockey, but the female screams filling the arena on game nights and the girls wearing Mrs. Cole T-shirts were proof that he’d have no shortage of dates if he wanted them.

“You think I’m lying?” There was a teasing note in his voice but a wounded look in his teddy bear eyes that touched her. He really cared what she thought of him.

“No, it’s … you have fan clubs full of women who would sell organs to go on a date with you. You seem like a nice guy, and you’re not, you know, bad looking.”

He smiled. “Thanks. I think.”

Her heart stuttered, stuck on his dimples. “It’s just hard to believe you’re single.”

“You’re wondering what’s wrong with me.”

“
No.
” She laughed and leaned back to make room on the table as the waitress returned with their shakes. Her mouth watered before she even took the first sip. After the sweet, cool ice cream hit her tongue, chased by the warm burn of the vodka, her train of thought jumped the rails.

After a few long sips, she looked up; Dylan smiled at her in amusement and expectation.

“It’s incredible. You were right. Best shakes in Vegas. And no, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you. Which is why I can’t believe you’re not attached.”

He nodded and scooped the whipped cream off the top of his shake with his spoon, then put all the whipped cream in his mouth. Once he’d had a couple of sips of the chocolate masterpiece in his own glass, he shrugged. “I was seeing someone. It was pretty serious. Or I thought it was. I asked her to move in, and things went downhill from there. I guess she’d been having a problem with my schedule. I wasn’t around that much. We only have so many home games, and Vegas is kind of isolated from other teams. There’s a lot of traveling. I mean, I understand, but I thought she knew what it would be like going in.”

I shouldn’t have dragged this out of him.
“I’m sorry. I know what it’s like to sacrifice personal relationships for your career.”