Down to Puck (Buffalo Tempest Hockey Book 2) Page 7

  Really? We’re playing this game now?

  “Just some stuff I’ve been working on for the pub,” she said.

  He flipped through a few more pages, nodding his approval. “Wow. You did all this research?”

  “Yep.”

  “You really need to set up that appointment with my guy.”

  “Henny, can we just—”

  “I’ll call him right now.” Henny pulled out his phone. “I’m sure he’d love to meet you.”

  “Stop. Please, stop.” Bex appreciated his support, but Henny did not come in here today with flowers and that tight sweater and those impossibly blue-green eyes and that manly, sexy, freshly-showered scent that was doing very naughty things to her insides just to talk about her marketing plans.

  Why was he stalling?

  The longer he stood there, not saying anything, letting the awkward tension between them thicken like pea soup, the more upset she got. Why couldn’t he just say it? Whatever it was? Good or bad, she needed to hear it. They needed to clear the air and move forward.

  She looked at him expectantly. Blinked her eyes. Cleared her throat. And still, the man was infuriatingly silent.

  “So, did you need anything else?” Bex gripped the knife and whacked off the bottom of the flower stems.

  Henny flinched.

  “No. I mean, yeah. I just…” His eyes darted up to the ceiling, then back down again. “Like I said. Thanks for the nachos.”

  Thanks for the nachos? Is that what the kids are calling it these days?

  She whacked at the stems again. And again. And once more for good measure. Because if she stopped chopping, if she stopped moving, if she looked up for even one second and saw pity in those ocean-blue eyes, she was going to lose it.

  Chop. Chop. Whack.

  “Bex.”

  Whack.

  “Look at me. Please,” Henny said, soft and sad and vulnerable, nothing at all like the bad-boy hockey star everyone else usually saw.

  She finally looked up, not bothering to hide the tears that glazed her eyes. What was the point? He had to know this was ripping her apart inside. How could it not?

  “I screwed up,” he said. “Believe it or not, sometimes I make mistakes.”

  Her heart hit her stomach. It shouldn’t have hurt like that, but it did. “So you’re saying it was a mistake?”

  “The worst.”

  She gave the stems another whack, narrowly missing her thumb.

  “Wait, no!” Henny said. “I meant me. The way I reacted this morning. That was the mistake.”

  Henny took away her knife, then covered her hands with his. His touch was warm and strong and familiar, but she was anything but comforted. The feel of his callused hands only served to remind her of last night. Of what they’d done. Of what she’d missed.

  Hands in her hair, on her ass, gripping her thighs…

  “Last night was not a mistake,” he said, squeezing her hands. “Most likely, it was pretty great. But yeah, I could’ve handled it better.”

  “Me too,” she admitted, blowing out a breath. “Guess I got a little freaked. Okay, a lot freaked.” She glanced at the stem graveyard on her cutting board. “I’m being a total psycho, right?”

  “Only about twenty percent psycho.”

  “What’s the other eighty?”

  “Just… my girl.” Henny grinned, the lines of his face smoothing out the tiniest little bit. “Right?”

  Bex’s stomach did a little flip. Fee’s earlier advice echoed. I’m just saying you should keep an open mind…

  She took a deep breath and searched his eyes, letting the possibilities run wild.

  Could we be together like that?

  She tried to imagine going on a date with him. Cooking dinner for him. Waiting outside the locker room after a game to give him that first victory hug. Watching the away games on television, rooting for her man as excitedly as she did at the home games.

  She pictured him hanging out with her at the bar, waiting for her to close up for the night. Encouraging her to meet with his finance guy. Cutting the grass at her mom’s house in the summer. Checking in on both of them whenever he could.

  In other words, all the best-friend stuff they’d been doing all along.

  That settled it.

  Just because they’d accidentally had sex—sex they couldn’t even remember—didn’t mean they were relationship material. Certainly not capital-L Love material. People who believed that a night of drunken debauchery led to wedding bells obviously watched too many movies.

  Looking at you, Fee.

  Bex arranged the flowers in the beer pitcher, admiring her handiwork. They were a little short on account of her overzealous knifing, but the blooms were gorgeous—bright bursts of color floating above the lush white peonies.

  “Sunshine in a vase,” she said, moving them to the register area, out of reach of the rowdy customers that would soon file in. Turning back to Henny, she said, “I don’t want anything to come between us. Especially not sex.”

  “It won’t. I would never let it, Bex. I promise.” His face was sincere, eyes full of the familiar mix of protectiveness and intensity she’d come to know and love about him.

  “So, we’re moving forward?” she asked. “Putting this whole thing in the rearview?”

  “After we douse it in gasoline and torch it.”

  “With a flamethrower.” Bex laughed, the muscles in her neck and shoulders relaxing for the first time since she woke up in Henny’s naked embrace this morning. He was back. They were back. Friends to the end, just like always.

  “That’s my girl. Hundred percent Bex.” Henny leaned across the bar and gave her a very platonic, very normal kiss on the forehead. “Okay, I need to pack. Gallagher wants me on the team flight after the Carolina game tonight.”

  “When are you playing?” she asked. The Tempest had an away week coming up, but Henny was still riding out his suspension.

  “Not till Toronto, but I’ll be practicing with the team so everyone’s ready when I get back in the lineup.”

  “Stay out of trouble, Kyle Henderson.” Bex narrowed her eyes. “I’ll be watching every game.”

  “You’d better be.” He held her gaze a moment longer, then knocked on the bar twice as if that settled things.

  Seconds later, Heart’s “Barracuda” was on the jukebox and Henny was out the door.

  Bex buried her face in the flowers, inhaling their sweet scent. She’d officially survived their first post-awkward-forgotten-sex reunion, and it was everything she could’ve hoped for. The air was cleared. The reset button on their friendship firmly pressed. And, she thought, admiring the bright blooms, she’d gotten some gorgeous flowers out of the deal.

  So why did it feel like someone had just scooped out her insides?

  Chapter Eight

  The Toronto Mavericks’ stadium was stuffed to the gills with insane, rowdy fans that would love to see Henny take a beating. Henny didn’t care. Couldn’t afford to. It was the third of five games on the road for the Tempest—Henny’s first night back on the ice since the suspension—and letting the home team’s crazy fans throw off his game was not an option.

  He was doing a fine enough job of that on his own.

  Midway into second period, Gallagher called for a line change, yanking Henny off the ice with Roscoe and Dunn.

  It was an unusual call for the coach—the starting lineup was tight as hell, and they usually worked together like a well-oiled machine. The only time they changed it up was if one of them got hurt—or if he was having a seriously off night.

  There on the player’s bench, Gallagher steamed. “Get your head in the game, nineteen, or your ass is on the bench for the rest of the game. And you two?” He glared at Dunn and Roscoe. “Collect your boy and keep your line together.”

  Gallagher returned his attention to the ice, leaving Henny to stew in his own mounting shame. Behind them, a group of assholes with faces painted in Mavericks’ red and gold banged on th
e glass.

  “Aren’t Canadians supposed to be nice?” Henny asked, flipping them off.

  “Not on game night,” Roscoe said. “Come on, Hen. This ain’t your first rodeo.”

  Dunn grunted. “This rate, it might be his last. What the fuck, nineteen?”

  Henny yanked off his helmet, shoved a hand through his sweat-drenched hair. “I’m just a little off my game tonight.”

  “You think?” Dunn snapped. “Brilliant observation, Watson. Hey! If this hockey thing shits the bed, you might have a shot as a private dick. Emphasis on dick.”

  Dunn grabbed a bottle of Gatorade, not meeting Henny’s eyes.

  Henny couldn’t blame him. Tempest was up by one, but they should’ve been up by at least four. Henny’d been playing like shit all night, missing key passes, taking sloppy shots, giving up the puck more times than he could count.

  “First game back in a week, sold-out crowd, on the road….” Roscoe shrugged, busting out his “good cop” grin. “Bound to be a little rusty.”

  Roscoe, the eternal fucking optimist. Complete opposite of Dunn, who was so worked up his face was turning purple. “This has nothing to do with the suspension and everything to do with—”

  “Don’t.” Henny held up his hands. He didn’t need Dunn to spell it out for him. Not like he could forget about her.

  Fresh pain jabbed his heart. He hadn’t spoken with Bex in days. After the flowers, he’d gone back to avoiding her, looking for excuses to miss her calls and texts.

  Joke was on him, though, because those calls never came. She was avoiding him, too.

  A week on the road was supposed to put things back in perspective. Time apart should’ve helped Henny clear his head, get his focus back on the game and his rapidly disintegrating career.

  But he was a wreck.

  “Fuck yeah, Kooz! That’s how it’s done!” Dunn was on his feet, shouting across the ice. Looked like Kuznetsov had just made a crazy save. Henny hadn’t seen shit. He forced himself to locate the puck, watching as Fahey skated it down the ice.

  Fahey and his wingers played a tight game. Like Henny and his boys, the second-line offense had great synergy, reading each other’s movements and playing to each other’s strengths as they stormed the Toronto goal zone. The Mavericks goalie was tough as hell, but he wasn’t fast enough to stop Fahey’s over-the-shoulder shot.

  The crowd roared in frustration. Tempest was up by two now, and Dunn and Roscoe cheered. Henny wanted to join them. He wanted to be happy for his team. He wanted to get back on the fucking ice. But his mind kept looping back to Bex, again and again and again.

  He’d gone over to the bar that day with every intention of clearing the air. But no matter how hard he’d tried to pretend everything was normal, Henny just couldn’t look at Bex the same way. For twenty-five years they’d been friends. Best friends. They’d shared a bond that transcended all others. Even his team—guys he’d do just about anything for—came second to Bex. And the women he’d been with in the past? Hell, none of them could hold a candle to her. Not where it really counted.

  Yeah, any man could see she was gorgeous. It’s not like Henny couldn’t acknowledge a simple fact. But before the other night, hormonal high school fantasies aside, he’d honestly never entertained thoughts about being with her like that. Bex and Henny were friends. The best. His mind simply hadn’t allowed for any other possibilities.

  But now, whenever he thought of Bex—pretty much every five seconds—his gut twisted, and it wasn’t just guilt. Seeing her at the bar the other day had nearly undone him. She was different. Everything was different.

  Fuck.

  What was happening? Was he just being protective, feeling guilty for putting her in that situation, especially knowing she’d been through hell and back with her ex?

  Or did he have feelings for her?

  Bex was the most important person in his life. But when he remembered the soft feel of her skin on his face that morning, the curve of her bare shoulder when he’d woken up next to her… Hell, he’d never been so turned on in his life. Even now, hundreds of miles away from her, he was hard as fuck.

  He was totally hot for her, and there wasn’t a damn thing to be done about it.

  Second period ended with a buzz, jerking Henny back to the present. Fahey had scored another goal. Henny hadn’t even realized it.

  Get your head in the game, asshole.

  Henny took a swig of Gatorade, forcing himself to stay in the moment.

  Hockey. Toronto. Start of the third.

  Across the bench, Gallagher eyed them up, assessing.

  “You good?” Roscoe asked.

  Henny nodded, strapping his helmet back into place. Yeah, he was good. Fine. Had to be.

  “Do not fuck this up.” Dunn smacked him on the helmet, finally meeting his eyes. His snarl twisted into a smile, and Henny blew out a breath. “Let’s rock these motherfuckers.”

  Dunn signaled to Gallagher that they were ready to roll, and seconds later, the starters were back on the ice, lining up for the third period face-off.

  By some monumental effort, Henny shoved aside all thoughts of Bex for the rest of the game, channeling all his energy into beating the Mavs. One minute into the third, he scored his first goal of the night, then assisted Roscoe on another soon after. In the final minute of the game, refs nailed the Mavs’ left winger for high-sticking, and Henny scored again on the penalty shot, closing out the game with a six-three win.

  The boys were pumped. Gallagher and the suits were marginally appeased, but Henny couldn’t complain about their lack of enthusiasm. Tonight could’ve just as easily gone the other way.

  After a brief recap, the team hit the visitors’ gym for the post-game workout, then headed into the showers. It was still fairly early in Hogtown, and after the excitement of the win, the single guys were ready to check out the scene, clock in a few hours of fun before their morning flight to Minnesota.

  Wasn’t too long ago that Henny would’ve lead the charge.

  But tonight, there was only one woman on his mind.

  And he was done pretending he could go for more than a day without hearing her voice.

  Chapter Nine

  Bex hadn’t heard from Henny since the “Thanks for the Nachos” incident. She was beginning to worry that the flowers had meant goodbye rather than gratitude, when her phone finally buzzed with his text.

  Part of her wanted to ignore it, but as usual, one word from her best friend and her anger melted away.

  HENNY: You see me out there tonight?

  BEX: Out where?

  HENNY: Very funny. Hope you made a new sign for me, woman.

  BEX: Oh, you had a game tonight? I can’t be expected to keep up with your sporting events. I’m a busy woman, Henderson.

  HENNY: Too busy for this face? Doubt it.

  He sent her a selfie, all goofy-ass smile and crazy eyes. He was in his hotel room, dressed in a faded black Radiohead shirt—they’d gotten matching ones at a concert in New York City during one of their college Christmas breaks. His hair was sticking up everywhere, rumpled and adorable, and her fingers curled inward against her palm, itching to touch him.

  She closed her eyes, remembering the scent of his skin, the warmth of his kiss on her forehead. The press of his face on her chest, his hair tickling her breasts.

  Opening her eyes, Bex took a deep breath, fingers hovering over the phone screen. Then, before she could talk herself out of being honest…

  BEX: I miss that face, Henny. I miss YOU.

  HENNY: Yeah. I’ve been kind of a schmuck. :-(

  BEX: Pro tip? Stop ghosting on me, schmuck. One of these days I’m going to kick your ass. Also, I’ve been a schmuck too. :-(

  HENNY: Tell you what. I’ll bring you some more flowers, you give me my sign, we’ll call it even.

  Bex smiled. The roses from his bouquet were hanging over her dresser, drying. Every time she walked into her bedroom, she caught a whiff of their sweet scent and thought
of Henny.

  Not that she needed external stimulation to think of Henny. He was pretty much the only thing on her mind lately.

  BEX: Next time say it with chocolate. You heading out with the guys tonight?

  HENNY: Trying to ditch me already?

  BEX: Ha! I’ve been trying to ditch you since the 90s.

  HENNY: Guess you need to try harder. I’m not going anywhere. Uh, recent dickishness notwithstanding. Promise.

  Bex responded with a smiley emoji. He’d already made that promise in some form or another three times now. She didn’t doubt his intentions, only his follow-through. Or her follow-through. Things were getting ridiculous.

  She wasn’t ready for the conversation to end, but she didn’t know what else to say.

  A minute passed. Then another. She was about to call it a night when the phone rang with his ringtone.

  Bex hit the answer button and smiled. “If you’re calling for bail money, I can’t help you.”

  Henny cracked up, the sound going right to her heart. God, she’d missed that laugh.

  “No bail money, babe. Not for me, anyway. I’m all alone in my hotel room tonight.”

  “Should I even ask what you’re up to?”

  “Truth?”

  “Always.”

  “Trying not to think about you.”

  Bex’s stomach did a little flip. Before she could stop herself, the words were out. “Same here.”

  “Yeah? How’s that working out?”

  “It’s not.” She closed her eyes, listening to the soft sounds of Henny breathing, trying to match the steady rhythm to her own.

  “God, I’m glad to hear your voice,” he said.

  “Hmm. Rough night on the ice?”

  “Something like that.”

  “You looked good, though,” she said, glad to be back on familiar ground. Hockey. His moves on the ice. Not their relationship and missing each other and thinking about each other and all the stuff they were so obviously avoiding.

  As far as strategies went, avoidance was a good one.

  Right?

  “Got through all three periods on your feet,” she went on. “No time in the penalty box. Look who’s out there bustin’ a move, not getting suspended!”