Breaking the Ice (13 page)

“There is nothing like making
love to you, MacKenzie.  Nothing in the world compares, baby.”

“Winning the Cup had to come
close, Diesel, I’m pretty sure I came when you made that goal.  Our entire
family there in the box and I’m trying not to moan and touch myself.”

He laughed.  “Kenzie…I love you,
woman.  No one talks about hockey like you do.”  His thumb flicked over her
nipple and his strokes were steady and deep, touching her right where she
needed it.

“No,
hockey
is
great…watching
you
play hockey makes me hot.  Even when you retire
someday, you have to promise to still play for fun, even if it’s just with the
boys.  The way you move on the ice is the same way you work me over in
bed…confident, strong, graceful, thorough.”  He pumped twice more and felt her
tightening around him, “Yes, Diesel, yes.  Always so good.” 

“I feel the same way watching you
do just about anything, Kenzie.”  His body so warm behind her, his thrusts
faster now.  “Watching you cook is very sexual…you’re always tasting things,
making sure something is just right.  The heat makes your hair stick to your
temples, you smile constantly.”

His hand moved to her stomach,
she placed hers over his, their fingers twined.  When the baby moved, they both
went still.  “Was that…?”

She nodded and he felt when her
tears hit his arm.  He pulled her against him snugly, kept loving her while
they felt their fifth baby move inside her. 

They came together and he
whispered, “MacKenzie, I love you so much, baby.” 

They stayed like that, talking
and laughing, until they heard their family coming in downstairs.  With one
more deep kiss, Diesel said, “Until later, pretty girl.” 

Then he pulled out of her, sighs
of regret easing from both of them.  He carried her into the bathroom and they
took a quick shower, threw clothes on, and headed downstairs to play with their
kids.

When they were all in the den,
watching a Disney movie together, Diesel kept his hand on her stomach, waiting
to feel the baby move again.  The little bumps against his hand made him smile. 

“Kenzie, I think we have a figure
skater in there…not a hockey player.  This baby is much gentler; the boys
kicked the hell out of you from day one.”

Her entire face lit up.  “If not,
we may have to try
one more time
, Diesel.”

He winked, “You know me…I’m happy
to go for the goal, Kenzie.”  They snickered together quietly and Dalton glanced
back, rolling his eyes with an indulgent smile. 

Stay tuned for the
next story in the “Love of the Game” series…here’s an excerpt.  By the way,
this was inspired by a
real life story
I heard on the news two or three
years ago.

by Shayne McClendon

Prologue

The smell was
killing
him.  His mouth was watering, his stomach growling, and he couldn’t concentrate
on anything but getting a fucking doughnut. 

He’d gotten out of his Escalade
in the parking garage of his building and the scent of heaven hit him right in
the face.  On a shredding diet for the past six weeks, he hadn’t had a
carbohydrate other than brown rice pilaf. 

He loved carbs…
loved
them. 

He followed the smell in a daze
to the alley entrance of the parking garage and saw the backs of the retail
stores that leased the first floor of his building. 

Walking down the alley, he
stopped at the door the smell was drifting from and peeked inside.  No one was
around.  He opened the tight screen meant to let the bakery oven heat out while
keeping out bugs. 

Stepping inside, he peered around
and still didn’t see anyone. 

He was literally
aching
for a doughnut at this point, his back teeth grinding together.  Moving through
the spotless kitchen, he looked through the small window leading to the front. 
No one around,
huge
platter of doughnuts on the countertop. 

He pushed open the swinging door
and had his hands over the pastry when he heard the unmistakable cocking of a
gun behind him. 

“I was dying for a doughnut.  I
was going to leave money for it.  You don’t open for…like,
hours
.  I was
overcome.  I’m sorry.” 

He started to turn and a woman’s
voice said behind him, “Please don’t move.  Don’t make me shoot you over a
fucking doughnut.”

“Not moving.  Swear to god,
lady.  Not moving an
inch
.”

They stood in silence for ten
seconds when he heard the sound of a siren. 
Oh shit.
  The police came
through the kitchen with weapons drawn. 

“Josie, please lower your
weapon.  Thank you.  Sir, slowly turn around, hands on your head.”

With a sigh, he placed his hands
over his head and turned. 

“Oh, holy
damn
.  Sal, you
see who that is?”

“Uh, that’s Max Grant…
the
Max Grant.  Three time All American with Miami, number one draft pick, starting
receiver his rookie year with the Lions, traded to the Steelers after two
years, been chewing up the yards every year since we got him.  Has two Super
Bowl rings already.  Still has a lot of good runnin’ and gunnin’ left in him.”

“Grant, what the hell are you
doing
,
man?”  Both officers holstered their weapons and put their hands on their
hips. 

“I’ve been shredding for camp. 
Haven’t had a damn pastry in forever.  I don’t know what the hell came over me,
I was going to leave money for it.  I went crazy for a minute.  I just had to
have it.” 

Max turned to the woman who’d
held him at gunpoint.  “Ma’am, I’m really sorry.  I didn’t think about scaring
a woman alone.  I hope you’ll forgive me.” 

She was turned away, looking out
the front windows, her arms crossed over her stomach.  From the back, she was
adorable.  Lean dancer’s body, blonde hair in pigtails that looked like it had
pink in it. 

Really…just adorable.

“It’s fine, please go, I have a
lot of work left to do.  Sal…Danny, you can see yourselves out.  Please feel
free to come for coffee when I open at seven.  My treat for getting here so
fast.”

“Sure, Josie, you sounded frantic
on the phone.  You know we try to keep an eye on things for you.  Um, Max,
could we maybe get your autograph?”  Max nodded and the officer picked up two
of the napkins for Josie’s Java Joint.  Max signing both of them with a
flourish.  

The other officer looked at Max. 
“Dude, use your head from here on out.  This woman’s been through enough
without getting the life scared out of her.” 

He nodded as the officers left,
chuckling to one another. 

To the woman’s back he said
sincerely, “I do apologize, ma’am.  My mama would
lose it
if she heard
about this.”

“No worries, Mr. Grant.  Go out
the way you came in please.  I doubt we’ll see one another again and it is
unlikely that your mother will ever know.”  He turned to go and she added, “Mr.
Grant…”  He stopped and looked over his shoulder.  “Take a few donuts with
you.  For the gun.  I apologize.  Goodbye.” 

She didn’t look at him again and
Max found that odd.  Not to put too fine a point on it, but most women usually
couldn’t
wait
to meet him. 

Instead of scaring her further,
he took a few doughnuts, dropped a twenty on the counter, and left out the
back. 

Stay tuned for
more about Josie and Max in their story “Time to Make the Doughnuts” – a
novella about football, second chances, and really good pastry.

Keep reading for a
short story I wrote on my
website
a while back.  I hope you like it!

Curb Appeal

by Shayne McClendon

The house was orange.

Why was her house
orange
?

Vivien Rorie slowly got out of her car and stared around her
in confusion.  She looked at the number on the porch.  It
was
her
house. 

When she’d left ten hours ago, the house had been the boring
white it was when she bought it last year and the painters had arrived with the
paint from the local home store.  She was gone before they applied the first
drop.

Now, she stood in her driveway in the little Eugene, Oregon
neighborhood that was being refurbished one house at a time and blinked hard. 

It was still orange.

One of the pleasant young men who’d arrived that morning
came around the edge of the house with a ladder and a wave.  Her face must have
communicated clearly that something wasn’t right.

“Miss Rorie?  Is something the matter?” 

Swallowing hard, she whispered, “Why is the house orange?”

He carefully set down the ladder and put his hands on his
hips.  “I’m sorry.  Did you ask why it was orange?”  Somehow, she managed to
nod.  “Ma’am, this is the color reserved for you at the paint store.”  The
tension headache forming in her temples from the loud color solidified.  “Miss
Rorie, are you saying this is not the color you told them to mix for you?”

“God, orange?  No, this is not the pretty, calming latte I
picked.  No.  This is not a color I’d pick for an umbrella…much less my home.”

The young man closed his eyes and said, “Shit.”  Fishing a
battered cell phone from one of his pockets, he added, “Dad is going to skin me
alive.”

Her anxiety began to climb and she cursed the stress
disorder she’d brought out of a childhood she had barely survived.  She tried
to control her breathing, her heart rate, and her trembling.  This wasn’t a
situation that called for
fight or flight
but her mind often had a hard
time telling the difference. 

“Ma’am, are you alright?” 

The grass was suddenly under her knees and she was gasping
for breath.  Distantly, she heard a truck in the street but she knew she was
dangerously close to passing out.  “Miss Rorie!”  Hands were on her arm but she
couldn’t get air enough to talk. 

“Move, Thomas,” a very deep voice said beside her.  “Miss
Rorie, you’re safe.  It’s going to be fine.  Focus on this paver.  Focus hard
on it, see how pretty the natural design of the stone is.  That reminds me of a
stream through the mountains not far from here.  See this ridge?  I have a camp
site I visit every year that sits on a little ridge like that.  I go in the
fall when the weather is just right.” 

The entire time he talked, he massaged her back between her
shoulder blades.  “That’s it, think about the atmosphere in a place like that. 
The cool water of the stream, the soft green of the grass, the way the birds
sound.  It’s so peaceful and there isn’t a thing to worry about.  Just lots of
greens and blues and clean air.” 

The hard band that had wrapped around her diaphragm began to
ease.  Several minutes later, she sat back on her heels and rubbed her
sternum. 

“I…I’m sorry.  I’m so embarrassed.  It’s nothing I can’t
fix.  It’s nothing I can’t control.  I’m sorry.”

A large presence moved beside her and suddenly Vivien was on
her feet.  Turning, she took in the stocky man beside her.  He was barrel
chested, wearing work coveralls, and had skin the color of coffee with a dash
of cream.  He was very thick all over with huge hands, a few inches taller than
her but probably outweighed her by a hundred pounds.  He had the kindest, gentlest
dark brown eyes she’d ever seen and coarse close-cropped hair.

For his size, he wasn’t the least bit threatening and she
took a deep breath.

“I’m Jed Andrews, Miss Rorie.  I’m Thomas’s father and the
owner of the company.” 

She nodded and held out her hand.  He took it carefully in
his and she noticed how warm and calloused it was.  “Better?” 

His smile was bright white, without a trace of mockery, and
she found herself saying quietly, “I’m alright.  Orange isn’t so bad.”

Vivien felt foolish and self-conscious.  Her red hair tended
to frizz, she was covered head to toe in freckles, and no matter how hard she
tried, she couldn’t hide all the scars from the plate glass window her father
had thrown her through when she was thirteen. 

Jed gave her a bigger grin that showed off dimples in his
cheeks.  “Actually, ma’am, it’s pretty hideous.  It doesn’t suit you a bit.” 
He tilted his head and added, “I came by around lunchtime and the boys had
finished the first coat.  I should have known it wasn’t right.”

“How would you know?”

“You have bird feeders and a little garden.  All your little
spaces are calm and filled with natural colors.  This is not a calm color at
all.”

“I should have picked up the paint.”

“Six five-gallon buckets?”  There was a small shake of his
head.  “That wouldn’t have worked at all.”  He gave her a quick glance and she
knew he could tell she wasn’t physically strong.  She could fight now but no
matter how she tried, upper body strength had never happened.  She was gangly
and too thin all over. 

Her father’s favorite nickname for her…“Matchstick”…flitted
through her mind and made her blush brightly.

“You don’t need to worry though.  We’ll do the primer-coat
tomorrow; be back the day after to repaint.  That sound alright?”

“Yes.  Thank you.”

Jed looked at Thomas and said quietly, “Leave the ladders
and stuff stacked neatly in the back.  You and Walter grab the primer from my
van so you have it in the morning.”

Thomas gave a thumbs up and went back the way he’d come when
she arrived, the ladder in his hands again.  For a long moment, she stared at
the grass between Jed’s feet.  “How did you know?  What was happening?”

“I was in the Army for twenty years.  I’ve seen a lot of
post-traumatic stress.”

“Thank you.”