Playmaker: A Baltimore Banners Intermission Novella (2 page)

Bridget could have driven herself.

She probably should have driven herself. But the offer had caught her so completely unaware, her body still reeling from the sudden pain in her ankle, that she said yes.

Well, she had managed to say yes after that little bout of maniacal laughter. And really, what was up with that? She wasn't the kind of girl who laughed for no reason or got cases of the giggles. Or turned into a melting puddle of simpering hormones.

But feeling Derek's arms around her, feeling the heat of his body pressed flushed against hers…her brain short-circuited. It had to be her crazy schedule and lack of sleep, that was the only explanation that made any sense.

Because Derek Caulton was, by her standards, the poster boy for egotistical asses. Too handsome, too certain, too cocky—and too sure of all the above. Bridget tried to listen to the advice her mother had given her all those years ago and not judge a book by its cover but in this case, she couldn't help it.

Because in this case, she was pretty sure the cover was all there was.

Too bad her body thought otherwise. Damn him.

She glanced over, trying not to be obvious as she studied him. Thick blonde hair, perfect blue eyes, thick lashes. And not washed out pale lashes. No, his were darker, almost black. And long. Too long for a man's. And of course he had a strong profile, with chiseled cheekbones and a straight nose. Nice full lips. Straight white teeth.

Oh God, had she really noticed his teeth? How pathetic. She grunted, telling herself they probably weren't his. He was a professional hockey player, for crying out loud. Certainly they couldn't all be his.

"Is something wrong?"

"Hm?"

He stopped at a traffic light two blocks from her apartment and turned to look at her, his sculpted face bathed in light and shadow from the corner streetlamp. "You grunted. Is it your ankle?"

Bridget wished she could just melt into the soft leather of the heated seat. Just disappear. Had she really grunted out loud? Of course she had. She didn't answer him, just shook her head as she looked down at her ankle, pretending to study it. Let him think the indelicate noise was because she was in pain.

Yeah, she definitely should have driven herself, no matter how much it hurt. At least they were almost to her place.

He eased the expensive SUV to the curb, right in front of the fire hydrant. Bridget wanted to tell him he could have just pulled in front of her building and not worried about parking, but he was already turning off the engine and climbing out. She had her hand on the door handle, ready to let herself out, but he beat her to it.

"Here, take my hand. No, don't jump. Just slide out, slowly. Yeah, like that."

She wanted to tell him she could figure it out and do it on her own, but her mouth was suddenly too dry. His hand was warm and large around hers, surprisingly comforting. She slid out of the seat, trying not wince when her ankle jarred against the curb. His arm came around her shoulders, pulling her against him, supporting her as she tried to hop and wobble along the sidewalk. Standing next to him, practically leaning on him, made her feel small, fragile. She hadn't realized how tall he was, a little over six feet. And his body was hard, warm.

Well of course he was hard and warm. He was a professional athlete. And very much alive and breathing. And no, she absolutely could not be thinking like this. Not about Derek Caulton.

Attractive? Yes. But that was the problem: he was too attractive, and he knew it. She wasn't usually attracted to guys like him.

It had nothing to do with the fact that she rarely attracted guys like him. None whatsoever.

No, she had to stop thinking like that. Isn't that what William kept telling her? Stop selling herself short, have more confidence. Act the part.

Sure, no problem. Except she was pretty sure even William would be a little flustered around an Adonis like Derek Caulton.

Bridget stopped in front of the heavy wooden door that led into her building. "Um, this is it. Thanks. I, uh, appreciate it."

She tried to pull away but Derek's arm tightened, holding her in place. His blue eyes were too clear, too bright, as he looked down at her.

"Keys?"

"What?"

"Your keys. Let me get the door for you."

"Oh. Right." Gah. Why was she acting like a complete moron all of a sudden? She dug her hand into the jacket pocket and pulled out her small keyring, thumbing through the small assortment until separating the right one. She handed the key ring to Derek, still feeling like an idiot as he opened the door and pushed it in. He paused, his gaze narrowing as he looked around.

The old rowhome had been converted years ago into two spacious apartments, one upstairs and one down. The gleaming entranceway opened onto a small hallway with a single door at the end that led to the downstairs apartment—William's apartment. A stairwell sat to the right, polished wooden steps leading up to her own place.

Derek turned back to her, his brows raised in question. "Which one's yours?"

"Um, the upstairs."

The expression on his face clearly screamed his lack of surprise, like he was saying of course it was. Bridget bit back the retort on the tip of her tongue and pushed away from him, hopping over to the stairwell. She heard his exasperated sigh, the soft echo of his footsteps as he followed her inside.

"What are you doing?"

Bridget glanced over her shoulder and rolled her eyes. "Going upstairs. Thanks for the lift."

"Just how do you think you're going to manage getting up there?"

"One step at a time." She hoped. Looking up, she started to have doubts. Funny, but she hadn't realized quite how many steps there were before. Or how steep the staircase was.

She gritted her teeth and closed her hand over the railing. She could do this. Although it would be so much easier if William was actually home. If he was, she could just crash on his sofa while he and Mitchell took care of her. But they were both gone, away for the weekend on a small skiing trip in the Poconos. Which meant she was on her own.

She took a deep breath, working up her courage, then hopped up the first step. The movement jarred her ankle, tearing a hiss of pain from her before she could stop it.

"Oh for shit's sake." She heard Derek’s impatient exclamation and the click of the door shutting through the clearing haze of pain. Before she could turn to look, before she could say anything, he was right there, pulling her into his arms.

Picking her up.

And holy shit, he was carrying her. Up the stairs. She wrapped one arm around his neck and fisted the other hand into the lapel of his coat, holding on in case he dropped her.

"You don't have to carry—"

"How else are you going to get upstairs?"

"But I don't want you to hurt yourself!" He didn't reply to that, just gave her a funny little look. Then a corner of his mouth turned up in a small grin and amusement flashed in his eyes.

"Trust me, I'm not going to hurt myself. But if it makes you feel better, I can pretend to groan and be out of breath."

Oh crap. Crap, crap, shit. Why did her stomach clench and shift at that tiny little comeback? No, not just the comeback. He was teasing her, that tiny little smile doing things to her insides that should definitely not be happening. No, no, no—

And then he was at the top of the stairs, on the small landing in front of her door. She waited for him to put her down but no, that would be too easy. Instead he jammed the key into the door and unlocked it, his strong arms still tight around her.

And crap, was he really going to carry her into her apartment?

She tried to remember if the place was a mess, if she had remembered to pick up all the books scattered on the floor and straighten everything. But he was already carrying her through the door, his hand automatically searching the wall for a light switch.

She blinked against the flare of light and held her breath, looking around. It would never win a housekeeping award, but at least the place was relatively neat.

He stepped inside and closed the door with his foot, then stopped in the middle of the room, looking around. "Where's your bedroom?"

"Excuse me?" No, her pulse did not just speed up. It couldn't. But yeah, it did. And not just from his question, either. No, it sped up because of the sudden visual of their naked bodies writhing together. And crap, he was looking at her again with that killer grin and smiling eyes, like he knew exactly what she was thinking—and liking the idea.

Oh God, she was officially in trouble. Because instead of being mortified, instead of demanding he put her down, she was suddenly warm. No, not warm. A volcano was warm. She was burning up.

It had to be stress. Stress and her crazy schedule and lack of sleep. It had nothing to do with his strong arms and full mouth and heated eyes. And oh crap, when had his eyes turned from laughing to heated?

Not good. So not good.

She couldn't answer him, not when he was looking at her like that, not when the air around them was so suddenly thick and sizzling, when her body was suddenly hyper-aware.

He didn't wait for her to answer him, just tightened his hold on her and walked through the apartment, past the eat-in kitchen, the bathroom, to the open door at the end of the small hallway.

Straight into her bedroom.

He stopped at the edge of the bed and slowly lowered her, his body hard and hot against hers. His hands, so large, so masculine, tightened around her waist. She needed to step away, needed to let go of him and put some distance between them.

She didn't want to, not when he was looking at her like that, like a starving man at an all-you-can-eat buffet. It had been too long since any man had looked at her like that. At least, any man she was interested in. The feeling was powerful. Liberating. Intoxicating.

Dangerous.

"Ice."

"Hm?"

Derek cleared his throat and stepped away, just a few inches. Cool air swept over her, a sharp contrast to the fire licking her skin where his body had touched just a minute ago.

"You need ice. For your ankle. I'll go get it for you."

He walked out of the room, leaving her staring after him. Oh my God, she was such an idiot. She had been this close to embarrassing herself, to making a fool of herself. The last few minutes had been nothing more than her imagination. Of course Derek wasn't interested in her. Why would he be?

And she wasn't even interested in him! The man was too arrogant, too egotistical, too full of himself. Too bad that hadn't stopped her from practically drooling over him, from throwing herself at him. Gah, no wonder he was in such a hurry to get out of here.

Bridget hopped over to the dresser, wincing each time she jarred her ankle. She pulled the elastic band from her hair and ran her fingers through it, massaging her scalp and turning the curls into loose waves, each swipe of her fingers hard, angry.

Yeah, because taking her stupidity out on her hair made so much sense.

She turned away from the dresser and shrugged out of the jacket then tossed it onto the overstuffed chair in the corner. Her sweatshirt was next, followed by the t-shirt underneath that. As much as she'd love to ditch the sport tank, too, she couldn't. At least, not yet, not until
he
left.

The pants were a little harder to get out of, since she couldn't just step out of them and kick them away like she usually did. She managed to hop back to the bed then leaned against the edge of the mattress, shimmying out of the nylon track pants. She balled them up and tossed them in the general direction of the chair, then pushed the sweatpants down past her hips. The left leg came out with no problem, but the right was a little harder to manage, especially with the elastic of the leg catching on her ankle.

After a swift intake of breath and some muttered swearing, Bridget just flopped back onto the bed and stretched her leg over her, turning the pants inside out until they hung off her right foot. One tug should do the trick, a quick one so it wouldn't hurt quite so much—

"Holy shit."

The loud words startled her and she jerked her leg, tangling the sweatpants around her ankle instead of pulling them off. She bolted upright with a hiss of pain. "Ouch! Dammit!"

"What the hell are you doing?" Derek came into the room then stopped, his eyes raking her from the top of her head all the way down to her feet. His hands tightened around the plastic bag full of ice in his hands as his gaze zeroed in on her chest.

Bridget crossed her arms in front of her, suddenly aware of the fact that her nipples had turned to hard points—and that they must be clearly visible, pushed against the snug material of her tank top.

"I was trying to get my pants off." And crap, that so didn't come out right. Was her face turning red? If the heat in her cheeks was any indication, she was definitely blushing. With her fair coloring and red hair, she probably looked like an overripe tomato.

And why was he looking at her like that? It wasn't like she was naked. She had on a tank top and sport shorts, designed for ease of movement and comfort. They weren't underwear. Not really.