The Game of Love (17 page)

“Chris? Chris, are you still there? Are you watching?” Katie’s voice was a distant buzz in her ear, and she remembered she was still on the phone.

“Yeah…yeah I’m still here.” Her voice sounded odd to her own ears.

“Brace yourself. It gets worse.”

How could this possibly…oh God.

A picture of her with Dax, taken years ago when she was still young, stupid and playing on the pro circuit, was shown. They stood outside The Ivy, on their first date. She knew this picture well. Dax looked smug, his beefy arm slung around her shoulder, as he mugged for the cameras. Though her face was in the shadow created by his large body, and she had bangs that swooped down over one eye, the look on her face was one of bewilderment. All the paparazzi were intimidating, and the attention had terrified her.

Even more terrifying was the commentator’s speech now.

“Fans remember when the Golden Glove of hockey first popped on the NHL radar. His quick, fluid style in the net combined with his good-guy image off the ice made for one hell of an athlete people could get behind. Shown here his second year in the League, he dated pro tennis player and resident circuit darling Christina Parsons for several years before the couple went their separate ways. Seems after the relationship was over, Riley had trouble keeping it together. Now fans are wondering, where did
this
Dax Riley go? And can they get him back?”

The commentators continued but Chris couldn’t hear. Her mind went into overdrive and worst-case scenarios flashed in her mind. Losing her job. Losing friends. Losing Brett.

“Oh God, oh God, oh God.”

“Breathe. Calm down, Chris.”

“But I can’t…that’s not….where did they get that picture? That’s from forever ago!”

Her lungs were folding in on themselves, her chest was burning, her vision tunneling. She couldn’t suck in enough breath to—

“Chris, snap out of it. Go get a paper bag to breathe in or something but
snap out of it!
”

The sharp words were a slap to the face. She dragged in one deep breath, relieved to breathe again. The panic was subsiding, but that made room for the anger and shame.

Anger that ESPN—but mostly Dax—had brought to light something she wanted kept quiet.

Shame that there was anything to keep quiet, period.

She felt her stomach start to roil, just like it always did when Dax was on a roll with the insults or her father was letting her have it with the disappointment. She closed her eyes against the wave of nausea, determined not to give in this time.

“Chris, don’t go there. I swear I will drive over there and slap some sense into you myself. I know what you’re thinking. I can almost hear it through the phone. Get out of your head and talk to me.”

“What do you want me to say, Katie?” she asked, her voice soft even to her own ears. “Can’t change it now. Just have to hope nobody realizes that Christina Parsons and Chris St. James are the same person.”

Katie blew out a breath. “I still don’t know why you care that it’s kept secret.”

“You know why. I don’t need my failures pushed in my face daily. And doing so poorly in the pros was a failure. Not to mention Dax, which was just a failure of judgment.”

“Chris, come on. We all date stupid people when we’re young.”

The clip of Dax launching himself at the fan was shown again. “That stupid?”

A short pause, then, “Well, I mean…”

She tried to laugh. “Right. Let’s just hope nobody makes the connection.”

“Look on the bright side.”

“Which is?”

“That’s a
really
bad picture of you, so I doubt anyone will recognize you.”

A few hours and too many papers to count later, Chris sat at her kitchen table rubbing her eyes. They stung from holding back tears and staring at the chicken scratch her students called writing. Rolling her shoulders, she leaned to the left, then the right to stretch out her back and neck.

Her cell vibrated on the table next to her, signaling an incoming text message. She glanced at it.
He must have gotten the number from Katie.

Despite her bleak mood, a smile crept on to her lips. She texted back.

She went to the fridge, grabbed a bottle of water and started chugging when her phone vibrated again. Persistent man.

Seconds after she hit Send, there was a knock on the door. Most likely Katie coming to check on her.

When she opened the door, though, it was Brett illuminated by the weak porch light, not Katie. He looked gorgeous in that effortlessly unfair way men had, wearing a light green button-down shirt tucked into dark jeans. And he was holding some covered dish in one hand.

Chris raised one brow. “Let me guess…scalloped potatoes?”

“Bingo.” Without waiting for an invitation, he strolled past her into the townhouse toward the kitchen. She sighed at his assumption that she wanted company. But he was right, so she closed the door behind him. Quickly wiping the smirk off her face, she prepared to give at least the illusion that she was putting up a fight. She didn’t want to turn down Anna’s cooking, but she also couldn’t have Brett thinking he could run her life, even with something simple like dinner. Fine line.

“You know—” She caught a whiff of the potatoes. Her mouth watered and she had to swallow before she could continue. “You can’t just barge in here because you want company for dinner. You have to…oh God, is what I’m smelling in that dish?”

“Yup.” He’d set the dish on the table, and was combing the kitchen cabinets for something. “Plates?”

“Cabinet over the microwave, forks in the drawer below, water in the fridge.”

“Gonna make me carry it all?” Silverware rattled as she sat down in front of the still-steaming dish.

“Sure am. You barge in, you set the table. New rule.”

He set their places and served her a heaping portion of potatoes. “So, how goes the grading?”

Unwilling to let another moment pass before she started eating, she took a big bite, moaning in delight. “The pile dwindles, slowly but surely. I wasn’t aware there are so many different ways to write the number seven. But I was taking a break, anyway, so your timing is perfect.” She stuck another bite in her mouth, sighed and leaned back in her chair. Around the mouthful of potatoes, she asked, “Can your mommy be my mommy?”

“Maybe.” Something odd seemed to shadow his face for just a moment. But it was gone as fast as it came. Her eyes were seeing things after staring at numbers for so long.

Besides, she had other problems to figure out, like whether he’d seen the report on Dax and made the connection. “So what’d you do after you dropped me off?”

He forked up his own massive helping of dinner. “Went back home and crashed for, oh, four hours.”

She smiled. Good. Odds were he missed the coverage. “Sounds nice. I’ve been hunched over the table all day. Not that it didn’t start out nicely, but this isn’t my favorite of ways to spend a Sunday.”

“Mmm, not that it’s the same, but doing the homework teachers assigned wasn’t exactly my idea of a fun Sunday either.”

Chris laughed. “Right. If I’m going to be miserable, we’ll all be miserable together.”

“Solidarity in despair?”

“Exactly.” Pleased he could keep up with her—God knows Dax couldn’t have spelled
solidarity,
let alone used it in a sentence—she flashed him a big smile, took another healthy bite. She was safe, she didn’t have to worry.

So why were her abs still tense? Why was her body on alert? She glanced over at Brett. She was hungry, but it had nothing to do with Anna Wallace’s potatoes.

Seriously, Chris? One night with the guy and you’re suddenly a raging hormone when he’s around? Get a grip.

Forcing the mood to stay light, she asked about the football team’s next game, and the conversation flowed effortlessly. He made her laugh.

After they had scraped the dredges out of the dish, she sat back, completely satisfied with the moment. Full, warm, comfy and relaxed. Life was good. “You know, you treat your mother’s kitchen like it’s Curbside Take Away. Maybe you should learn how to cook something yourself. Not that I’m complaining about dinner, mind you.”

His mouth slid into another grin that looked so natural on his face. “Yeah, but it’s worthless. My mother tried several times to teach me. It usually ended up with her near tears and me starving.”

“I could teach you.” The words were out of her mouth before she could think. And then she wondered, why not? It was a cooking lesson, not a tattoo. Nothing permanent about it.

That trouble-free grin grew wider until his face was practically split in two. “Yeah? You wanna teach me how to cook?”

“I could try, anyway,” she mumbled. “I am a teacher, after all.”

“That you are.” He shifted in his chair, stood and walked behind her. She expected him to grab her plate, so when both of his hands landed on her shoulders, she jolted. “Easy, I didn’t cattle-prod ya.”

But she felt a heated shock all the way to her core, anyway.

Those hands that branded her skin squeezed rhythmically, kneading the muscles and tendons of her neck and shoulders. She really should stop him, and she would…next week. Yeah, next week would be good.

“You’re tense,” he said, his voice no more than a low rumble from his chest. “And you’ve got knots the size of softballs back here.”

Her head lolled to one side, giving him better access to the point between her neck and shoulder. “Hazard of the trade,” she murmured, surprised to hear how sleepy her voice sounded.

“If you lie down, I could do a better job.”

She should probably work up some indignation to the obvious fishing for some sexy time, but instead she just smiled, her eyes drifting closed. “Is that before or after you show me your etchings?”

“No etchings. Got a tattoo you probably haven’t seen yet, though.”

Her eyes flew open, and she twisted in her chair to face him. “There is no way you have a tattoo I haven’t seen yet.” Realizing what that implied, she blushed.

“You wanna bet?”

“Since I know I’m right, sure.” After their bedroom play the night before, there was no way. “And the one on your shoulder doesn’t count. You know I’ve seen that one.” Seventy-six, his jersey number from his days as a Liberty, was tattooed in red and blue just above his left shoulder blade.

“Nope. Not counting that one.”

“Deal.”

“Wait, hold on a second there, sweetheart. We didn’t set terms.”

Oh, this could get interesting. Except, why was he acting so confident? “Hold on. You didn’t get a tattoo this afternoon or something, did you?”

He smiled. “Sure didn’t. Now, if I’m right, you’re gonna ask me to stay the night.”

“I’m shocked.” She crossed her arms over her chest. She wanted him to stay the night. She wanted to be wrong. But now that the wager was on, she couldn’t turn back.

“But if you win, you get the full body treatment. Massage from head to toe.”

An involuntary shiver racked her body, and she struggled for composure. “Sounds like a deal, and very worth the risk.” Beyond worth it. She knew firsthand what those hands could do.

“Good.” His fingers rubbed and kneaded a slow path down her shoulders, over her biceps, knuckles brushing the side of her breasts. Her nipples tightened into peaks beneath her bra. Just a slight brush, then the touch was gone.

He worked his way down to her elbows, thumbs circling on the sensitive inner skin. Then slid back up, not coming in contact with anything more than her arms. It was almost as if his quick feel had been unintentional, an accident.

Yeah. Right.

“So, where is this supposed hidden tattoo of yours?”

He ignored her question as the heels of his hands pressed down her spine in a deliciously relaxing way. As he ran his palms back up, her shirt slid with them, and his fingertips trailed along the skin of her back until the shirt fell into place once more. The touch was so innocent, but she knew better.

The man was trying to seduce her so she forgot about the damn deal.

“Will I need a magnifying glass to see it?”

“Mmm mmm,” was his noncommittal response, thumbs digging into bunched muscles below her shoulder blades.

Oh, God. He was going to kill her with a backrub. Her bones softened like butter left out on the counter, and she could feel her body start to slide down the chair. Still…the location of the mystery tattoo had yet to be discovered, if it existed at all. She couldn’t completely surrender yet.

“Where is it?”

He kissed the top of her head, next to her ponytail, then the top of her ear. “You have to find it yourself. And I have to warn you, it’s not convenient. Looks like you’ll be doing a strip search.”

“What? That’s cheating!” The thought of unfair play annoyed her enough to shake the cobwebs from her lust-filled mind. “You never said anything about getting naked in the deal.”

“You never said anything about it being off-limits.” His mouth moved to her neck, breath heating the skin that covered her racing pulse point. Palms drifting down her sides—careful not to graze her now-heavy breasts—he smoothed them over the tops of her thighs. A strong grip forced them wide, and she felt exposed, deliciously exposed.

But damn it, he was still trying to seduce her into forgetting the bet.

Well, she wasn’t without power herself. Two could play that game. She wanted to win. Her competitive streak wouldn’t let her surrender without a fight. But along the way to the winner’s circle, she could make him suffer.

In the nicest way possible, of course.

Just as his thumbs were about to brush her in the most intimate way, she put her hands on top of his, the firm pressure warning him to be still. Turning her head, she pecked his lips and said, “You’re right. If I’m going to win, I need to do a very thorough search.”

If he was surprised by her sudden willingness to play the game, he didn’t show it. “I agree.” Then in true Rhett Butler style, he swept her off the chair and carried her upstairs. “Bedroom?”

“Far left.”

When he nudged the door all the way open, she belatedly wondered what he would think of her room.

The walls were a pale yellow, and different framed photographs of garden scenes adorned the walls. White lace curtains fluttered in front of the window, and her bedspread was white eyelet.

But the bed, oh the bed. She’d gone a little bit crazy when she had seen it, but she loved it all the same. The tall posters held up the swooping canopy—a frothy lacy concoction—and bed curtains were tied back, framing the mattress in soft puffs, ready for her to climb in.

He stood in the middle of the room, still holding her in his arms. They spun in a full three-sixty, taking in her décor. “It’s a cupcake.”

“It’s not a cupcake,” she said, indignation for her choice of bedroom theme welling up. “It’s feminine and fanciful.”

Which, really, was the understatement of the year. Her parents hadn’t let her paint, hang posters or use frills in her room. Her life was as utilitarian as it could be. It didn’t take a shrink to figure out that she now overcompensated. Thank God she’d stopped just short of putting up a vintage New Kids On The Block poster.

Brett dropped his hand and her feet hit the floor, jarring her system. Oh, how romantic. He strode to the bed and yanked back the covers, his hand sweeping over the sheets.

“Exactly what are you doing?”

“Looking for Sleeping Beauty. She’s gotta be in here somewhere.”

“Har har har. Smartass.”

He laughed and continued inspecting the room.

He did have a point. It really was a bed made more for a pre-teen. But she’d never intended to have it forever, anyway. It served its purpose as a mental suck-it to her parents and momentary dream fulfillment. When she had the time and money, she’d replace the furniture.

Right now, she was on a mission.

With his back still turned to her, she walked up behind and slid her fingers in the waistband of his jeans. His muscles contracted as she moved them around, untucked his shirt and let her fingers scratch his taut stomach.

“Am I warm?”

“Not even close.” His voice was low, rough. Pleased with himself, probably.

She could fix that.

She raised the shirt up in the back, kissing and nibbling along his spine, letting herself appreciate the muscles under his tan skin, the contours of his spine. Nope, no surprise tattoo in sight. She lifted the shirt and flung it over his shoulders, trapping his arms and head with the inside-out material.

Running her fingers over his back with the barest of touches, she was pleased with his shiver and how his flesh rose in goose bumps.

“Can I come out now?” came his dry question, muffled through his shirt.

“Oh, I suppose.” God, being in power felt incredible. She hid her smile as he pulled the shirt off the rest of the way. “Well, no tattoo here.” Rising on her toes, she kissed the seventy-six, and added, “Except for this guy. But he was a known entity.”

“Right.” His breath hitched as she bit none-too-gently on his shoulder. “You better get to searching.”

“I will. Eventually.”

Oh boy, did she have it bad. His well-muscled back had her sweating, and she was a second away from shoving him down on the bed and having her way with him, deal be damned.

Gotta slow it down, Chris.

Reaching around, she undid his belt buckle. His jeans moved even lower on his waist. Feeling the contour of his abs and hips, she couldn’t hide the excited smile. Luckily, he was still facing away from her because he’d probably be smug if he could see. But seriously, could any woman under the age of ninety look at this body and not lick her lips?