Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

Chloe

"Why are men so dumb?" Sushi doesn't answer me, but she does swim around and around in a circle, against the perimeter of her tank. Maybe she's getting in her daily exercise like I did this morning with the new treadmill that takes up half my bedroom. While I'm not looking to drop any weight–I'm fucking perfect the way I am, thank you very much–I do want to be my healthiest self. And that means working out. Just not in the hot Florida sun.

Nikolai's words echo in my brain at the most inopportune times. "Can't be seen together? Even as colleagues? What am I? A dirty little secret?" I smirk and lean closer to the mirror over my dresser to swipe on more mascara. "Although, I kind of like the idea of that."

After a very vanilla marriage with Josh, I might like the idea of being someone's dirty little secret. Even just the thought of it, and especially being Nikolai ' s secret, has my skin flushing. I twist the cap on the mascara and toss it in my makeup bag.

"I'm off to consult with Dad. Don't get into any trouble." Sushi stops her circles long enough to swish a long, turquoise tail at me.

With the sun fading into the Gulf, I swing my duffle bag onto my shoulder and hop in my car to drive to the practice arena to speak with Dad about my rec league. He should be about to head home for the evening. It's taken me several weeks just to research the do's and don'ts, and to come up with the proper documentation to get this thing going. Apparently, lawyers like to be involved so no one can sue the league if there are injuries. I think I have everything in place and can now start to reach out for donors. That's where Dad comes in. He knows everyone in hockey, and he knows who has the deep pockets. Even with retirement on the horizon, he still has the clout to help me negotiate renting the practice facility at a steal.

I hold out the name tag Dad made for me the day I moved back to Tampa and flash it at security. They wave me through, and I head straight for Dad's office. As predicted, he's packing up his bag and straightening up his desk. Dad has always been meticulous about his office space, the complete opposite of Mom's chaotic mess. One of the many reasons those two weren't compatible over the long run.

"Hey, pumpkin." Dad immediately comes over to give me a hug. "Have I told you how glad I am you're back in Tampa?"

"Only several dozen times," I drawl.

He has a seat in one of the two club chairs in front of his desk and waves me to the other one. "What's on your mind?"

I pull out the worn notebook from my duffle bag where I keep all the notes about my league. I go over the recent developments and ask for possible donors to hit up. Dad lists off almost twenty names which is more than I hoped for. I'm feverishly writing down the names when I realize he's looked at his watch twice.

"Got a hot date?"

Dad makes a choking noise and tugs at the collar of his pristine deep blue polo shirt. "No, no. Just getting hungry. Forgot to eat lunch."

Interesting. I study his face and the way he's no longer looking at me. Dad may be retirement age, but even I can see he's a handsome man. He's kept fit over the years and the silver threading through the temples of his dark brown hair only makes him look like George Clooney. I decide to put him out of his misery. I snap the notebook closed and drop it into my duffle.

"Hey, any chance I can take a spin out on the ice before I leave?"

Dad stands, looking relieved. "Sure, sure. There's a junior league that's just about finished. You can skate once they clear out. Fred won't be by with the Zamboni until eight."

I give him a hug and lug my bag out of his office. He rushes off and I watch him go, mind tumbling with this new reality. Dad's dating? I'm not sure how I feel about that, but if it makes him happy, then I guess I need to get used to it.

The second I step through those doors and feel the blast of cold air, I feel like I'm stepping back in time. So much of my youth was spent on the ice. Hell, even the smell brings back memories, some good, some that make my ribs ache. Once upon a time, I fell in love with a man in one of these rinks. Shouts from the junior league fill the air and I plop down on a bench to pull out my old skates. God, I haven't worn these in years. Probably not since Josh got sick. I figure if I'm going to be running a youth hockey league, I have to practice so I don't fall on my face the first time I take the ice in front of the little kids. I'm hoping it's like riding a bicycle.

My hands go through the motions, lacing my skates from muscle memory. The junior league barrels off the ice, making so much noise I almost feel the need to plug my ears. Instead, I sigh and wait, wondering when I got so old that teens being rambunctious became annoying instead of funny. Once they've cleared out of the rink, I stand up and get my bearings. My forty-two-year-old ankles let out a warning, but I silently tell them to buck up. I grab one of the loaner sticks off the bench and try to ignore how much tape is wrapped around it. Back in my day, I had the newest, most expensive equipment money could buy, thanks to Dad.

Taking a few tentative steps, I grab the wall and look down at the ice. So many memories flash before my eyes, but I shove them all away and glide out onto the icy sheet like I'm a new woman.

The wind ruffles my hair, and my thighs tremble a bit as I pick up speed, my body inherently knowing what to do without my brain having to engage. I get close to the end of the rink and I slow, leaning a bit and pushing off, effortlessly gliding into an arching turn. As I hit the straight away, I close my eyes for a moment, letting all the emotions flood through me, ending with a triumphant return to a part of myself I'd stuffed away in favor of dealing with the heavy responsibilities of life.

I fucking love hockey. My heart rate seems to pump out that simple sentence over and over until I'm screaming it in my head, elated to be back out on the ice. A smile stretches across my face and I feel more like me than I have in decades.

"Blind hockey is a thing in America, yes?"

A deep baritone has my eyes flying open and my skates catching on a ridge of ice left over from the teenagers. Nikolai stands there in a pair of sweatpants, a Tampa Bay Rays sweatshirt, and black skates, his hockey stick slung casually against his shoulder. His hair is artfully rumpled and the short beard covering his jawline is worthy of a cologne ad. I do a quick double step on my skates and wobble more than I'd like to admit, but I'm able to stay on my feet. "She is beauty, she is grace" does not apply to me in any way right now. Nikolai reaches one hand out and grabs hold of my elbow as I come to a pathetic stop right in front of his skates. Pretty sure I spray ice onto his sweatpants and I hit him in the chest with my stick, but I don't dare look down to confirm.

"Didn't know anyone else was here," I say lamely.

"It helps to have one's eyes open to know if someone is there," Nikolai drawls in that accent that gets under my skin. "I come for extra practice most days of the week."

His hand is still on my arm, and I try to ignore how much I like his hands on me. "I'll keep that in mind next time."

"I did not know you skate."

My smirk is more flirt than snark. My stomach swoops with nervous energy when his gaze drops to my mouth. "Daughter of a hockey coach? You better believe I can skate. That and the D1 scholarship for hockey."

His blue eyes widen just enough to let me know he's surprised. Most people are when they find out that girls can play hockey too. Who would have guessed owning a uterus doesn't preclude one from swinging a stick across the ice?

"What?" I challenge when he still doesn't respond and his thumb starts to sweep across my bicep. I deeply regret the long sleeve shirt that keeps our skin from actually touching.

He swallows hard, and when he speaks, his voice is rockier than this sheet of ice after a herd of teen boys. "That is fucking hot."

Every cell in my body warms and preens under his gaze. "Want to play?"

I'm surprised the ice doesn't crack and liquefy under the heat pumping between us. Nikolai's hand grips me tighter. "I most definitely want to play with you, Chloe."

Why does that feel like a promise that'll have my toes curling? "You gotta let go of me first, brick house."

Sadly, he does, surprise written all over his face, like he isn't even aware that he stayed connected to me long after social graces suggest letting go. I dig in my blades, skating backward away from him. I'm grateful beyond belief when I don't wobble or completely bite it. He pulls a puck out of the pocket of his sweatpants and throws it at my feet once I'm ten yards away.

"Would you like to score, Chloe?" His lips quirk up at one side, and I nearly die right on the spot. This is a man of few words, but when he decides to flirt, those words are fucking potent.

I casually swipe a gloved hand across my mouth, just to make sure I'm not actually drooling. "I don't know. I was always taught not to play with strangers." Referring, of course, to his stupid insistence on acting like we don't know each other when we've already shared a kiss.

Nikolai says nothing and I spring into action, swiping my stick and sending the puck toward the net. I miss by over three feet, but he's gracious enough not to taunt me about it. He flicks the puck back and nods at me to go again.

We go like that for half an hour, me rusty as hell and trying to get a puck past a world class professional goalie. Not a single one goes in, but by the time I race across the ice with the puck zig-zagging left and right before I flick my wrist, I feel like I've dusted off the cobwebs of my skills. Nikolai deflects the puck so seamlessly, even without his pads and gloves, that I forget to stop, crashing into him at full speed. I hear the audible "oof" from his mouth, but he drops his stick and twists so it's his body that hits the ice as we go down. Even so, every bone in my body is jarred.

A few seconds later, I blink my eyes open and assess whether I'm still alive. I'm laying across Nikolai's warm chest, my thick legs tangled with his long limbs. I huff some hair that had fallen across my face and gawk downward at the most handsome man I've ever met. Good grief, Chloe, you could have maimed the man.

"You should have let me take the fall. Dad would kill me if you got injured."

His smile is slow to bloom, and I have a front row seat to it. Hopefully the smile means he's not injured. Or maybe the smile is the after effect of a concussion. I should really read up on first aid before I open my league.

"How would he even know? We are strangers still, yes? You were never here."

A man who would literally take the fall for me? Fuck, I can't tell you how much I love that. I lick my lips and realize belatedly that might not be the best thing to do when laying on top of the man you dream about when you're all alone at night. His smile falters and his gaze follows my tongue.

"What if I don't want to be strangers?" I ask, suddenly breathless.

His icy blue eyes grow impossibly warm. "I will not blow at the whisker. You are in my mind constantly, Chloe Cooper, which means you could never be a stranger."