10. Dakota

Braxton: I'm sorry. I tried to stop her. I really did.

What?

I stared down at the text from Braxton. He wasn't making any sense. Before I could type out a reply asking if maybe he sent the message to the wrong person, the phone buzzed in my hand.

Unknown Number: Picking you up tomorrow at ten. Be ready.

Blinking at the phone, I was more confused than ever.

I'm sorry. I think you might have the wrong number.

Unknown Number: This is Dakota, right?

Uh, yeah. Who is this?

Unknown Number: Whoops, my bad. Not used to needing an introduction. Huh. That's a strange feeling. But I digress. The name's Hannah Moreau, but you can call me your hockey fairy godmother. Mistake number one was going to one of the guys for help. I'm the one you need to talk to for all things hockey. Those walking piles of muscles may be pretty to look at, but they're basically monkeys with sticks. Skate. Shoot. Score. Repeat. If you want to understand the game on a deeper level, I'm your girl.

I'm assuming you know Braxton, then?

Hannah: Bingo! So, when I heard he was helping you out with your "research," I stepped in.

Why did she put research in quotation marks? And why did she think she knew the game better than the players?

I appreciate the offer, but I think I'm good.

Hannah: Aw, that's cute. You think you have a choice. See you tomorrow!

What just happened? Who was this woman?

There was only one way to find out. Switching out of that text thread, I opened the one with Braxton.

Wanna explain why I'll be spending tomorrow morning with someone named Hannah?

Braxton: *Cringe emoji* She happened to overhear Jaxon talking about how you brought Natalie food while we were gone. Thank you, by the way. That was really sweet of you. And the next thing I know, she's declaring that she will be taking over your hockey education.

Okay . . . But who is she?

Braxton: *Sighs* Where do I begin? Let's see. She's our head coach's daughter. She's dating a freshly retired player who now does TV commentary for the Comets. She's the Comets anthem singer AND our travel coordinator—hence, why she was on the road trip. But if all those weren't enough, she's been best friends with Natalie since they were teenagers.

So, what you're saying is . . . she knows her stuff when it comes to hockey.

Braxton: Oh yeah.

In your opinion, is it a good idea to pick her brain? She seemed a little intense, telling me we were hanging out together doing God knows what tomorrow instead of asking.

Braxton: Believe it or not, "intense" might be one of the nicest words I've heard used to describe her.

That's not exactly a mark in the pro column.

Braxton: If you can get past the lack of filter, she's harmless. I promise.

Any idea where she plans to take me?

Braxton: Not a clue.

You're on standby if I need rescuing?

Braxton: *Winking emoji* Always. Another skating session this weekend? Have you been studying those videos?

Is there going to be a quiz?

Braxton: *Smirk emoji* Maybe.

*Grabs glasses to start jotting down notes*

Braxton: You wear glasses? That's kinda hot in a sexy-teacher kinda way.

*Eye roll emoji* You're hopeless.

Braxton: *Shrugs* Don't yuck my yum.

See you this weekend. If I survive Hannah, that is.

Braxton: You'll be fine. Text if you need anything before Saturday. I'm around between practices and games.

See you Saturday.

The doorbell rang, and nervously, I stepped through the living room to answer the door, already knowing who was waiting on the other side.

I was not prepared to come face to face with arguably the most stunning woman I'd ever seen in real life. Sparkling blue eyes scanned me from head to toe, almost as if she were assessing whether or not I was worth her time. Brown hair threaded with caramel highlights was twisted into a braid hanging over one shoulder. A tight crop top stretched across her breasts, exposing the skin of her slim mid-section, with workout leggings completing her look. And most shocking of all were her shoes. Who wore flip-flops in November?

Choice of footwear aside, this was what I expected to see on the arm of a hockey player. She looked so beautiful dressed down that I feared the sight would be blinding when she was fully put together.

But beyond her physical appearance, she exuded a confidence I wished I could bottle.

Hannah Moreau gave off serious I-don't-care-what-you-think-of-me vibes.

A corner of her full lips turned up. "I see it."

My eyebrows rose. "Excuse me?"

"Nothing." She waved a dismissive hand. "You ready to go?"

Peering down at my clothing choice of jeans and an oversized sweater, I said, "You didn't mention where we were going. Do I need to change?"

"Nope. We'll be stripping down as soon as we get there anyway." Her blue eyes sparked with amusement.

"S-stripping down?" I stammered.

Hannah smirked. "Don't get your panties in a twist." She leaned in conspiratorially. "That is, if you're wearing any, which I am not. You'll be covered in a towel or a robe if you choose. Now grab your stuff, and let's go."

She didn't have to tell me twice. Snatching my purse from the entryway table, I stepped outside, locking the door behind me.

When I turned around, Hannah was halfway to her silver luxury SUV.

"I'm Dakota, by the way," I offered, moving toward the car.

Flicking her wrist over her shoulder, she replied, "I know."

So much for pleasantries. But I couldn't help but smile. From a brief glimpse of Hannah's sassy personality, I could picture what Bristol would be like in ten years. That was, if she ever managed to land Nix, which I highly doubted. Thankfully, she hadn't let him distract her from her schoolwork and would graduate with a useful degree in six months.

I hopped into the passenger seat, and Hannah drove us to an upscale neighborhood with a downtown area lined with shops and restaurants. Parking the SUV, she didn't wait for me before entering the front door of what looked like a spa.

Following, I pushed through the door, confirming my suspicions. Hannah was already chatting up the woman at the front desk about treatments.

Sidling up to her at the desk, I whispered, "I can't afford this."

A charming yet fake laugh filtered past her lips, and she held up a finger to the receptionist as she pulled me to the side. "Look. I get you don't know me yet, but give me a little credit. I brought you here. It's my treat."

"I couldn't possibly—" I began to protest, but the words died on my lips when she held up a hand.

"Trust me. I've been there. My girlfriends were mega-rich before they married well. My family did okay, but we weren't raking in trust-fund-level money. I was living with my parents until a little over a year ago. And I'm thirty-two, for the record, so I was practically the poster child for failure-to-launch syndrome. I know what it's like to feel like a burden as your friends pick up the tab time and time again. So, consider this me paying it forward. My girls did it for me, so let me do it for you. Maybe one day you can do it for someone else."

Wow. I guess you really couldn't judge a book by its cover.

Nice, Dakota. Real original. The author using a worn-out book idiom.

"Okay." I nodded, accepting Hannah's generous gesture. "Thank you."

Hannah shrugged. "No biggie. If you want to make it up to me, I won't say no to my name being credited in the back of your book. Or, better yet, in the dedication." She snorted. "Oh boy, that would piss Natalie off big time."

Stunned, I asked, "You know about my book?"

Reaching up a hand, she patted me on the cheek. "Dear sweet Dakota, I know much more than you think."

Yeah, that doesn't sound like trouble at all.

Spinning around, she checked us in, and we were led to a private changing room with a full shower. There was a full rack of towels, high-end beauty products laid across the marble sink, and two robes hung on hooks for our use.

Hannah had no shame, shedding her clothes out in the open—quickly and without warning—so I couldn't avert my eyes in time. She was comfortable in her own skin; that went without question. Shyly, I wrapped a towel around myself, wiggling out of my clothes from beneath it. I was having major gym class locker room flashbacks with this move.

"You've got a hot little body." Hannah's voice startled me, and I lost my grip on the towel.

In slow motion, I watched as it floated toward the ground, and I was left standing there naked for inspection. My first instinct was to cover myself the best I could with my hands while retrieving it, but Hannah halted me with her words. "Own it."

Wide-eyed, I peeked over at her, also standing naked, following her very own advice and owning it. My cheeks heated, but I couldn't look away.

"Take a deep breath." I couldn't help but obey. "Good. Now, step in front of the mirror."

What was happening? Was this a scene from one of my books where a character was forced to watch their reflection as a partner got them off? Certainly not. Hannah was attached. At least, that's what Braxton had said. Right?

Blue eyes sparkling with mischief, she seemingly read my mind. "Relax. I'm batting for Team Loves a Giant Cock."

Good to know.

After another cleansing breath, I moved to the mirror. Hannah remained off to the side, commanding, "Look at yourself and tell me what you like about your body."

Oh boy. Here goes nothing.

"Um. I guess I have nice skin?" That was the best place to start. Safe.

"Was that a question or a statement?" Hannah called over.

Nodding to my reflection, I clarified, "A statement. I have nice skin."

"Good. Continue."

"My breasts are a decent size. Not too big, not too small."

Hannah laughed. "You have great tits. Trust me. What else?"

"I like my hourglass figure. Hips aren't always a bad thing." I was gaining confidence with each declaration.

"You've got that right. Men go fucking nuts for hips to grab onto."

My cheeks turned red in the mirror. I would have to take her word on that.

Hannah clapped her hands. "Okay, that's enough. Grab a robe. Can't stand around all day eyeing your sexy bod. I promised you help with your research, so that's what you're gonna get."

Grabbing the nearest robe and slipping my arms through the soft sleeves, I asked, "Here?"

"Why not?" she countered, donning her robe and tying the sash. "Kill two birds with one stone. You get what you need, and we get a relaxing day of pampering. That's a win in my book."

She had a point. As long as we were here, we might as well enjoy ourselves.

Our first stop was side-by-side massages. I didn't realize how tight my muscles were from sitting and writing all day, every day. But with the first press of the masseur's hands, I groaned at the pleasurable release of my sore muscles, and Hannah chuckled from her table.

"See? Told you this was a great idea," she teased.

"Uh-huh." My eyes were closed, reveling in the tension leaving my body.

Halfway through, my body felt like putty, loose and malleable. Hannah's voice called over, "So, tell me what you know so far about hockey."

Right. We were here to work, not just play. "I know the names of the lines: goal line, blue line, and red line. Then, there's equipment—stick, puck, gear. There are five players for each team, plus a goalie. Sometimes, there are penalties that take a player away from a team. Offense and defense play on the ice simultaneously, and they swap out in the middle of the action, not just when whistles blow."

"Not a bad start," Hannah mused. "Do you know the specific position names beyond offense and defense?"

I searched my mind. I knew this. "Defense is made up of defensemen. The offense is forwards, I think?"

"Very good. And what positions can you play as a forward?"

My nose wrinkled in thought, but I was drawing a blank. "I forget."

"That's okay. They can either be wingers or centers. The center has free reign of the ice, but he's your playmaker. There's only one of those per shift, and as you can guess, they are usually at the faceoff circle in the middle of a line. Then, there are two wingers, a left and a right. They tend to stick to their side, but there is some fluidity. The three forwards usually have built some chemistry by playing together for a while. They will swap positions to cover the ice. In all honesty, watching it is a thing of beauty. Have you been to a game?"

"No." I was almost ashamed to admit that with how passionately she spoke about the sport.

"Then we'll have to make that happen. I'm happy to sit by your side and explain the action as it happens in real-time."

"Maybe," I replied. Going to the rink with Braxton was one thing. But being at a professional game again after all this time? I wasn't sure I was ready for that yet.

Our massage at an end, we thanked the men working on us, and Hannah handed them each a tip. Moving down the hall, we entered another room with one large table at the center. It looked almost like what you'd see in a doctor's office.

Looking to Hannah for answers since she seemed to know what was going on, I asked, "What happens in this room?"

A wicked grin curved on her lips. "Waxing."

Stumbling back a step, I crashed into the table. "What? No."

She'd seen me naked. Only one place could be considered for forceful hair removal, and that was not happening.

"Oh, come on, Dakota," she chided. "It's the twenty-first century. Sure, some guys are into the natural look, but most go feral when a girl is bare. I'm doing you a favor."

"A favor?" I scoffed. "I beg to differ. Ripping my hair out by the roots"—I gestured to the area between my legs—"there isn't helping me in any way." Under my breath, I added, "Sounds more like torture."

"Agree to disagree." She shrugged unapologetically. "Don't tell me you're not curious."

My eyes bulged. "I can tell you with absolute certainty, a bikini wax has never—not once—crossed my mind."

Hannah stalked forward, her voice softening. "You're telling me you've never wondered what it would be like to have silk panties slide over bare skin, teasing your clit with every step you take?" I swallowed, but she continued, "The soft graze of a man's fingers bringing goosebumps right there?"

Her words came out breathy, and the mental imagery had me more than a little turned on. My brain and body were not on the same page, and without warning, I blurted, "Yes."

Biting her lower lip, Hannah was unable to hide her triumphant expression. "Thought so. You'll thank me later."

Hannah Moreau was not like any woman I'd ever met. She knew what she wanted and had no shame in the tactics used to get it. Somehow, I had landed on her radar, and something deep down inside of me knew I would never be the same.

The door opened, and a woman dressed in what looked like black pajamas entered.

Smiling, she introduced herself, "Hello, ladies. I'm Tina, and I'll be your esthetician this morning. I've got you down for two Brazilians. Who would like to go first?"

I looked right at Hannah. There was no way I was getting on that table before her.

Rolling her eyes, she huffed, "Fine. I'm first." Situating herself on the table, she muttered in my direction, "Baby."

She could call me names all day long. Nothing would change the fact that I was in this room under duress.

Opening her robe, Hannah reclined, spreading her legs. I didn't want to look. Lord knows I didn't, but chalk it up to morbid curiosity, my gaze honed in on her pussy. Dark stubble was scattered across her mound—a dead giveaway she'd done this before—if her vivid description from earlier hadn't been enough.

Tina smoothed translucent amber wax over the area with what looked like a popsicle stick before covering it with cloth strips. Peering up at Hannah, she asked, "You need a count?"

Shaking her head, Hannah replied, "Nope. Just do your thing."

I watched on in horror as Tina tugged the first strip away, leaving a patch of bare skin. Hannah didn't move a muscle or make a sound. How was that even possible? One by one, the cloths were removed, the skin beneath turning a pale pink in response. Using a warm cloth, Tina wiped away any lingering traces of wax before placing what she explained was a cooling balm over the area.

Hannah closed her robe and hopped off the table, tilting her head toward the seat she'd vacated. "Your turn."

Pleading with her with my eyes, I begged, "Is there no way I can get out of this?"

She shook her head sharply, but her sapphire eyes sparked. "Nope. Consider it part of your research."

"I don't see how this pertains to hockey," I argued.

"Braxton might be oblivious to the kind of book you're writing, but I've been around the block. Also doesn't hurt that Natalie is all about the word porn."

My hackles raised. "Romance and erotica are not the same thing."

"If there's sex, it's porn. And you won't change my mind about that. But keep telling yourself whatever you need to sleep at night." She paused. "Now, tell me, how many of your heroines are waxed?"

I scowled at Hannah. She'd backed me into a corner, but I couldn't deny she had me pegged. "All of them," I grumbled.

Smirking, her reply was chipper. "I rest my case." Patting the table, she commanded, "Up you go."

Steeling my nerves, I climbed onto the padded table. Reluctantly, I opened my robe and spread my legs. I wasn't sporting an unruly bush; I trimmed it, but there was still a more significant amount of growth than Hannah had sported before her wax.

Eyeing the area, Tina set to work. The wax was warm, soothing almost, and I relaxed. That was, until she pulled the first strip. I yelped, the sting catching me off guard. I guess Hannah not needing a count meant I didn't either.

"Wanna hold my hand?" I could hear the smile in Hannah's voice even though my eyes were tightly shut.

"No," I said, breathing through the pain. "Just get it over with."

The second strip wasn't quite as shocking, but it still hurt like a son of a bitch. Biting my lip, my eyes remained closed as I reminded myself to breathe. The last thing I needed was to pass out getting waxed and have paramedics called to find me naked and unconscious.

Finally, I felt the wet washcloth and the balm being spread over my abused skin. It must have contained aloe because it provided a cooling sensation to soothe the burn.

"You did great," Hannah declared.

Forcing my eyes open, I glared at her, saying through gritted teeth, "You're not my favorite person right now."

Throwing a hand to her chest, she let out an exaggerated gasp. "You wound me. And here I thought we could invite you into our girl gang."

Closing my robe, I sat up. "If this is how you have fun with your friends, I think I'm good."

She nodded thoughtfully. "You know, they're not all that much fun right now. I was getting a little lonely, so you fell into my lap at just the right time."

"Lucky me." I fought the urge to roll my eyes. I didn't want to appear ungrateful for the day of pampering Hannah was treating me to, but I would have liked the option to say no to the waxing.

Our final stop was manicures and pedicures.

Sinking into the chair beside Hannah, I let out a sigh. Now this would be good for me.

The nail techs offered a selection of colors and styles. I asked for a simple French manicure and picked a pale pink for my toes. I wasn't flashy; I liked the understated, feminine look. Hannah, however, went for a shocking cherry red.

They offered us mimosas, which Hannah lunged for, throwing back the contents of an entire champagne flute and asking for a refill immediately.

"You can take mine," I offered.

Head whipping to stare at me, she said, "Oh no. I'm not drinking alone. Been doing that all damn year. All my friends were either pregnant or nursing. It was awful."

It was impossible to say no to this woman, and I folded under the pressure. "Okay." Taking the glass held out to me on a tray, I took a sip. The orange juice wasn't enough to overpower the dry taste of champagne.

Boy, these are strong.

Making a conscious decision to nurse a single mimosa as Hannah pounded them down, I figured we needed one of us sober enough to drive home. What I would do with her once I got back to my place, I wasn't sure. Maybe I could offer to let her sleep it off.

Not wanting the day to be a total waste, I asked, "So, what do you do for the Comets? Braxton mentioned that you work for the team?"

Hannah nodded. "On the record, I've been the anthem singer for over ten years, but they don't pay me for that. As of last season, I am paid as their travel coordinator. I book the accommodations for road trips, work with the in-house teams at other arenas, and make sure everything is all hunky-dory while the boys travel for away games."

"How often do they travel?"

Attempting to count on her fingers several times and missing, I realized how sloppy she was getting. Dragging her to the car wouldn't be fun.

"Let's see—eighty-two regular season games. Half are away . . . So that's . . . That's . . ."

"Forty-one?" I gave her a much-needed assist on that simple math.

"Bingo!" She pointed her finger in my face. "You're sooooooo smart!"

It was so hard not to laugh at her drunken glee.

Hannah's words were slurred, but she continued, "My unofficial position involves analyzing the game. My dad is the head coach, so I've been raised at the rink. He played until I was ten before moving on to coaching. I'm a student of the game. I know it inside and out. Even played it until I hit my teen years. I'm the one pouring over hours of film scouting recruits and free agents during the offseason and offering suggestions. Beyond that, I'm pretty good at putting a bug in a certain few players' ears. It's like I have over twenty brothers."

"But you're dating a player, correct?"

She sat bolt upright, causing the nail tech to miss where she was painting her big toe. "Yes!" Slumping back into her seat, she added, "But that was a whole ordeal. I wasn't allowed to date the players, or rather, they weren't allowed to date me. If you haven't guessed, the rules can't hold me, so I didn't stop till I bagged one." Hannah bit her lip but couldn't stifle a moan. "Oh, and boy, did I get one. Highly recommend."

Before I could respond, a blond behemoth of a man walked into the room. He was easily the tallest man I'd ever seen in real life, and you could see every defined muscle beneath his tight-fitting T-shirt and perfectly tailored jeans. The man was gorgeous, and I couldn't take my eyes off him.

I breathed out, "Oh. My. God."

Hannah followed my line of sight before exclaiming, "Baby! You made it!"

This guy?

God, he looked like he could split Hannah in half. And I meant that in a good way. My core clenched just thinking about it.

The man stalked closer, shaking his head, eyes drifting toward the ceiling.

"He's huge." The words flew out of my mouth before I could stop them, and I immediately slapped a hand over it in embarrassment.

Leaning over, Hannah whispered—well, at least what she thought was whispering; I was pretty sure they could hear her in the next room, "Can confirm he's big everywhere." My eyes widened before dropping discreetly to the area of his crotch on approach. "Oh, and he's pierced too." Hannah sighed. "Feel free to use that in your book."

Stopping before us, the man exhaled heavily, eyeing Hannah with disapproval. "It's one in the afternoon on a Wednesday, Hannah."

She reached her arms out to him like a toddler, and he willingly pulled her out of the chair, where she proceeded to cling to him. Or, more accurately, he held her up with how unstable she was on her feet.

Hand snaking up his chest, Hannah replied, "I booked you for a wax, honey. You know how much I love your smooth chest." She turned to me. "A stubbly chest is as bad as a prickly pussy. Remember that."

It was like watching a train wreck. I couldn't look away, no matter how hard I tried.

"Not today. I've gotta get you home, then get back to work." The man spoke with a hard edge to his voice.

Pouting, she huffed. "Fine." He began to lead her away, but she turned around, halting him. "Cal, don't be rude! Say hi to Dakota!"

Cal pinched the bridge of his nose with his free hand. "Hello, Dakota. Allow me to apologize for Hannah being unable to hold her liquor."

I waved shyly. "Not a problem. We had a fun time."

"Clearly," he muttered, peering down at Hannah plastered to his side, her hand moving toward the waistband of his jeans, and he had to reach out to stop her from venturing lower.

"Hannah drove me today. If you want, I can drop her car off if you send me a location," I offered. "I barely had a sip or two of my mimosa."

Shaking his head, Cal replied, "I'll drive her car home. I figured she'd be incapacitated, so I had a car drop me off. It should still be out front, and you can use it to get where you need to go."

"Thanks." I gave him a small smile.

Turning, he led Hannah away. The words said to her barely reached my ears. "What am I gonna do with you?"

Beaming up at him, her voice carried. "You love me, big guy. It's cute that you pretend I don't bring the spice to your life."

I chuckled behind my hand as they left the room, and the nail tech finished up the final touches on my feet.

Their interaction was entertaining, but it also made me think. I could only imagine the hell that would rain down if my mom had ever been caught day drinking to excess in a public place. I could hear my dad's rant in my head now about how embarrassed he would be. That she was a reflection of him.

But of course, Mom would never have done something to displease him. As much as I loved her, she had been a complete doormat when it came to my dad. Not that that had worked out well for her in the end.

Cal was annoyed with Hannah, sure, but there was still affection in his eyes. He'd dropped everything in the middle of his workday to come and take her home. That spoke volumes about where his priorities lay.

The more I learned about these Comets couples, the more intrigued I became.