5. Dakota

Writer's block was a bitch.

Sure, it didn't help that I was attempting to write something I had no clue about, and my last attempt at "research" had been an epic failure.

I still couldn't believe I'd been chatting it up with a hockey player all night. The cocky way he took my notepad, demanding answers, then using his body to try and persuade me to confess should have been obvious clues. He was used to getting what—or whom—he wanted.

Two weeks later, I was still cursing myself for thinking he was hot, picturing his face and body when writing the spicy scenes in my book—skipping around the hockey parts because those definitely weren't flowing.

Then, there were those words he'd said in my ear when our bodies were pressed flush.

"Why don't you be a good girl and tell me why you were taking notes at a party instead of enjoying yourself?"

The deep timber of his voice when he'd said that would've been enough to haunt my dreams, but it was the "good girl" that made me weak.

I wrote romance for a living. I knew girls melted when they read about a guy calling them a good girl. A praise kink was not new. But realizing I had one? That sure as hell was.

Since I wasn't writing, I spent most of my days reading. That's where all this had started.

I had been a bookworm since I'd learned how to read. The way an author could create entire worlds with words captivated me. Their characters came alive in my mind, and I fell in love.

Books became my escape after the fallout with my dad leaving my mom. For a little while, I could forget my real life and get lost in a story. The library became my second home, where I went most days after school so I wouldn't be alone while Mom worked.

The world was moving on from paper books at an alarming rate. E-readers and electronic versions of novels took over the market share as printing costs rose each year. But even as I sat with a thousand books on my own e-reader, there was nothing quite like the smell of a physical book. It gave me a comfort I couldn't describe.

"Knock knock!" Bristol's voice called from the hallway as she pushed her way into my room.

Bracing myself for her to invite me to another hockey event, I sighed. "What's up?"

A grin split her face. "You have a visitor."

I sat up on my bed. "What? Who would visit me?" Bristol was my only friend. Growing up, I'd preferred fictional characters to living people.

There was a mischievous twinkle in her blue eyes, and I knew I wouldn't like the answer.

"Braxton."

"Braxton?" My brows drew down. "I don't know a Braxton."

Leaning against my desk, she smirked. "Oh yes, you do. Tall, dark, handsome. You two were quite cozy over at Nix's place. Or rather, their place."

My jaw dropped. The man whose words echoed in my brain, whose voice now narrated every male character I read, was here? In our house?

Realization hit, and I narrowed my eyes at my best friend. "And exactly how did he find out where I lived?"

Batting her eyes at me innocently, she replied, "Beats me. Nix said he wanted to send me flowers, so I left my address on the fridge."

I wasn't buying that story for a minute. Nix wasn't a romantic. He was down to fuck, nothing more.

"That's funny," I remarked. "I don't recall a flower delivery."

Bristol's gaze dropped to the floor, and I felt bad for pointing out that Nix wasn't the doting boyfriend she hoped he would one day become.

Snapping out of it quickly, her head snapped up as she clapped her hands in excitement. "Well, either way, Braxton must have seen it. Maybe Nix mentioned we were roommates." She shrugged.

I waved my hand in the direction of the door. "Send him away. I said all I had to say to him at the party."

Arching an eyebrow, Bristol challenged, "You mean when you ran away?"

Glaring at her, I shot back, "Well, if he had been upfront about who he was, then I would have never given him the time of day."

She scoffed. "Girl, you might be the only person in this city who doesn't know who he is. He won a championship at Hartford State, and his brother just so happens to be the biggest hockey legend we've seen in a generation. The Slates are quickly becoming American hockey royalty."

"Royalty or not, I'm not interested in whatever he came here to say." I crossed my arms so she'd know I meant business.

Undeterred, she countered, "I know you have hangups because of your dad, but I think you're missing out on an opportunity here."

I snorted. "And what opportunity is that? Am I supposed to get down on my knees and thank him for the pleasure of his attention?"

Bristol giggled. "I mean . . . If the mood strikes. You could do worse."

"Not funny."

"I'm just saying . . . If you're in desperate need of research to get the book off and running, he might be the key."

Placing a pillow over my face, I let out a frustrated scream. Taking a few calming breaths, I set it down before saying to my best friend, "Anyone but him."

She gazed at me with a confused expression on her face. "Why? He's nice."

I bit my lip, unsure whether to share with Bristol what had happened in that basement.

Rolling her eyes, she huffed. "Oh, come on. Just spill."

"He . . ." I paused. "He said something to me that night."

Pushing off the desk, she sat on my bed, her face transforming from playful annoyance to concern. "What did he say?"

God, this is so embarrassing.

"He called me a good girl." My cheeks flamed as I said the words aloud.

Staring at me, Bristol didn't blink for a solid minute before she burst out laughing. Rolling around on the bed, she gripped her sides. Finally calming down, she said, "Oh God. You really had me going there for a minute."

I whacked her with a pillow. "It's not funny!"

"Sorry." She couldn't wipe the smile off her face. "Give me a minute to pretend to be indignant that the big bad hockey player offended you by calling you a good girl."

Hugging the pillow to my chest, I said, "Who does that? Sure, fictional guys say it all the time, but flesh-and-blood men? Not a chance."

Bristol cocked her head. "Sure they do." She paused, thoughtful for a moment. "I mean, Nix does, but probably because he's willing to try anything I read in a book."

I grimaced at her admission. "Oh, Bristol. Please tell me you two aren't re-enacting scenes from my books."

Averting her gaze, she stood. "Fine. I won't tell you that."

"Gross. I may never be able to write another sex scene again if I have to picture you two in the act." I shuddered at the thought.

Don't worry. Sexy Hockey Boy will be hard to replace.

Wait, when did he change from Hot Hockey Boy to Sexy Hockey Boy?

Jesus. I was losing my goddamn mind!

Shaking my head to clear it, I said, "Regardless, I'm not interested."

"Okay." Bristol nodded. "You can tell him that yourself. He's waiting for you in the living room."

My eyes bugged out of my head, and my heart rate shot through the roof as I rose to my feet.

"You let him into the house?" I whisper-shouted, uncertain how much of our earlier conversation had floated down the stairs from my open doorway.

"Why not?" She shrugged. "I don't have a problem with him. And it's not like he bites." Bristol paused, an evil grin lighting up her face. "Or maybe he does. That's hot as fuck."

Rubbing both hands down my face, I groaned. "What am I going to do with you?"

She tossed me a wink. "You love me." Suddenly, her eyes widened, and she gasped.

"What now?" Bristol was never more dangerous than when she got an idea in her head.

"I was just thinking . . . Maybe you could convince him to pop your cherry."

"Bristol!" I screamed, promptly slamming both hands over my mouth in shock.

Yep, I was a fraud on multiple fronts. I spent my days writing about couples who fell in love while having sex along the way, yet I was still a virgin. Not that anyone would know that from reading my books. I believed that research was key to my craft, so I read my fair share of erotica and watched lots of porn. Most things weren't realistic, but I gleaned enough to make my scenes believable.

Bristol wasn't sorry in the least, offering, "Just saying. Would be a hell of a lot better than those bumbling idiots walking around campus with little to no experience. Those hockey boys know what they're doing." She waggled her eyebrows. "If you know what I mean."

I leveled her with a glare. "Subtlety isn't exactly your strong suit."

"Sooooo, are you going to greet your guest? Or should I send him up?" She rubbed her hands together gleefully.

"I hate you so much," I whined.

"You're the one that caught his attention, babe. Might as well use it to your advantage, whether you bone him or not."

She had a point. If I didn't figure out a way to nail down the logistics of the game, I might as well scrap this book. I had a notebook full of ideas, but silly me, I had already promoted this one on my socials and my readers were excited. Pulling the plug now wouldn't do me any favors. Indie authors relied on word of mouth, so pissing off my fanbase could spell disaster for my career.

"Fine," I grumbled.

She hugged me tightly. "I'm so happy for you!"

I shoved her off. "I'm not hopping into bed with the guy. I'm only in it long enough to get an inside peek at the hockey life, and then I'm out. Got it?"

Bristol nodded her head enthusiastically. "Got it."

Brushing past her, I descended the staircase slowly, like I was headed to my own execution. Behind me, Bristol bounced on each step, unable to contain her excitement.

Rounding the landing, I saw the man I'd only had the pleasure of viewing in a darkened basement. The dim lighting had cast him in a dark and broody glow, but I wanted to moan at how pretty he was in the light of day.

Dark, almost black hair was cropped close on the sides, left longer on top. Warm, amber eyes demanded I look directly into them. I wondered if they darkened when he was aroused, the same way men's eyes did when I wrote them.

His muscles were on full display with how well his clothing fit his athletic frame. Jeans hugged impressively toned thighs, and a T-shirt molded over the ridges of his chest and abdomen, barely containing his bulging biceps. I couldn't have drawn him up any better in my mind, and a small thrill ran through me at the idea that he was the perfectly built book boyfriend.

Why? Why was the first guy who'd ever made me weak in the knees at the mere sight of him an athlete? God was playing a cruel trick on me, putting him directly in my path.

He stood from where he sat on our couch, brushing both palms down his jean-clad thighs. Hesitant, he took a step forward. "Hey." He looked mildly uncomfortable when I only stared at him in response. "I, um, I wanted to stop by and say I was sorry for the other night. I'm not usually a jerk to pretty girls, but . . ." He sighed. "I thought you were a member of the press. And with how much attention is on me at the moment, I couldn't afford a story leaking about a rage at my residence with underage girls in attendance."

"Then maybe you shouldn't throw parties," I suggested.

Running a hand through that dark hair, he nodded in agreement. "You're right. It wasn't exactly my idea."

"Do you usually buckle under peer pressure?" I challenged.

Bristol fake coughed beside me, forcing out, "Remember your research."

"No," he replied. "I'm usually a leader, not a follower. And if I'm being honest, I had half a mind to leave that night, but the idea that an unsuspecting girl might get taken advantage of under my roof had me keeping watch. I was about to kick everyone out when you caught my eye from across the basement."

"How chivalrous," I muttered.

He sighed. "We got off on the wrong foot." Stepping forward, he extended a hand. "I'm Braxton. And before you ask, yes. Full disclosure, I do play hockey for the Connecticut Comets."

Eyeing his offered hand like a snake that might bite me, I was shoved forward by my oh-so-lovely best friend. Caught off guard, I stumbled, falling right into Braxton's arms.

Twin steel bands tightened around my upper body, holding me pressed close to his hard chest. And for a moment, I allowed his warmth to surround me.

What did it say about me that I wanted to nuzzle against him?

Get a grip, Dakota!

Peering up, mildly embarrassed, I mumbled, "Thanks," before trying to draw away.

Staring down at me, he slowly relinquished his grasp, asking, "Are you okay?"

Nodding, I took a step back. "Yeah. Just clumsy, I guess." I shot a murderous glare over my shoulder at Bristol.

"Well, I have to be going!" she chirped, brushing past me. Grabbing her purse, she called back from the door, "You two crazy kids have fun!"

The door slammed, and she was gone.

Closing my eyes briefly, I took a deep breath before exhaling slowly. Could she have been any more obvious? Nothing was going to happen just because she was out of the house.

That deep voice spoke. "You have me at a disadvantage. You know my name, but I still don't know yours."

I scoffed. "You're telling me, Little Miss Subtle As a Sledgehammer didn't slip you that info, along with our address?"

A corner of his lips quirked up. "Guilty."

"Let's skip the pleasantries, then," I suggested. "You said you were sorry. I accept. Anything else?"

His shy grin turned into a full-blown, dazzling smile. His teeth were perfectly straight and white. Weren't hockey players supposed to be missing teeth? Why couldn't he be unattractive? That would make this so much easier.

"Like I said earlier, we got off on the wrong foot," he began. "I'd really like it if we could have a do-over."

"A do-over?" Skepticism seeped into my tone. "What would that entail?"

Shoving both hands into his pants pockets, Braxton rocked back onto his heels. "Can I take you out sometime?"

There it was.

I was probably the first girl he'd encountered who didn't fall at his feet. He'd never had to work for it before and likely found that exciting, a novelty.

That's all this was.

Meeting his eye, I explained, "I'm not into athletes. Sorry."

"Ouch." The smile never left his face as he placed a hand over his heart, pretending to be wounded.

"But . . ." I hedged.

A hopeful expression crossed his handsome face. "I like a ‘but'." He winked.

Oh, Lord.

I gave him an exaggerated eye roll at the double entendre. "I would be open to a compromise."

"I'm listening." His gaze grew intense, and I fought the urge to squirm.

"As I mentioned, I write fiction. I'm currently working on a book that involves hockey."

"Sounds interesting." He smirked.

"I don't know much about the sport."

"Because of your allergy to athletes?" His teasing tone had me itching to abandon the whole idea.

"As Bristol so astutely pointed out before her departure, you might be the right person to help conduct some research on the subject. If you're interested, that is."

Those whiskey eyes sparkled. "If that means spending time with you, I'm in."

I pointed a finger at him. "Don't get any ideas."

"Dumb jock, remember?" Braxton used both thumbs to point at himself. "I'm not capable of coming up with ideas."

"Cute," I grumbled.

"Why, thank you." Braxton flashed those pearly whites.

Pinning my arms over my chest, I asked, "So, where would you suggest we start?"

"You don't know anything about hockey?"

I shook my head. "Not a single thing."

He scanned me head to toe, and I wanted to shrink back into myself. How did he do that? Make me feel exposed with a single glance?

"Can you skate?"

"Why—why would I need to be able to skate?" Panic stole through me. Maybe this was a bad idea. I figured he'd explain the basics and be on his way. I hadn't expected a practical demonstration.

"It's a yes or no question, Dakota."

The way my name rolled off his tongue bordered on sinful. I was in big trouble.

"Kinda? I haven't been on the ice in years."

Braxton shrugged. "It's like riding a bike. You'll be fine."

"Debatable." I eyed him. "You're not thinking of trussing me up in all that gear, are you?"

He shook his head. "As adorable as you'd look, no. The game is fast-paced. Watching live, it would be difficult to keep up. At ice level, we can slow it down. I was thinking a private lesson would be a great starting point. Just me and you. A whole sheet of ice at our disposal. What do you say?"

I was out of options; I knew that. Unless I wanted to face public backlash for abandoning my current project, there wasn't much of a choice.

Sticking my hand out, I said, "You've got a deal."

We shook on it and sealed my fate. For as long as it took to nail down this sport, I would be spending time with Braxton Slate, hockey royalty.

Now, all I needed was my brain and body to get on the same page. No matter what, I couldn't fall for his charming act. I would not repeat my mother's mistakes.