6. Braxton

Going to Dakota's house, I had intended to ask her out—cognizant that she wasn't interested but willing to give it a try anyway. What I hadn't expected was that she would ask to spend time with me, learning the game. It seemed almost a contradiction that a girl so vehemently opposed to sports would choose to write a book about hockey.

There was more to this story, and I was hopeful that spending time together would help uncover the details—not only about her, but her choice of subject matter. From her notes at the house party, Dakota wasn't looking to paint professional hockey players in a favorable light.

It was up to me to change her mind.

The season had gotten off to a hot start, with the Comets winning the home opener against the San Diego Surf, then a quick road trip to Manhattan, securing a victory over the New York Freedom. All eyes were on us as the reigning champions. The oddsmakers in Vegas had us as favorites to repeat.

Back in Hartford after an overnight stay in New York, I texted Dakota.

Home for a few days before our next road trip. You have time for that hockey lesson?

Trying to play it cool when I saw those three dots indicating she was typing her reply, I threw my phone in my stall and headed out to practice. I didn't want to seem too eager with an instant response to whatever she sent back. That didn't mean I wasn't desperate to know her answer. It was all I could think about as Coach Moreau ran us through drills, preparing us to play the Chicago Crush later that night.

Sweaty, with my muscles mildly achy, I went straight for my phone once Coach dismissed us to shower and rest prior to the game. Grinning, I saw Dakota had texted me back.

Dakota: I guess. Do we really have to go onto the ice?

You either want the full experience or you don't—your choice.

Dakota: Ugh. It's not about what I want, but what I need.

Pick you up tomorrow at five?

Dakota: I can drive myself. Just send me the address.

Sure thing. Dress warm. See you tomorrow.

Sending over the location of the Comets' practice rink located in the Hartford suburbs, I hit the showers, unable to wipe the smile from my face. She might be fighting it, but getting my foot in the door was the first step. Whatever hangup she had about professional athletes, I was confident I could show her that not all of us lived up to the stereotypes portrayed by the media—or the ones banging your roommate.

I had to stifle a laugh when Dakota showed up at the rink dressed in a winter parka and snow pants. When I said to dress warm, I had meant a hat and gloves, not like she was about to climb Mount Everest and would die of frostbite if every inch of her skin wasn't covered.

Taking my time, eyeing her from head to toe, I asked, "Are you going to be able to move in that getup?"

Glaring at me with brilliant blue eyes, she countered, "I can go home right now. Don't test me."

The last thing I wanted was for her to cut our "date" short. Maybe I was delusional, but I couldn't shake the feeling that this girl was special. And it was nagging at me day and night to find out why.

Holding my hands up in surrender, I backed down. "Sorry. But may I suggest ditching the snow gear? It's chilly, but not frozen-tundra-level cold inside the rink."

"You were the one who said to dress warm," Dakota grumbled.

Chuckling, I conceded, "You're right. I did. I shouldn't have been so vague. Word choice matters."

Those blue eyes snapped up to mine and widened. "What did you just say?"

"Word choice matters?" She nodded, and I shrugged. "All I was trying to say was that you have to be careful how you use words and phrasing to make sure they have the right meaning."

Blinking at me for a moment, she shook her head slightly as if to clear it. "Uh-huh."

What was going on here? I tilted my head, hoping she would offer further explanation, but when she didn't, I let it drop.

"Can I help you with your coat?" I offered, outstretching a hand.

Stepping back, Dakota put space between us. "I've got it. Hands to yourself."

Shoving both hands in my track pants, I made it clear I wouldn't try to touch her again as she shed her coat. Beneath, she wore only a T-shirt. It made sense since it was mid-October that she wouldn't think to layer with the winter coat.

"The snow pants, too," I commanded.

Dakota shot me a glare, her body tensing. "Is this a game? You purposely tell me to overdress so you can watch me strip down?"

Had she always been so defensive? From my conversation with Bristol, I knew she'd been hurt by an athlete. It wasn't hard to believe she threw up walls to protect herself; I often did the same thing.

Don't get me wrong, I was definitely interested in what she had going on under those clothes, but she didn't realize that I was more intrigued at the prospect of discovering the girl hiding beneath the mask.

"To prove it's not my evil plan to watch you shed layers, I'll go grab your skates. What size do you need?"

She sighed, and I watched as her muscles visibly relaxed at my offer. "I'm a size seven."

"Coming right up," I threw over my shoulder, already headed for the rental counter.

Telling the attendant what size I needed, I explained that I would be right back to pick them up. Making a quick detour into the pro shop, I snagged a few items for Dakota. Grabbing the skates, I returned to where she sat on a bench, already shucking her sneakers.

"Here." I placed the skates beside her feet.

"Thanks," she replied, not looking up before shoving her feet inside and working on the laces.

Noticing she wasn't tightening them enough, I dropped the rest of the items I carried on the seat beside her, getting down on one knee.

"What are you doing?" Dakota asked, panicked, when I covered her hands with mine, halting her motions.

Staring up at her, our faces were barely a breath away with her bent over. Every cell in my body screamed for me to close the gap and capture her lips in a kiss, but I knew that would ruin everything. She wasn't ready. And if I was being honest, I wanted more than a meaningless physical relationship. That meant playing the long game.

A kiss now would mean game over.

"Braxton?" There was a question in her eyes.

Clearing my throat, I forced out, "Your skates. You can't leave them too loose, or you'll hurt your ankles." Daring to hope she might let me do this one small thing, I asked, "May I?"

Dakota chewed on her lip but nodded, removing her hands.

Making quick work of the laces, I stood before I was tempted to do anything more. "All done," I declared.

She wiggled her skate-clad feet before standing. "You weren't kidding about tying them tight. I'm not going to lose circulation, am I?"

I shook my head. "Nah. If I haven't lost a foot yet, you'll survive the next few hours."

"Hours?" Her eyebrows rose. "Can't you give me a cheat sheet?"

A smirk crept onto my face. "Where would be the fun in that?"

Dakota narrowed her eyes. "Back to the games, I see."

My next words slipped out before I could stop them. "Firefly, I get paid to play games."

Mentally cursing myself, I braced for the backlash, but Dakota went silent, dropping her gaze.

Knowing I was playing with fire, I tipped her chin up. "What's wrong? I'm sorry if I overstepped."

Sad eyes stared back at me. "You know Nix calls me the Ice Queen, don't you? Well, at least to my face. When he thinks I'm out of earshot, it switches to Frigid Bitch."

Anger surged in my veins. "Fuck him. Is he the reason you hate athletes? For what he's doing to Bristol, what he's said about you? Please, please, please, don't let him be the benchmark. I can prove most of us are nothing like him."

A tear slipped down her cheek, and I felt like the biggest asshole alive for making her cry. Why couldn't I keep my big mouth shut?

"No," Dakota whispered. "It's not him."

Cupping her face, a small thrill ran through me when she didn't immediately pull away. "It's not okay that he calls you names, either to your face or behind your back."

She shrugged. "I get it. I'm not exactly his biggest fan, and I'd rather have my nose in a book than go out on dates. But that's my choice."

"That doesn't make you cold. Within minutes of meeting you, I knew you had a spark. You didn't back down. I like that about you. It's refreshing." Pausing, I confessed, "It's why I couldn't stay away."

That admission broke the trance, and she pulled away so quickly that the back of her knees hit the bench, and she fell onto it with a thud.

"Anyway . . ." Dakota let out a nervous laugh. "Are you ready to skate, or what?"

Stepping to the side, I allowed her to stand. "Not quite." Reaching for the pile of Comets branded apparel I had purchased at the pro shop, I held them out to her. "Figured we could reach a happy medium on appropriate clothing for the ice."

Tentatively, she reached out, taking my offering of a hat and hoodie. Donning the hat, she fussed with it until she had it where she wanted it, her dark curls spilling out over her shoulders. Flipping the hoodie over, she caught sight of the name Slate written across the back, along with my number, eleven.

Head tilted toward the ceiling, she teased, "Couldn't help yourself, could you?"

What could I say? There was something primal about seeing a girl you liked wearing your name and number. It was my subtle way of staking a claim on her.

"Would you rather freeze?" I challenged.

Eyes sparkling, she threw the oversized hoodie over her head, knocking the navy and gray winter hat slightly askew.

"Good choice." I threw her a wink.

Skates were on my feet more often than street shoes, so walking in them was second nature. But beside me, Dakota practically stomped her feet as we worked from the lobby to the ice surface. Not gonna lie; it was kind of adorable.

Unlocking the door, I held it open for Dakota to step onto the ice. Nervously, she peeked at me before sliding her front foot onto the ice. I didn't realize her mistake until it was too late. Putting all her weight on that skate, it kept moving forward while her back leg remained on solid ground. She dropped so fast from my field of vision it took a moment to process that she was at my feet, her body spread out in a split.

"Oh shit." I dropped to my knees, pulling her from the uncomfortable position. "Are you okay?"

Wincing, she pushed off the ground enough to kneel opposite me. "Yeah. Guess it was a good thing I opted for leggings today. Stretchy pants saving the day from having my underwear on display."

She was trying to deflect, so I leaned into it. "I mean, if you want to show them to me anyway . . . I won't say no."

Laughing, Dakota shoved against my chest. Rising to my feet, I helped her up. Learning from past mistakes, I stepped onto the ice first, holding my hands out for her to take. Fingers tightened around mine, and she wobbled as her skates slid beneath her. Pulling her into my arms, she didn't protest. I wasn't going to let her fall again.

Holding her close was comfortable. Too comfortable. My dick stirred, and I had to put space between us before I embarrassed myself.

Steadying her with hands on her waist, I searched her eyes. "You good?"

Nodding, she let out a shaky breath. "Don't let me go."

With pleasure.

Tilting my head, I teased, "How long since you last went skating?"

Twisting her lips, she whispered, "When I was ten."

"And you're how old now?"

"Twenty-one." Dakota dropped her eyes.

"Okay, new plan," I declared.

She eyed me skeptically. "I swear to God, if you pull out one of those plastic skating walkers that toddlers use, I'm outta here."

I couldn't help it; I burst out laughing at the mental image of her hunched over, using a child-sized skating aid.

Since I had a firm grasp on her, keeping her from hitting the ice, she smacked me lightly on the arm. "Not funny."

"Sorry," I wheezed out. "Maybe you can do it later so I have something to remember you by when you kick my ass to the curb."

"Might be sooner than you think, pretty boy."

My laughter halted immediately, but the grin was stuck on my face. "You think I'm pretty?"

Dakota rolled her eyes. "I'm not going to sit here and pretend you're not a physically attractive man. That's just a fact. Can we please get back to the task at hand?"

Maybe this wasn't as hopeless as I'd once thought. Attraction was a good starting point. I could work with that.

"Okay," I agreed, giving her a little bit of the smolder. I could wear her down. Confidence was nine-tenths of the law.

I released one hand from her waist, and panicked eyes met mine as Dakota reached out to grab my forearm in a death grip.

"You said you wouldn't let go!" she cried.

"Hey, you're all right," I said soothingly. "I was only shifting so you could hold my hand. Unless . . ."

"Unless what?" Dakota asked cautiously.

"Unless you want me to lift you like a figure skater."

Her mouth dropped open. "You can do that?"

"No. But I figured if you were really that scared, you wouldn't mind being my test dummy."

"Jerk," she spat.

"Just laying out all the options." I shrugged. "You good with a single hand?"

She huffed. "Fine."

Easing her free hand into mine, I turned us so that we faced the same direction, side by side. Gliding a foot forward, I tugged Dakota along as her fingers tightened around mine and her legs wobbled beneath her.

"That's it. Doing great," I encouraged as we made our way down the length of the rink.

After a few minutes, she became more sure of herself, her feet doing less stomping and more gliding.

Peering up at me, she asked, "So, you really like doing this?"

"Hockey or being here with you?"

"Smartass," she mumbled before clarifying, "Hockey."

Well, if that isn't a loaded question.

I blew out a heavy breath. "I suppose. It's all I really know how to do."

Dakota arched an eyebrow. "Really? You have zero marketable skills besides swinging a stick around and punching dudes out in a setting where it's legal?"

A chuckle slipped past my lips. "Can't remember the last time I got into a fight. I play a clean game most of the time."

"From what I hear, it's quite the blood sport. Very violent."

"No." I shook my head. "Fighting on the ice is usually strategic. Sure, there are times when two guys lose their tempers, having too much adrenaline coursing through their veins, and the only recourse is to drop the gloves. But other times, it's about protecting a teammate or, in some cases, amping up your team if you're down."

Her progress on the ice came to a screeching halt, so I stopped beside her.

"How in the world would fighting help a losing team? Don't you get penalized?"

"Sure." I nodded. "But when you get in a hole, morale takes a hit. Everyone gets down on themselves, and a fight provides a spark. Everyone starts to get excited, and more than once, I've seen a losing team come back to win after that."

"Interesting," she mused.

Tugging her along, curling along the edge of the ice to skate in the other direction, I turned the conversation back on her. "Why are you writing a book about hockey when you have no interest in the sport?"

Dakota stared at her skates as they cut the ice. "It's embarrassing."

"Can't be worse than a guy who was just labeled as only being proficient at handling a stick."

Her eyes snapped to mine, and I instantly knew she caught my double meaning.

"Okay." She sighed. "People are nuts for them. I don't get it, but I'm looking for my big break. And if I'm being honest, it was Bristol's idea."

My brows drew down. "Books about hockey are popular?"

"Like you wouldn't believe."

I knew arenas sold out and cable providers cashed in on subscription services so fans could catch every game around the league, but books? This was the first I was hearing of it. I'd have to do some research on the subject in my free time.

"Well, if you're willing to take the time to research your subject matter, I'm sure it'll be great. I'd love to read it when you're done. Since I had a hand in it and all."

Dakota's cheeks grew pink. "I don't think so."

"Why not?" I demanded.

"It's not your kind of book."

"Why not? Because I'm an airhead who can't do anything more than play sports?" There was a bite to my tone, and she almost stumbled back upon hearing it.

"That's not what I meant." Her teeth descended on her lower lip, and I bit back a groan. "They're books for women, is all."

I cocked my head. "You're telling me women are losing their shit over hockey books?"

Nodding, she replied, "Like I said, I don't get it. But any help you can provide would be appreciated. I'm a stickler for authenticity, so if I can't nail this down, I might as well give up and start a new project."

"Well, we don't want that." Leading her to center ice, I gestured to the Comets insignia beneath our feet. "This is center ice. You can see the red line cutting through it. This is where all the initial face-offs take place." She gave me a blank look, so I amended, "Where they drop the puck between two players. It also happens here after goals. There are red dots around the ice where they occur other times."

Dakota peeked around, using a free hand to mentally mark where they were.

Skating together, we reached the blue line. "Like the red line, the blue line is aptly named for its color. But there are two of them, one on each side. They designate zones. Inside of them is either your offensive or defensive zone. Between them is the neutral zone."

Her brow wrinkled, so I asked, "Are you still with me?"

"Yeah. Just wishing I brought a notepad with me. I have a feeling you've barely scratched the surface, and I'm trying to keep the terminology straight."

"Look. You can pull up a hockey rink diagram on an internet search. If it's not already labeled, I can help you do that, and we can create a glossary so you don't get confused. I know it's a lot."

"You can say that again," she said with a sigh.

Reaching the edge of the rink, I explained the final line. "Now, this is the goal line. That blue paint in the middle of it is usually where you'd see a net and is called the crease. The puck must cross the line inside the net to count. The whole puck, not just part of it."

"Can I see a net?" Dakota peered up at me with curious eyes.

"Sure."

Sitting her on the bench, I opened a door along the boards and pushed out a regulation-sized net, sliding it to where it would usually rest on the ice.

Retrieving Dakota, I brought her closer to inspect it. She let go of my hand to hold the crossbar, which rested at shoulder height.

"Wow, it's big."

"You ever seen a goalie in full gear?" I asked.

Shaking her head, she glanced back at me. "No. Why?"

"Goalies are usually big guys. You're hard-pressed to find one under six feet. You throw on pads, and they take up most of this net. They call it a game of inches because you have to find the tiniest window and thread the needle, basically."

Frowning, she mused, "This game sounds hard. Why would anyone play it?"

"Some of us don't get a choice." I meant to say it under my breath, but when her eyes widened, I knew I'd failed.

"Why wouldn't you have a choice? It's your life." She eyed me quizzically.

"The world doesn't always work in black and white, Dakota."

"But this is your job, your profession." She didn't understand. How could she?

I opened my mouth, ready to ask her to drop it, when my phone buzzed in my pocket. Digging it out, I almost laughed at the irony of seeing Jaxon's name on an incoming text. God was having a really good laugh up there today.

Sliding open the text, I saw a picture message and a room number. Any animosity I had toward my brother vanished instantly, and I peeked at Dakota with a smile.

"Wanna go on a field trip?"