Penalty (Penalty Duet #1) Read online

  But he doesn't seem to believe that. His gaze is discerning. He leans back in his chair. "Well, Brandy Cooper, I'm Brayson Rockwell. You can call me Bray."

  "I know."

  He rolls his eyes. "And I totally believed your 'I hate hockey' persona."

  "No," I cry out softly, leaning forward across the table. "Ask anyone I know. Ask Sam. I hate hockey. Right Sam?"

  "Huh?" he mumbles from the couch.

  "Do I hate hockey?"

  "Yes," he says, though I'm not even sure he heard me.

  "See," I tell Brayson. Sorry, Bray. "Last night I had no idea who you were. I didn't know until this morning when my sister came over with Sam and she had the newspaper in hand. And even then I didn't believe it."

  He watches me carefully, his blue eyes seeming to take me all in. After a moment he says. "I thought as much. Even so, it's not often I meet people who don't know who I am."

  "Must be real hard for you, Mr. Big Shot," I tease.

  "They don't call me Mr. Big Shot," he says, "it's Mr. Big --"

  "I'm going to cut you off right there," I tell him quickly, thinking of Sam’s ears. "I have an imagination, I can figure it out."

  "Oh really?" he says with a wicked smile. "Tell me more about this imagination of yours."

  Heat. I'm hot everywhere. I clear my throat and stare down at my beer.

  "God, you're cute when you blush, babe," he says.

  Now my gaze isn't so friendly. "Why are you calling me babe?"

  "Because you are."

  "Is that why you came over here?" I tell him. "Because you've got a lot of nerve if that's so."

  He chuckles. "Not at all. Okay, maybe a little. I wanted to get to know you better. And I wanted to make a proposition to you."

  My forehead wrinkles as I stare at him, worried. "What kind of proposition?" I ask warily.

  "Don't worry, it's nothing...lewd. Unless you want it lewd."

  Oh god! Don't tempt me. I swear he must have some sort of sixth sense that can sniff out how long it's been since I've had sex.

  "What is it?" I ask.

  "Well, Brandy Cooper, self-professed hockey hater. I was wondering if you'd like to go for dinner with me tonight."

  I raise my brow. "That's the proposition? You mean, a date?"

  "Yeah," he says with a shrug. "Kind of a date. I mean, it will look like a date. Okay, it will be a date. But with reason behind it."

  Ouch. Well that kind of stings!

  "And the reason is?" I say quietly.

  "You see, I'm the most hated man in the city right now because my penalty cost the Cup. But all that hatred has the potential of being pushed to the side if I'm seen as a hero."

  "You are a hero," I tell him. "Maybe not the cape-wearing variety but you definitely saved me last night and you didn't have to. You could have been like anyone else and kept going."

  He shakes his head dismissively. I can tell the hero talk makes him uncomfortable. "I'm just a dude that helped a woman. That's all. But they're blowing it all up because of that photo. I mean, it's a great shot. It was even on CNN."

  CNN! I mean, it's a shitty news network but even so.

  "And so a lot of people are calling me a hero, or at least it's painting me in a good light. Maybe one I don't deserve, but I think this kind of, uh, distraction, will be good for me, the team, and the city. I mean, do it for Portland!"

  "Okay but I still don't see why dinner fixes anything."

  "Because no one knows who you are. People have been calling me all day to get your name and I keep skirting the question. But I may have mentioned that we are a couple."

  "What?!" I exclaim, straightening up in my seat. "A couple?"

  "I didn't want to tell them you were a stranger."

  "Why not? It's the truth!"

  He rubs his long fingers over his jaw and looks away, seeming to study my poster of Tibet on the wall. "Because. I thought...I don't know, I thought we had something. Or whatever. But I didn't want to say I didn't know you when it felt like I did. I didn't want to start with you because of this, I wanted it to look like we've always had something going. In other words..."

  "In other words, you can milk this more if I'm your girlfriend. It makes a playboy like yourself more redeemable," I answer frankly.

  "Who told you I was a playboy?"

  I roll my eyes. "Come on, you don't think I know how to Google you?"

  "Okay, so yeah. That's one reason why."

  "And that's fine," I shoot in there quickly. "Just don't tell me it's all about getting to know me better and that you thought I was more than a stranger, blah, blah, blah. I've heard that shit before and I won't let it work again, especially from someone like you."

  "Hey," he says, looking insulted.

  "A playboy hockey player?" I tell him. "Yeah, that's you. And I'm me. And I'll help you out and I'll gladly go out for dinner with you if you're paying but don't start with the false pretences. Just tell me you want to use me and I'll tell you I want to go out and be seen and have fun and not pay for my food for once."

  He looks taken aback. "All right,” he says slowly.

  "All right. Then we have a deal."

  "Shake on it," he says, sticking his hand out.

  I reach over and put my palm against his. The current flowing from his skin to mine makes my spine explode in delicious shivers. For a moment it almost feels cold in here.

  I dare to meet his eyes. There’s this glint to them, just for a moment, that’s bordering on feral, like a hint of a wild animal. It makes my core heat up until my body can’t tell what it’s feeling anymore. All I know is I should drop this man’s hand because the longer I hold onto it, the more crazed I’m going to be.

  But I have to. And I do. Awkwardly. Have you ever let go of someone’s hand awkwardly? That just happened. It was like it weighed a hundred pounds, was made of gold, and I snatched it back in a panic.

  Brayson doesn’t seem to notice and if he does I hope the dinner is still on. He may have been intrigued by me last night but I’m betting that’s only because I’m young and cute and clueless when it comes to hockey, which might be a bit refreshing when I’m posed next to the puck bunnies who I assume are tall, sexy and fawning over him with his stats and pecs every second.

  “So when do you get off your baby-sitting shift?” he asks, eyeing Sam who is ignoring us like a pro by now.

  I narrow my eyes at him. “Very funny. I don’t know. Maybe around six thirty or seven.” It’s hard to tell with Daisy since her shifts often run over.

  He gets up out of his seat. “Then it’ll work if I pick you up at eight tonight?”

  “Sure,” I manage to say, getting up and being totally surprised that my legs still work. I mean, is this really happening?

  I try not to let myself dwell on it until he gets to the door and is gone. The moment the door closes behind him, I sink against it, needing it to support me.

  “You okay auntie Brandy?” Sam asks, staring at me with big eyes.

  "I'm not really sure," I tell him. "I need a minute."

  "Okay," Sam says uncertainly and goes back to watching the movie.

  How on earth? What the hell just happened there? One minute I'm having my average day (you know, aside from the fact that I showed up in the day's paper), the next minute a hot, famous hockey player shows up at my door asking me out on a date? I mean, really? I feel like I must have wandered into the Twilight Zone. A sexy version.

  "Sam," I say to him as I pry myself away from the door. "That did just happen, right? That man wasn't just in my head. He was here, right?"

  "Yeah," he says. "Your not-a-boyfriend."

  "Right," I say slowly. Not-a-boyfriend should be right but considering Brayson is wanting to tell people that we're a couple, I'm not sure what to expect now. All I know is, I have a freaking date with him at eight tonight. My god, I hope Daisy gets off her shift in time, even though I'm torn about the whole thing. Part of me wants this, needs this, craves this, the other part is sca
red shitless that I'm going to make a giant fool of myself in front of this guy. More than that, I'm scared of what's going to happen after the date.

  Don't get ahead of yourself, I warn myself. Just keep on as normal and get yourself pretty later on. Don't expect anything except a nice dinner and a pretty face to look at. You'll be fine.

  I take in a deep breath.

  And spend the rest of the day losing my damn mind.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Brayson

  I can't believe that worked.

  It's not that I ever have troubles getting a date – obviously I don't – but this bird is a strange one and I really didn't know how things would go. For a moment there I thought I was proven wrong, that she really was a puck bunny who pretended not to know me but the truth easily slipped through. She was just as clueless about me as I was about her. She's not a fan of hockey, not a fan of the game, of me, of my so-called playboy ways. She's just not a fan, period.

  Which is why I was surprised she agreed to my proposition. I thought I was going to have to work harder to get her to agree to a date with me but I saw in her eyes this glint of warmth and wanting that wasn't coming through with her defensive words. I saw a woman who was maybe a bit lonely, definitely a bit vulnerable.

  And I have to say, that makes me want her more. Obviously I'm attracted to her - she's beautiful without exploiting it and her own filterless charm is such a refreshing change from all the women I meet. But the fact that she's both vulnerable and hardened makes me want to be the man who gets to those layers.

  Or, at least, get her in bed. I've always loved a challenge and I know I could make it so fucking good for her. Though I wouldn't believe at first glance, there's something about her that tells me she hasn't been with a man in a while. Maybe it's just pure arrogance for me to say that or wishful thinking, but I think I could be the man to change all that for her.

  I have to warn myself not to get too ahead of myself though. She's a bit prickly and it might take more than just some drinks and wooing for it to go beyond dinner. I'll have to play things by ear.

  But I've always been good at that.

  When eight o'clock rolls around, I have Chuck wait on the street while I go inside her apartment. The neighborhood she lives in is so different from mine downtown. Even though Portland has that certain feel to it, it's this place that really feels legit. The houses and apartments aren't new, but they're lovingly taken care of for the most part, there are lots of young people from all walks of life walking their dogs and pushing their strollers down the street. There's a real authentic vibe to the life here and I think I prefer it to the one of glass ceilings and marble counters. In fact, I know I do.

  It's funny, when I get to her apartment and I'm poised outside her door to knock, a rush of nerves goes through me. Fuck. This is something like stepping on the ice, that tremor of anticipation and anxiety that happens when the puck is about to drop. I don't think I've ever felt this about a woman before, not since my crush in the fourth grade on a girl called Ainsley Webber. Back in my tiny Albertan town, Ainsley was the prettiest thing in the farmlands, and of course the one girl who never gave me the time of day.

  But while that behaviour can be excused when you're nine, it can't be in your twenties. I suck it up, tell myself to stop being a pussy, and knock on the door.

  She doesn't answer right away, which only heightens my anxiety.

  Then I hear a shuffling behind the door and I get the feeling she's peeping through the peephole at me. I can see a shadow underneath the door. I raise my hand and wave at her, giving her a wink.

  There's a gasp from the other side and now I'm really grinning, knowing I've caught her spying in the act.

  The door opens and Brandy peeks at me.

  My grin gets wider. She looks amazing. Dolled up, but not too much. She's wearing a low-cut black satin top with dark jeans, her sandy hair is pulled back into a ponytail that is just begging for me to pull at it. Suddenly I'm flooded with the image of her on the rug in her living room, her jeans pulled down to her knees, ass in the air, me wrapping my hand around her ponytail and holding her back. I can feel my dick getting hard at the thought and hope she doesn't notice.

  "Hi," she says brightly, though her smile is wary. "You showed up."

  "You thought I wouldn't?"

  She shrugs. "I thought maybe it was a dream. It's not every day a hot guy shows up at my door."

  "Tell me more about this hot dream guy," I tease her.

  "Over dinner," she says, stepping out and into the hall. I catch a whiff of her smell, sweet and sultry, like she washed her silky hair in cookie-scented shampoo. My mouth is already watering.

  I also catch a glance at her scruffy dog, peering at her through the crack and whining before she quickly shuts the door and locks it.

  "Must be hard to leave that face," I tell her. Personally I love dogs and if I wasn't on the road all the time, and my apartment allowed it, I would have a bunch of them.

  "It is," she says. "He's a pain in the ass but I don't know what I would do without him. So, where to?"

  "One of my favorite places," I tell her. "It's all the way back downtown but I have my driver."

  "Lucky you," she comments as we walk down the hall. I want to put my arm around her or link arms or something stupid but instead I just stride beside her. "Does everyone on their team get their own driver?"

  "If they want," I tell her. "I pay for Chuck out of my own pocket, but that's because I'm a dick."

  She laughs at that, covering that gorgeous mouth of hers. Without thinking I reach over and grab her hand, lowering it. "You can laugh but don't cover that mouth of yours."

  She frowns. "Why not?"

  "Because that mouth could bring a man to his knees."

  She cocks a brow. "Oh really? I thought maybe my mouth could bring a man to something else."

  Then she looks at me in shock, eyes wide, like she can't believe she just said that. I can't believe it either. Not only is Brandy's mouth intoxicating to look at but it's dirty too. I'm in for a wild night.

  "I'm sorry," she apologizes, her cheeks flaring up as we get in the elevator. I have half a mind to pull the emergency stop button and ravage her in there. Maybe later with the way things are going.

  "Don't apologize," I tell her. "I think it's sexy as hell the way you speak your mind."

  "I normally don't, not about things like that." She sucks in her lower lip, obviously seeming embarrassed over what she said. But all I want to do is kiss her and suck that lip into my mouth, see what she tastes like. Probably cookies. Her cunt probably tastes the same.

  "Well you're in good company," I tell her. "Because if I blurted out what I'm thinking right now, you'd probably head right back to your apartment. Or maybe you're more adventurous than I think."

  Her eyes are wide again and I can tell she's trying to figure out just what I'm thinking. The space in the elevator seems smaller, the air heavier, thicker, and my dick is now straining against my fly, hungry for her more than I'm hungry for dinner.

  But then the doors open and there's a thirty-something couple in the lobby, waiting to get in the elevator.

  I smile at them, for a moment totally forgetting who I am and what's happened over the last twenty-four hours. Brandy has totally taken over every inch of my brain.

  But then the guy says, "Oh hey it's the fuckhead who cost us the Stanley Cup."

  And I'm so fucking shocked that I actually stand there for a moment, staring at him blankly as they get in the elevator and the doors close on them.

  "And you're an asshole!" Brandy shouts back at the elevator." She looks at me morosely. "I'm so sorry, what a fucking douchebag! Have you been dealing with this kind of crap all day?"

  Actually, yes. The moment I left my place, someone threw a half-eaten apple at my head. Before that I was dealing with the comments on TV and the Internet. I know they say not to read the comments of any kind of article on the Internet since that's where Satan's spawn tends
to breed, but I have an appetite for self-destruction sometimes. People are angry, cruel beasts.

  "It's fine," I tell her, giving her an assured smile. "It'll get worse for a bit I'm sure and then I hope it will die down."

  "Well if the media started reporting on how it was a team effort as a whole that lost the Cup and not just you, then maybe people will get it."

  "The media be fair? Oh come on, you know that's never going to happen. They'll villainize the wrong people just to get ratings and then turn around and normalize the villains. But hey, maybe I deserve it and all the shit that's coming my way."

  "You know you don't," she says, touching my forearm briefly. "And I have to say I'm impressed you took that with such grace. I would have thought you'd jump in the elevator after him and beat him down."

  "I'm not a savage," I reply. "Frankly, I was in shock. And I'm sure me beating a fan up isn't going to help my reputation." At least, it hasn’t in the past. I made a lot of mistakes in my first few years.

  "But taking me out for dinner is?"

  "We'll see," I tell her, grabbing her hand and holding it tight in mine. It feels so soft and warm. Fuck. Do we even have to go out for dinner? If I'm getting this turned on from grabbing her hand, how am I going to get through a meal? "But even if it doesn't, it doesn't matter. I'm glad you said yes to this. It's nice to have company that doesn't want to talk about hockey."

  With her free hand she makes the motion of zipping her beautiful lips shut. "My lips are sealed."

  I hope they'll be open later.

  The restaurant I’m taking her to is a tiny Italian place, a real hole in the wall that attracts all sorts of Portland's elite. It's not pretentious in the least, has stone walls and lots of candles and low lighting, and also happens to be a place to be seen if you want to be seen, which is exactly why I'm bringing Brandy there. Plus, they have truffle pasta and wine that's to die for.

  During the drive over I sit beside Brandy in the backseat, breathing in her scent, my eyes drawn to every inch of her body while she sits there inconspicuously, her gaze focussed outside, watching the city go by. Her big eyes seem to take everything around her in with a deep sense of curiosity, while my own eyes are fixed on the soft curve of her cleavage, wondering what her skin feels like beneath my tongue.