Hooked: A Hockey Romance Read online

  “Tough luck tonight, Mr. Rockwell,” the valet said, forcing a sympathetic grimace. “You had the goalie beat clean, too.”

  I didn't say a word, didn't look at him, either. After that loss, I'd rather not be noticed. And I certainly wasn't in the mood to talk about how it'd gone down.

  I passed him my car keys, and a $100 bill with it anyway. “Keep her safe, will ya.”

  “Of course, Mr. Rockwell.”

  With a yawn, I strutted through the lobby. All I could think of was how sweet it'd feel when the second my back hit that mattress, and I could finally pass out.

  But, as I strutted through the lobby, I had that eerie feeling of being watched. I shot a glance towards the hotel bar. Sure enough, two girls in racy cocktail dresses sat at the bar. One girl stared as I strolled through the lobby, watching me with interest. She bolted upright and exaggerated the arch in her back. I knew her eager eyes were an invitation.

  I cracked half a smile. Maybe I could stop for a drink first. I went to the bar and stood opposite her. I ordered my usual: vodka and water.

  Across the bar, the outgoing one made bedroom eyes at me. We locked eyes. She tossed her brunette hair over her shoulder. Bit her lip. Made a show out of crossing her long legs, waving them in front of me like she were teasing a dog with a steak.

  I winked. She whispered something to her friend, who grabbed her things and excused herself. I didn't waste any time. I took my drink, stood next to her, and put my arm around the back of her chair.

  “Hey.”

  She smiled. “Hi.”

  “So what's your name?” I asked with a tone that lacked interest.

  “Nicole.” She extended her hand to me.

  I took her hand in mine and kissed it. “Nicole. Pleasure.”

  “Oh, a gentleman!” she squealed.

  I laughed. “Nah.”

  “No? You're not a gentleman?”

  “Nope. Trust me.”

  She seemed thrown, unsure. “So—er—what's your name?”

  “Why ask questions when you already know the answer?”

  She snagged a bit of her lip between her front teeth. She had the look of someone caught in a lie.

  “Okay. Fine. You're Hunter Rockwell.”

  “Ah-ha.” I hiked up the sleeve of my suit jacket and glanced at my watch. “Listen. You wanna go up to my room?”

  “Wow.” She blurted out a laugh, like she wasn't sure if she should be offended or flattered or what. “And what exactly are you getting at, captain?”

  I leaned closer to her, my breath on her neck. “I'm asking …”

  I ran the soft touch of my finger delicately up her slim arm, hooked it under the strap of her dress, and gave it a small, suggestive tug.

  “… if you wanna fuck.”

  She leaned back from me in a hurry. Maybe to see if I was serious. Maybe because she was about to crack me across the cheek with her open-palm. Her irises strained with an ember of anger. I could tell she wanted to be furious with me, that she wanted to slap me. I could see it in her soul!

  … But she didn't. Instead, a softness set in her eyes, like a fallen animal that had accepted its fate. She hooked her arm through mine.

  “Okay, captain. I'm yours. Take me to your room.”

  I slammed the rest of my drink and gave a smirk. Figures.

  ***

  Her dress and bra laid in a careless, crumpled mess on the floor.

  I stood behind her at the edge of the bed. She held her round little ass high in the air, just like I wanted, with her black panties stretched between her knees.

  “Oh God!” she shrieked, hoarse and wavering, as I teased her wet folds with the head of my cock. “Please, I want it, I want it—”

  She tried to push herself back on me, tried to force me to enter her again.

  But my hand came down hard on her ass cheek once more. Crack!

  “I said, hold still,” I reminded her again.

  I rubbed my palm over her ass, soothing the raised welts. Her ass cheeks were a red mosaic, one giant hand-print after another seared into her skin. Each spanking the result of her not obeying.

  She whimpered, buried her face into the bed sheets, and submitted to me.

  “That's better.” I pushed in and gave her what she wanted.

  “Ooooooh,” she howled, her moans muffled by the mattress as I entered her.

  I grabbed two handfuls of her raw ass and thrust myself deeper. Her guttural groans grew louder, more urgent—she was close.

  Not that I cared. This wasn't about her pleasure. At least for tonight, she belonged to me. And if she was going home to some boyfriend tonight, I wanted him to know it. I wanted him to see how I'd ruined her.

  “I wanna ride you!” she begged me suddenly.

  “No,” I growled. I didn't want to see her face. “Don't you listen?”

  I grabbed a fistful of her hair instead and plunged into her harder, faster. My muscled waist crashed against her rear with rising, rhythmic claps.

  “Oh, God!” she wailed, and a sudden flood of her juices rushed down the base of my manhood and dribbled from my balls.

  Ha. The worse I treated her, the wetter her pussy. Unbelievable.

  I fucked her harder—longer—faster.

  When I came into my condom, I pulled it off, tossed it in the trash, and went straight for the shower.

  ***

  I felt cleaner after a long shower, but not any better. She—Nicole?—was still in my bed. Sprawled out on top of the bed sheets, a tired, naked, sweaty heap.

  She smiled sleepily. “Hello again, Hunter Rockwell.”

  I sat at the foot of the bed. “Hey.”

  She had the TV on the local sports channel. Highlights of the game played. They showed my last-second scoring chance, again and again, from every possible angle. Each time, I missed that shot, no matter how much I still expected it to go in.

  She pressed herself into my backside. The points of her hard nipples dragged against my back. She wrapped her arms around my chest. Her hands dipped down my bare torso, heading for my cock.

  But I pushed her hand away. “You really have to watch this right now?”

  “You can turn it off … I was just waiting for you.”

  The talking head on TV spouted off, sounding so angry, you could almost see the spittle flying from his chapped lips:

  “Three years ago? In Boston? Rockwell would've scored that goal. So what happened? What's his problem? At this point, it doesn't matter, we have to stop making excuses for his play. At 23 years old, Rockwell is just not the player that the Colorado Blizzard thought they were getting when they traded for him! It's time for the Blizzard to cut bait and move on. You know, some people have floated the idea that Rockwell was just the product of a much more skilled teammate in Boston. I'm talking, of course, about Chris Cunningham—”

  I bolted off the bed, hurried over to the TV and shut the damned thing off.

  I scratched my head, avoiding eye contact with the girl in my bedroom. “Listen. We're starting a road trip tomorrow. I've got an early flight to St. Louis in the morning.”

  Nicole blinked. “Oh …?”

  I climbed into bed and let my head finally hit the pillow. “So. You know. You should probably go.”

  She laughed bitterly. “Wow. So—that's it? You're kind of an asshole, aren't you?”

  I rolled on my side, away from her. “I tried to warn you.”

  “Fuck you, Hunter Rockwell,” she hissed.

  She hopped out of bed and dressed herself in a quiet but livid rage. She stormed out of the room with her high heels in her hands—but she stopped in the doorway to give me one last piece of her mind.

  “They're right, you know. You fucking suck.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief when the door shut behind her.

  Yeah, that's what they say.

  Chapter 3:

  Do Not Fuck the Players

  Honor

  Five days later—Thursday evening.

&nb
sp; I was painting in the spare bedroom when I heard the pounding at our door. I listened for a beat or two, hoping the sounds of videogame warfare—brat-a-tat-tat-tat! BOOM! Aaaaah!—would cease for a moment.

  But they didn't.

  “Are you going to get the door?” I called out to Todd. He was right next to the front door, after all.

  “I can't!” Todd yelled back. “I'm in a match!”

  “Okay,” I groaned, setting aside my watercolors as quickly and carefully as I could.

  I raced through our apartment and flung the door open. The package delivery man had already started his trek back to his truck, and I had to sprint after him.

  “Hey! Sorry! I can sign for that.”

  I knew what was inside the small box—and the excitement made my feelings of annoyance melt away. I couldn't wait to try the outfit on. I scurried back into the house, hiding the package from Todd, although he didn't look away from his videogame.

  Tearing into the package, I pulled out the replica ice girl outfit and smiled. It was so cute!

  The busty crop-top and the playful mini-skirt were a perfect fit. I might not have looked as good in those as that one girl that Todd liked, but … I could definitely pull it off. And hey. If anything could steal Todd's attention away from those videogames, I'd like to think it'd be his girlfriend in a small and sexy outfit.

  I sneaked into the living room, walking lightly on my tip-toes.

  “Oh, To~dd,” I called.

  “Huh,” he answered.

  Plastic buttons furiously clicked and clacked under his fingers, and explosions and screams blasted from the TV. BOOM! Aiiiie! Brat-a-tat-tat-tat! Boooooooom!

  “I have something to show you, Todd,” I sang.

  “Okay. Just—hold on. One minute.”

  I waited, my brow furrowing, for a minute. And then a few more, until finally I grew impatient and stepped to the side of the TV.

  “Hi Todd.”

  He did a double-take. “Whoa.” He chuckled uncomfortably. “What, uh, what are you wearing there, Honor?”

  “Oh, just a little something I ordered after we got back from the game.” I turned to the side, modeling it for him. “What do you think?”

  “Hmmm.” He kept playing his game. “Well, what in the world did you want that for?”

  I sat by him on the couch and let my knees touch his. “I saw how much you liked those ice girls. I thought a little role play might be fun.”

  Todd scoffed. “Honor. I told you earlier. I don't like the idea of you, wearing that.”

  I stared at him while he played his game like a zombie. Blood boiled in my veins. Didn't he realize what I was practically propositioning him here? Okay, maybe he didn't want me to be an ice girl, but—this was strictly role play! And sex! Didn't he find me sexy? Shouldn't my boyfriend want me?

  “Forget it.” I stood and left him in a huff.

  “Hey! Honor! What's your problem?” he yelled after me.

  I slammed the bedroom door behind me and changed out of the stupid outfit. Out in the living room, I heard him whine, “Aw, motherfucker—I died.”

  When Todd finally came to find me an hour later, I was back at work on my painting.

  “Sup. My match is over now,” he said quietly, shuffling behind me. “You changed out of that outfit.”

  “Sure did.” I stared into my painting, just like he'd stared into that TV.

  Todd ran his fingers up and down my neck—which was what he always did when he wanted to initiate sex. It made me shiver, but not in a good way.

  “Please don't.” I shrugged his hand off my neck. “I need a steady hand for this.”

  “Jesus—alright. You don't have to bite my hand off. I just thought you were in the mood.”

  I added some careful brush strokes.“Well, I was, but I'm not anymore.”

  Todd blew out a short breath. “Pft. Fine.” He stood silent, watching me paint, but I knew his anger was about to boil over. I knew he was about to lash out, same as he did anytime he got upset.

  And then, sure enough, it came.

  “I'm soooo sorry that I don't think you're sexy in that ridiculous outfit.”

  Ouch. I let out a wounded breath. I always hated it when he acted like that—he sounded like a moody teenager talking back to his mom. Having done his damage, Todd stormed out of the room and made for the door. But I stopped him before he slammed it shut.

  “Hey Todd.”

  “What?”

  “I've been thinking about it, and I want to go to that audition after all.”

  “What audition?” he snapped back.

  “The ice girl audition, obviously.”

  Todd didn't reply.

  I calmly added, “It's tomorrow evening. I can take the bus there while you're at work, but I'd like a ride home afterward.”

  After a long silence, Todd finally answered, speaking lowly, “I told you earlier, Honor. I don't want you doing that.”

  “It's something I want to do, though. And I need to find work. I'll call you when I'm ready to be picked up.”

  Todd shut the door behind him.

  ***

  Forty, maybe fifty other girls had come to the audition. Despite the impressive turn-out, none of us seemed interested in actually talking to each other. Maybe it was nerves; maybe it was the ugly spirit of competition.

  While we waited for the audition to officially begin at 5:00, I did my warm-ups on the ice by the bench—a stretching routine from my figure skating days that I couldn't forget if I'd tried. A few girls seemed to notice that I knew what I was doing and quietly followed my lead.

  My heart thudded with nervousness, but excitement, too. I couldn't wait for the actual audition to begin, if only so my blood could warm up. The audition posting said we should come dressed in dance shorts and a sports bra, and I was a little chilly.

  Right at 5:00 on the dot, two girls dressed in official Colorado Blizzard ice girls gear came skating out to meet us. One girl blew her whistle, long and shrill, and waved us to gather at center ice.

  “Hi ladies! Thank you so much for coming out here today! My name is Madison Sanguinetti, and I'm the captain of the ice girl squad.”

  Madison's voice was raspy, but at the same time, bright and cheery. I recognized her, too—with the long, platinum blonde hair, the navel piercing, the long legs and nice butt and big boobs? She was the girl that Todd had ogled at the game last week.

  Not that I'd hold that against her. Because Todd's gonna Todd. Madison sounded sweet and kind, and it wasn't her fault that she was a babe and Todd could act like a creep.

  “And this here is Cora, the assistant captain.”

  Cora greeted us with a smile. “Hi girls.” I remembered Cora from the game, too—she'd stood out, with her copper-red hair and a complexion that reminded me of coffee with the perfect amount of cream.

  “We're going to start with a skating trial,” Madison continued. “You don't have to be a pro skater by any means—but if you can cross-over, pivot, skate backwards? Hey, that's great, show us what you got. It can only help. But really, we just want to make sure you can stay on your feet. If you slip and fall? Sorry! You'll be asked to leave.”

  Won't be a problem, I thought to myself. I looked around and noticed some of the girls didn't look so confident hearing that, though.

  “Secondly, while you're skating, show us your pearly whites! We want to see your smiles, ladies. Huge, ear-to-ear, enthusiastic, and most importantly, genuine smiles. A lot of you have backgrounds in cheerleading—great. You know what we expect.”

  Some girls nodded confidently. I didn't have cheerleading experience, but I figured it wouldn't hurt me too bad. Because I sure knew how to wear a big ol' toothy smile while I skated.

  “Lastly, we'll end the audition with one-on-one interviews with all the girls that survive the cuts. We're only hiring one new girl today. What I'm looking for is a girl who can skate, smile and wave, and most importantly, follow directions. So listen up and show us your best, l
adies.”

  One girl? I thought as I looked at the big group of girls around me. Not the best odds.

  Madison looked around at us with a smirk. “And with that said, we've got our first round of cuts. The audition posting clearly stated you come dressed in dance shorts and a sports bra. If you didn't read the directions closely enough that you came dressed in something else, you can leave now.”

  A number of the girls chuffed with disbelief. No one moved.

  Madison nodded sternly. “I'm dead serious, ladies. If you aren't wearing the proper attire, you're done. Go home. Buh bye.” She blew her whistle, loud and long, until the ten or so incorrectly-dressed girls finally left the circle.

  The outcast girls glided off the ice, coolly muttering to each other. I heard words like ugh and can't believe her and bitch. Madison grinned—she seemed to revel in it.

  Yikes, I thought. Madison's kind of serious.

  She blew her whistle again. “Alright! Let's start skating!”

  ***

  That night, it was a frequent request heard echoing around the rink: “Smile, ladies!” “Smile—smile!” “Smiiiiile!”

  Like I said. I was confident with all that. I smiled, I waved, I skated. The group of try-outs shrank, slowly but surely, as the weaker skaters tumbled to the ice and Madison seemed to derive a sense of joy in telling them to get lost.

  After an hour, a group of seven was all that remained. Madison blew her whistle one last time.

  “Congratulations, ladies, you made it to round two. We'll start interviews now.”

  We followed her into the dressing room, where we took off our skates, and nervously waited for our interviews.

  “Good luck,” I said to the first girl that Madison escorted out to a private room.

  I looked around at the other girls. They were all … well … sort of in the same mold. The same type of girl as Madison—attractive in that classic American beauty way. I wasn't nearly as tall or as thin or, hell, toned as they were. They had golden tans, while I couldn't tan—I just fried. Looking at them and then looking at myself, I was the obvious odd-woman out.

  Had I embarrassed myself to prove a point to Todd? And what point was I trying to make, exactly?