Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 73117 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73117 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
“It wasn’t a good year for baby girls, either,” I say darkly, and every man at the table cracks up.
I was only half joking, though. My mother never meant to have a second child. And after I was born, she fell apart. She became addicted to drugs, and died of an overdose before my second birthday.
But none of that matters tonight, does it? I could have skipped reading those files over the weekend. Nothing more is expected of me than sipping red wine and appreciating the surprisingly good creamed spinach. Hockey players are always full of stories, and I’m the lucky girl who gets to sit here and listen.
Ushakov’s father drives a taxi in Moscow, so I hear all about the time the two of them stopped a kidnapping at the airport. And then Tankiewicz tells a story about pulling a prank on a teammate. The guy ended up running around their apartment building naked, begging to be let back in.
“But I held out until the poor SOB promised he wouldn’t put plastic in the bottom rack of the dishwasher anymore.”
We all laugh. The wine warms my bloodstream, turning my anxious mind into a softer, golden place. I forget that I’m not supposed to stare at Tankiewicz. And every time I look up, our gazes collide.
“My motto is simple.” Tank leans back in his chair like a king in his throne. The wine goblet nearly disappears in his big hand. “In any situation, I just ask myself—what can I get away with? And then I do that.”
We all laugh again. Except I also realize something important. I’ve never once looked at life that way. Instead of what can I get away with, my motto is I’ll just keep my head down and avoid trouble.
I’ve known trouble, so my outlook isn’t an accident. But maybe Tankiewicz has a better way of looking at the world. I’m on my own now. I don’t always have to color inside the lines.
“I’ll bet the dessert is really good here,” Tankiewicz says. And then he lifts his eyes and looks straight at me.
After dessert and coffee, we follow my boss outside. “I’ve got four cars waiting,” he says. “The fifth one is late, though. Should take a few more minutes.”
“You go ahead, Mr. Kassman,” Tank says. “Age before beauty. I don’t need a car. Heck, I’ll share with Bess. She can drop me at the hotel on her way home.”
“Sounds like a plan, son, if Bess doesn’t object,” Henry says.
“No problem,” I agree, even though the sound of my name on Tank’s lips gives me butterflies.
“All right then. Good night, everyone. Go home—get some rest, boys. You’re going to need it for the rest of training camp.”
I slide onto the leather seat of a car beside Tank and give the driver the address of my tiny studio apartment in the West Fifties. “And first we’ll need to stop, at…” I turn to Tank for clarification. “You’re in a hotel, right?”
He doesn’t answer right away. The car slides away from the curb as Tank lifts my hand off the leather seat, kissing my palm right in the center.
Tingles ripple through my body as his lips skim my hand, stunning me.
“Let’s make it one stop instead,” he says slowly. “Your birthday isn’t quite over yet, right? And I’m really good at celebrating.”
It takes me several beats of my heart to understand what he’s proposing. This gorgeous creature wants to take me home with him?
He raises his eyebrows. Waits for my answer. And while he waits, he lowers his lips to my palm and kisses me again. Slowly.
Holy god. I didn’t know a palm kiss could be wet and dirty.
“O-okay,” I stammer, wide-eyed. It’s not as if I don’t like this idea. Actually, the saner parts of me are a little intimidated. But other parts are already on board with the plan. My pulse beats low and heavy in my body.
Especially when Tank puts a hand on my knee and gives it a dirty squeeze. “The Marriott Marquis, please,” he says silkily. “One stop only.”
The cabby grunts his reply and turns left onto Park, heading downtown.
Tank’s hand is a heady presence on my leg. “Where’re you from, Bess? Did you grow up in Michigan?”
“Y-yes,” I stammer. “I took a New York job to be close to my brother. You’ll have to play against him in the pre-season.”
“Dave Beringer is your brother? Good to know.” He chuckles. “Maybe we’d better keep this little adventure to ourselves, then.”
“Sounds like a great idea.”
He laughs, sounding thoroughly amused. And his words from the dinner table come back to me. Let’s just see what I can get away with.
His sense of daring is contagious. For once in my life, I want to feel that way, too—as if the night is an adventure of my own making. My spirit is willing, although my experience is weak. I feel a little tongue-tied. I haven’t had any practice chatting up a one-night stand.