Just In Time: An Alaskan Nights Novel (11 page)

She kept up the pressure, the remembrance of how he’d taught her to pleasure him years ago as easy as breathing, and used her palm to ride him through his orgasm.

Only after he’d finished did she lift her lips to his, their breath mingling in the dry, heated air.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve done that,” she whispered, a satisfied giggle rumbling in her chest.

His lips spread into a large grin as he pressed a quick kiss on her. “I think the last time I came on a hand job was when we were in the eleventh grade.”

“Sweet memories.”

They were, she realized. Incredibly sweet memories.

She thought back to the innocence they’d shared and the freedom they’d enjoyed learning about each other and about themselves. What felt good, what made the other feel good. All without the adult pressures that now came with sex.

It had been an unexpected joy and she knew she’d been gifted with an exceptional partner.

“Do you do that often?”

They still hadn’t moved. Her back was flush against the door and their bodies pressed against each other.

“Give hand jobs in the sauna?”

“Um, I meant, your own pleasure.”

While she suspected it was unintended, his question effectively ended the spell of intimacy between them and she shifted from his embrace, slipping away to put some distance between them. Avery bent to pick up her towel, wrapping it around her breasts and tucking the free end in once more. “A single gal’s gotta find a way.”

He fixed his jeans, rearranging himself and pulling up the zipper. He kept his eyes averted but she could have scripted his next words. “You ever find a way with someone else? I know you’ve dated.”

“Yeah.” She walked over and picked up the shorts and T-shirt she’d worn downstairs. “From time to time.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t sound so surprised, Roman. I’m sure as the hockey god of New York, you get your fair share of hand jobs, not to mention any other job you can think of.”

“It’s not like that.”

“You haven’t had sex since you left Indigo?”

“I didn’t say that.” She saw the mulish expression settle over his face. “I just don’t understand why everyone thinks professional athlete is synonymous with male whore.”

“Maybe because it usually is.”

“Well, then I’m not usual. I don’t sleep around indiscriminately.”

“That’s very refreshing.”

She dragged the T-shirt over her head and was reaching for the shorts when he stopped her, his hand on her arm. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked you that. I had no right.”

“Not by a long shot.”

Before he could respond, she was out the heavy wooden door that swung gently closed in her wake.

A
wall of sound echoed off the back of Roman’s head as he drove Chooch’s Suburban the thirty-minute trek to Talkeetna. He had seven teenagers in his car, and Mick had volunteered to take the other seven in the large SUV they kept out at the airstrip.

The cacophony of heavy laughter, the discussion of the Metros’ odds next year and the general joviality of teenage boys was lost on him as he relived the night before in his mind.

Over and over.

Like a game replay shown from ten different angles, every time he thought of those moments with Avery he remembered something different.

The sweet, musky scent of her skin.

The expression of ecstasy on her face as her orgasm overtook her.

The feel of her hands on his cock, driving him to madness.

They were some of the hottest moments of his life. And then he’d gone and fucked it up by asking her if she’d slept with anyone else.

Classic caveman move.

“You okay, Mr. Forsyth?”

Roman turned at the sound of his name, grateful for something to get his mind off the torturous images. “Sure, Mike. Just thinking.”

“About how many drills you’re going to put us through.”

He smiled at the kid’s earnest voice and made a show of tilting his head slightly. He didn’t dare turn his head far enough to look at the boy in the seat next to him and take his eyes off the road, and inwardly cursed at the lack of peripheral vision that clearly wasn’t going to get any better. “I’m not quite ready to torture you all on the first day. I’ll save that for after you get a few days of practice in.”

“You’re going to spend a few days with us?”

“Sure. I promised I’d do at least a few weeks of drills. Give you all a routine and make up a workout schedule so you can keep with it after I’m gone.”

“We haven’t had a lot of good practices since the coach left.”

“So I’ve heard.”

Mike’s grin was broad and lopsided. “I’m not sure what he expected, but winter up here wasn’t it.”

“It can be a bit much if you’re not used to it.”

“Are you glad you left?”

“I’m glad I got the opportunity I did. It was never about leaving Indigo but about living my dream.”

The raucous sounds of the car had quieted as he and Mike spoke, and it was only when one of the boys piped up from the back—he thought it was a junior named Aaron—that Roman realized they were all deeply interested in what he was saying.

“What was it like? Leaving for the NHL?”

“Fun. Exciting. And scary as hell.”

“Scary? Why?”

“It took my game to an entirely different level. I still remember my first month. I was convinced they’d send me home any day and I spent more time on my butt than upright on the ice.”

“But you’re the MVP,” another boy hollered from the back.

“Well, I had to be a rookie first and take my lumps and learn how to play in the big leagues.”

Roman smiled at the simple innocence of the boys—that somehow his ability on skates had kept him from getting his ass whipped by guys who were bigger, faster and a hell of a lot more experienced than he was.

“But you’re the luckiest guy in the NHL. You’ve made some of the hardest shots in the history of the game.”

Roman grinned at that. “I’ll never turn down a little luck, but it’s amazing how much hard work has something to do with it. Do you know how many times a day I practice those shots?”

Multiple voices rose up, each breathless with curiosity. “How many?”

“After practice is over, I spend at least another hour, maybe two, working on my shooting.”

The van quieted before a shy kid they called Stink piped up from the back. “But you still have to believe in luck, too. Don’t you?”

Roman had never bought in to the well-documented superstitions of his teammates. He’d take hard work over a run of good or bad luck any day as the true road to success. But he wasn’t completely immune.

Shifting his seat belt, he pulled the thin leather cord from around his neck. A small, platinum horseshoe—no bigger than his thumb—hung from the center. He’d gone through several cords since Avery had given him the charm for his sixteenth birthday but had never worn anything else around his neck except for the horseshoe.

To this day, he had no idea how she’d saved for what had to be an expensive item at the time. He still remembered what she’d cheekily written in the card.

Even though you don’t need any luck, it’s always nice to have backup.

“I do wear this every time I play.”

Except for the day he got injured, he knew. The cord had broken that morning in the shower and he didn’t have an extra one to restring the horseshoe. It still struck him as strange that the two were connected, but like those superstitions he fought so hard to ignore, he had refused to dwell on it.

The shouts of “I’ve got one of those!” or “I carry this!” shifted the conversation momentarily and he was prevented from saying anything more.

As the comments quieted down, he couldn’t resist imparting whatever wisdom he could. “I still say hard work trumps luck every time.”

Roman saw a few of the boys nodding as he looked at the crew in his rearview mirror. He wasn’t sure a few days together would make that big a difference, but if he could leave them with the understanding that they had a lot of influence on how well they ultimately performed by being dedicated to their goals, he’d know they had been left with something tangible.

Mike piped up again from the seat next to him. “What’s it like?”

Roman risked a full glance at the boy as he turned slowly into the parking lot of the rink. “What’s what like?”

“The big leagues? Playing on a championship team in front of all those people?”

“It’s pretty great.”

“That’s it?”

“What do you mean, that’s it? What do you think it would be like?”

The kid blushed a ripe red, but didn’t hold back with his answer. “Sex, an ice-cream sundae and Christmas morning all rolled into one.”

“That’s not a half bad description, Mike.” Roman pulled into a spot and turned off the engine. “Not bad at all.”

Mick waved at him from the other van and Roman jumped out to start unloading equipment. He wasn’t surprised when his old friend rambled over shaking his head.

“Did we talk that much?”

“Probably.”

“I thought we just grunted.”

“Nah, we did actually know words.” Roman grabbed several hockey sticks and his duffle from the back of the van, then turned to face the departing gaggle of gangly teenagers.

“They’re something else.”

“Tell me about it. We were barely out of Indigo before someone got up enough courage to tell me he thought Grier was one hot woman. For an older lady and all.”

“Mine told me playing in the big leagues had to be equal to sex, ice-cream sundaes and Christmas morning all rolled into one.”

“You never told me that.”

“And flying’s not the same?”

“Damn straight.” Mick pointed toward the building. “You ready to go get your clock cleaned for the next three hours?”

Roman thought about the lead weight that had ridden his chest since the night before. “A little workout is just what the doctor ordered. You playing?”

“I might put on skates, but only as ref.”

“Have you turned into a chickenshit in the last fifteen years?”

“I was always the worst skater out of the three of us.”

“Well, you’ve got a hot woman now. Get a few bruises and maybe she’ll kiss and make them all better.”

Mick slapped him on the back. “Good point. Let me grab my gear.”

An hour later, Mick slapped him once more, his breathing heavy as he clutched the boards with his free hand. “They’ve got more energy than an entire pack of Chooch and Hooch’s dogs.”

“And you’re an old man.” Roman couldn’t resist ribbing his friend. “You do have a year on me.”

“Damn.” Mick leaned over and put his hands on his knees. “Had you asked me this morning if I was in good shape I’d have said yes. I’m going to keel over.”

“Just work through the burn, buddy.”

Mick turned his head and gave him the evil eye. “Fuck you.”

Roman did a fancy backward skate to add insult to injury. “Not my fault you’re flat-footed on ice.”

“See if I help your ass any more this week.”

Several of the boys skated over, water bottles in hand. “What are we doing next?”

Roman pointed to the cones he had set up around the ice. “We’re going to practice footwork. You need puck control and you need speed, but most important of all is you need to skate better than you walk.”

“This is Alaska, Mr. Forsyth. We were born on skates.”

“We’ll see about that.” Roman picked up the whistle from around his neck and blew a few times. “Break’s over!”

The kids scrambled around them and Roman shot a wry look at Mick as he skated backward a few feet to give the herd of teens room.

With quick instructions he gave them the ins and outs of the drill. They had to skate as fast as they could around the orange cones, and they also had to do their level best to knock one another over. The immediate guffaws and trash talk warmed Roman’s heart and he told them where to line up.

“This is better than racing Miss Avery through town.”

“What?” Intrigued, Roman skated next to the boy, Brock, who’d made the comment.

“Miss Avery from the hotel. She runs drills with us through town. She’s hard, too. And kicks our butts most of the time.”

“Avery runs with you guys?”

“Yep.”

“How often?”

“Couple times a week, at least.” Brock shrugged, then skated toward the wriggling line made by the rest of the team.

Roman skated backward so he’d be out of the line of fire, then blew on his whistle.

As the boys took off, bounding around and off one another like oversized puppies, he couldn’t shake the image of Avery in running gear, the same gaggle of kids trailing behind her.

Likely staring at her ass.

•   •   •

Avery stared at her clipboard as she did her liquor inventory and reread the same column of numbers three times.

Did they need eight bottles of vodka or ten? And did they really go through five cases of wine last week?

With a frustrated oath, she threw the clipboard on top of the bar and decided to focus on something that required fewer brain cells.

It was obvious Roman killed too many of them the night before.

God, what was she thinking? Why had she let it go that far? And how could it have been even better with him than she remembered?

They hadn’t tortured each other with penetration-less sex since they were in high school, but oh, she remembered it well. It had taken well over a year before she’d been willing to give in and have actual intercourse with him, but all the heavy petting they could think of had been fair game.

Funny that’s how they’d get reacquainted with each other.

It was sort of sweet.

And a really bad idea in the light of day.

She grabbed a towel and spray bottle and began to clean down the bar. With her current level of concentration, she’d be lucky if she ordered even half their inventory correctly. Jack didn’t need the order until tomorrow anyway—she’d deal with it later.

The simple, soothing motion of cleaning the bar calmed her and she allowed her gaze to wander with her thoughts as she roamed around the room. She stopped when she got to the large, colorful glass sculpture that bookended the far side of the lobby.

It had been one of Roman’s first gifts—a Chihuly glass sculpture she’d later learned he’d purchased at one of the major auction houses in New York. The piece never failed to lighten her spirits, its bright swoops and swirls of color leaving the impression of active motion, even as it stood stock-still against the wall.

Although nothing had ever been mentioned—the sculpture had come with a simple card, addressed to his mother—Avery knew her love of the artist had influenced the purchase. She’d talked of an article she’d seen on Chihuly’s work when they put together a high school art project, and she knew to the bottom of her toes it had left an impression on him.

A friendly hello echoed from the front of the lobby and she turned her attention toward Grier’s jaunty wave.

“You look busy.”

“I got bored doing inventory.” The lie tripped easily off her tongue but try as she might, she didn’t want to get into a discussion of the evening before.

“I can understand that. Although please tell me you are putting more wine on the list.”

“Of course.” Avery gestured for the length of bar. “Come join me.”

“Good idea.” Grier pulled out one of the bar chairs and sat down. “Anything I can help you with?”

“You’re chipper today.”

“I’m hangover-free and I successfully campaigned—and won—the battle to get Chooch and Hooch to start doing quarterly tax payments.”

“How’d you manage that?”

“I told them they’d have to do their own taxes next year if they didn’t make it a little easier on me.” She nodded with a satisfied smile. “That seemed to be more than enough of a threat.”

Avery knew what a big victory this really was. Grier had spent a week the previous January working through the older couple’s tax returns and nearly went cross-eyed in the process.

“They adore you.”

“Yes, well their madness helped cement my business here in Indigo so I really shouldn’t complain. But damn it, five boxes of receipts was nearly my undoing.”

“I think I saw tears of joy roll down Hooch’s face when he left those receipts with you, dumped all over the conference room table.”

Grier visibly shuddered. “Don’t remind me.”

“So it was that easy to convince them to change their ways?” Avery threw the rag down on the table and reached under the bar for a bag of pretzels. She filled up a small bowl and set it between them.

“Roman borrowed their car to take the kids up to Talkeetna for their hockey practice. I drove myself over to their place and cornered them, making up a royal sob story about how busy I was going to be for the next several months planning the wedding.”

“Nice battle tactic.”

“Thanks.” Grier glanced around the bar in a move so furtive Avery thought a few mobsters might walk in wearing fedoras. “I have a few more up my sleeve.”