Power Play (Center Ice Book 2) (4 page)

“I just want to get to know you.” He reaches out and places his hand on the table, next to my hand that’s draped around the stem of my martini glass. Two fingers tap against my skin, sending a flash of warmth up my arm. “Is that such a crime?”

“No. Only—I don’t understand.” I pull my hand away, knowing full well I’m still blushing. “There isn’t much to know. Honest. I go to class. I work my ass off for the school paper. I try to get a job at Astro News. The end.”

“Don’t worry. I think you have plenty of ass to spare.”

My nostrils flare wide as I stare at him. “Excuse me?”

He grins, not looking a bit apologetic. “Good. You’re paying attention.”

“I always pay attention,” I tell him. “Like when you flub an easy pass. Or don’t answer my questions directly.”

That dims his grin a bit. He unfolds his napkin and tucks it into his lap. “So you admit to actually watching hockey. This isn’t just some assignment you got stuck with.”

“I’ll admit I enjoy some of the . . . athleticism . . . on display.” Don’t look at his chest don’t look at his chest oh god it’s just so hard with those pecs popping out like Michaelangelo himself chiseled them. “But no, the piece I’m working on isn’t exactly praising the sport.”

“The old teachers versus athletes argument,” Marcus says, with a knowing nod to himself.

I blink. “Excuse me?”

“People love to complain about how much athletes get paid. They say, ‘It’s not right that athletes make millions of dollars while teachers make squat.’ But it’s the fallacy of the false dilemma. Athletes aren’t taking that money from teachers. Athletes get paid through corporations, which people willingly give their money to. Teachers get paid from taxes. Know what I mean?”

I arch one eyebrow. All right, Marcus, so you’re more than just a stunningly handsome face. “That doesn’t change the fact that we value entertainment more than we value education.”

“Sure, but fight that battle on its own terms. Call for better pay for teachers. Fight for better educational standards. But leave sports out of it. One’s got nothing to do with the other.” He takes another sip of sake. “You look vexed.”

I shake my head and lean back—as much as I can when I’m sitting on the floor at a low table with a hockey star. “I feel like I should be disagreeing with you, but I haven’t had time to form a proper rebuttal yet.”

“Go for it. I’ll wait here.” Dimpled grin. It flares like an ember in my gut.

Thankfully, the waitress comes back in before I have a chance to consider it. I don’t want to feel anything for Marcus Wright. Or anyone. I’ve got work to do—stories to chase, jobs to land. If I can land the spot at Astro before Mum is back in the States, before her boss Gunther has a chance to read my work, then it’ll soften the blow that I’m not interested in joining their network. A lot of ifs, but I think I can turn it to my favor.

“The lady will have the chef’s sampler. With the fugu, please.” Marcus gestures to the menu.

“The lady will
not
.” I grip my own menu and glare at him over the edge. “I’ll take a yakitori skewer—”

“Oh, come on. You’ve got to try the sampler. Best sushi in the District, right here.” Marcus bats his eyes at me.

I narrow my eyes. “If you order the sampler, I’ll try some, but I want the skewers.”

“Just can’t let go of control, can you.” He grins. “Whatever the lady wishes.”

The waitress nods and exits our dining room, closing the panel behind her.

Marcus rubs his chin, scratching at the faint stubble along his jawline. “Why journalism, then? As much as you enjoy arguing, I’m surprised you aren’t going into law.”

“I like digging for deeper truths.” I give him a pointed look. “Like yours.”

He smiles, slow and cunning. “Really? You’re sure it has nothing to do with being Brigid Callahan’s daughter?”

My whole body goes cold. How the hell does this jerk, this hockey jock, know who my mother is? Sounds like someone’s been doing some digging of his own.

“Don’t look so shocked. I know how to read,” Marcus says. “Her piece on the Ukraine crisis was fascinating.”

“She’s one of the few Westerners to get such close access.” I take another drink of my martini, then frown to find that it’s all gone. “She’s good at what she does.”

“And are you a fan of close access?”

I roll my eyes. Pop the olive out of my emptied glass. And slowly, delicately wrap my tongue around it before sucking it into my mouth. He lets out a low whimper.

“You know, if you keep flirting with me so blatantly, I might start to believe you mean it,” I warn him.

Marcus makes a show of shivering, squeezing his eyes shut, then opens them and looks right at me. There’s something darker in his gaze now—hungrier. Maybe I made a mistake to tease him like that. But I kind of like it.

“Is that a promise?” Marcus asks.

I meet his gaze. “I don’t make promises I can’t keep.”

“Good.” His foot brushes against my thigh under the low table. “Neither do I.”

My mouth is suddenly far too dry; my body far too alert. I unfold my legs from where they’re tucked under me, and stretch them out.

Dangerous territory, Fi. I’m not a fan of making myself vulnerable—to anyone. For any reason. Yet somehow, opening myself up to Marcus feels more like taking control rather than giving it up. I could get used to that feeling. I could get used to a lot.

Maybe that’s what scares me.

My toes brush against his calf under the table. They’re hard as quartz, and for a brief moment, I’m imagining him naked, muscles stretching and glistening under a dim amber light, his warm skin glowing, pulling me in. The flush spreads across my neck and chest.

I clear my throat and pull my foot back. “Well. What other things should I know about you?” I tilt my head to one side, feeling a slight buzz from the vodka. “Because I must say. This is proving far more interesting than that media training nonsense you spewed this morning.”

“What can I say? I like you better when you’re interested in me, and not just your story.”

I try to ignore the sharpness that’s worked into his features. Something shark-like . . . predatory. If he thinks I’m a timid hare, he’s badly mistaken. “I’m still only here for my story. Don’t think I’ll forget your promise.”

“Liar.”

His hand catches my foot under the table. I tense up, but don’t pull away. Taking a deep breath, I ease my foot into his grasp. Challenging. Waiting for him to flinch first.

Only he doesn’t.

Well, neither will I.

“You’re here because you feel the same thing I do,” Marcus says.

An iron band feels clamped around my chest. I don’t dare move or breathe. Certainly don’t dare give name to this thing I feel—this thing like intoxication, only it’s lust and attraction and control all bound up in one complicated knot.

Knots. Hm. I tied Pierce up, once, when he showed up drunk at my place and was willing to let me set the terms. But then he decided he didn’t like it half as much as he thought he would. I have a feeling Marcus might have a different response.

Oh, flippin’ hell. I did
not
just think that.

Marcus’s fingers knead into the balls of my foot, easing away years of tension with slow, studied strokes. “You like to believe you’re in charge. But you feel powerless. No one will give you the authority you crave,” Marcus says.

Warmth crackles up my leg and pulls tight at the muscles in my hips. I’m blushing, I can tell. I turn my head away. “I’ll get there. I’m working hard.”

His thumb skids across the pads of my toes. I’d be moaning in relief if I had even one ounce less of self-control. But I don’t want him to think he’s winning me over.

Even if he is, just a tiny bit.

“Do you really believe that?” Marcus asks, eyebrows drawing downward. His expression is both playful and intense. It must be those eyes of his—dark and foreboding, even when he’s sporting that wry grin. “That all it takes is a little bit of hard work to get ahead?”

“Of course,” I say, my tone wavering.

“Well, I’m working hard to convince you to sleep with me.” His smirk deepens. “How am I doing so far?”

My tongue feels impossibly thick as I open my mouth. “Um.”

The waitress reappears with our sushi and yakitori skewers, thankfully sparing me, and deposits them in front of us. The sushi sampler is a sight to behold—fish and rice and all manner of vegetables, fruits, and other things I’d never have thought to put on a sushi roll, all arranged into artful post-modern sculptures. With a sigh, I have to admit that Marcus was right. My skewers look good, but the sushi—looks amazing.

“Ladies first,” Marcus says, gesturing to the sushi with his chopsticks.

I grudgingly select something with a beautifully marbled piece of fatty tuna on the top and plop it into my mouth.

Oh, dear lord. It tastes incredible. A tiny moan escapes me. I can’t remember the last time I truly savored a meal, instead of scarfing it down as a necessity between classes and projects and interviews and study sessions. I reluctantly swallow, and when I open my eyes, Marcus is staring at me with that seductive grin of his.

“I’m not going to say ‘I told you so,’” Marcus says, “but I kinda don’t have to. Know what I mean?”

“Fine, you win.” I pluck up another sushi piece.

“And now,” Marcus says, “now that you’re good and distracted . . . I’m going to tell you a story.”

Fiona’s glass-green eyes flick toward mine. Her entire body angles toward me, and even though I know she’s watching—maybe because I know she’s watching—I sneak a look at the shadowed V of her cleavage, just barely visible through her white silk blouse. She swallows hard, but doesn’t flinch away.

Like I knew she wouldn’t.

“I had a pretty easy life growing up, all things considered,” I say. “I tried eight billion different sports as a kid. Northern Virginia is lousy with kid’s leagues for every possible rich-person sport there is. Rugby, lacrosse, cricket, field hockey, ice hockey, soccer, softball, golf . . . I tried them all. But hockey was my favorite by far.”

“And why is that?” Fiona asks. Her mouth is doing that fucking incredible thing where she’s smiling, but she’s trying hard not to smile, so instead her smile just bunches up and her lips jut out and all I can think about is how much I want to nibble on them.

I, uh, adjust my seating position and smile back.

“All the other sports just felt like a thing I was doing. Like, I was supposed to standing over in a field, waiting for someone to throw a ball at me or whatever, but I’d get bored, or distracted, and forget. Ice hockey, though . . . it consumed me. I had to devote my whole body and mind to it. I was constantly skating, trying to keep my balance, always searching for an opening and planning my next shot. There wasn’t time to get bored or distracted. I had no choice.”

“It was like breathing,” Fiona says quietly. “And when you couldn’t do it, you couldn’t breathe.”

I tilt my head to one side, regarding her with new eyes. “Exactly like that.”

She nods, and lets her smile spread a little wider. “I know the feeling. Please—go on.”

“I didn’t get diagnosed with ADHD until I was older—high school, I think. But by then, I was already hooked. Hockey, and chemistry—I loved them both. I could just sink my teeth into them, perfecting my understanding and my craft, and never let go. Landed a full ride to J&A and didn’t look back.”

Fiona sets down her chopsticks and dabs at the corners of her mouth with her napkin. “So you intended to finish your degree at J&A. Because hockey wasn’t your only love.”

“It wasn’t. But it was easier.” I sigh and lean back on my hands. “Chemical engineering was more of a struggle than I’d anticipated. Even with medication, it was a real challenge. My grades were fine, but you’ve got to understand—there aren’t a lot of guys like me in the sciences. Jocks. Black. Medicated. It wasn’t the most welcoming environment.”

“And so when the offer to be drafted into the Washington Eagles arose . . .” Fiona says.

I nod. “I broke my promise to myself—and to my parents. Because it seemed like a sure enough thing at the time. And, to be honest . . .”

My gut twists with the ache of the half-truth I’m about to tell her.

“I was running away. From a girl.”

Fiona arches one eyebrow and leans closer. I don’t think it’s intentional, but now I can see straight down her shirt. And good lord, it’s doing things to me. Tensing me up in all the places I want to be tense.

“Marcus Wright? Running from a girl?” she asks.

“Well, not so much her exactly. The memories. I couldn’t walk around campus without drowning in them.” Truth. “She broke my heart. And I broke hers.”

Fiona’s gaze drops down to our near-empty plate of sushi. The sympathetic look on her face transforms her—softens all those harsh, commanding edges that I love so much. But it’s a good look on her. Contrite. Feeling. Maybe I don’t just love it when she’s cruel.

But I’m getting way ahead of myself. I just need to get her in bed. Find a real release, one I don’t have to fork over cash for. God, it would be so amazing to have that. A woman who wants to command me, out of her own black heart—

“So you gave up scholarships and your own educational aspirations to get away from a bad breakup?” Fiona asks. “It must have been very rough.”

“I might have acted rashly,” I say.

Lie. I acted as sanely as I possibly could.

“I’m very sorry. It must have been rough.”

Her green eyes flick back up to meet mine, open and honest. Everything I want to be with her. But I can’t tell her the whole truth. Not now, not ever—no matter what we become. Whether this lasts a night or a year, she’s far too dangerous. She wants dirt, and she’s not afraid to dig.

“And there you have it. The answer you wanted.” I force myself to smile. “Happy now?”

Her teeth dig into her lower lip as she regards me. All I can think about is those teeth sinking into me. My grin widens; once again, I reach for her foot under the table, and this time, cup the soft slope at the back of her calf.

“Happy, yes,” she says. A pulse throbs in her pale neck, like she’s nervous again. “But perhaps not completely satisfied.”

Oh, fuck.

My fingertips brush at the back of her knee, and she issues a faint sigh. “I might be able to help with that,” I say.

She grins again, only rolling her eyes a little bit. “Do I even want to ask what you have in mind?”

I lean over the table, and beckon for her to do the same. As soon as her lips are near my ear—her warmth right by my mouth, her perfume flooding my nostrils—I tell her exactly what I want her to do.