Puck Bear Brides: Complete Series (BBW Werebear Paranormal Sport Romance Boxed Set) (18 page)

“Ouch,” Sable murmured, watching Heath deck Wall as easily as he had done to Cannon a moment ago, catching herself admiring just how fast and hard the Shovelers’ sniper could throw a punch and dance away on the ice before anyone could catch him.

Fast for a bear,
she thought mildly, allowing another glance at her werewolf stepbrothers, twins as they were, wondering if they were going to figure out how to stop Heath before it was too late.

“Anyway,” she started again as the ice was getting a quick clean from the blood that had splattered on it and the teams were split up and told to behave themselves for what must have been the seventh time that evening—no one was going to listen. “What gets me is
why
does Coach Jefferson keep this lineup? I mean obviously Cayman and Caleb aren’t keeping up with this bastard Heath, so why screw with our chances? Put more offense on the ice, see if we can push through. Frustrating.”

“And here I thought we were going to have an actual conversation,” Heather remarked, having to almost scream to be heard over the roaring crowd as the players took the ice again.

“About?” Sable asked, popping a few Milk Duds in her mouth, though her hands were moving automatically at this point and she didn’t spare a look at the box of candy either.

What if she’d miss something on the ice? That wouldn’t do!

“You know? The elephant in the room? Or the tiger shifter in the room, I guess.”

Sable snorted at that, rolling her eyes now even though her stomach clenched slightly and she could feel the makings of a cold sweat dappling the back of her neck. Oh no, she had no interest in talking about that particular topic. Not tonight. Not any night.

Which was probably why she was there, yelling her head off and getting angrier at the players and the refs than any fan should, even one that lived and breathed hockey like Sable did.

“Nothing?” Heather coaxed, getting echoing silence in return, or at least what passed for it when twenty thousand people crammed themselves into the stands and whistled, booed, and cheered along with every pass or minor confrontation on the ice. “Okay, but you know this is all going to come out of you in one gigantic bad idea at one point, right? It’d be so much easier to just vent. You know, have a drink or ten, cry into a pillow, eat some ice cream with me, and tell me just how the big bad tiger hurt you.”

Okay, so that deserved a glare.

Sable twisted herself in her seat, about to give Heather a piece of her mind, but right then, the large, bulky form of Caleb Lynderly got rammed into the partition right in front of Sable, her stepbrother’s face twisted against the glass as he rolled down along it onto the ice. Sable’s eyes were wide as platters and she jumped up immediately, peering down to see if he was okay, sending her candy flying between the seats.

“Shit,” she hissed, her surprised gaze meeting the laughing eyes of Heath Locklear straight on now.

The bastard had the gall to wink at her and make a damn hand-gun motion at her after having wiped out her brother right in front of her.

“This one’s for you, baby!” he said with a wide grin before skating off as Caleb brushed himself off and got up, pure murder flashing in his eyes.

“That motherfucker!” Sable said incredulously as she stood there for a moment, shaking her head at the audacity of the bastard. “You see that? He got away with it again. This ref is totally bought off.”

“Or maybe he was too busy clearing up the other fight your beloved brother managed to stir up and didn’t notice?” Heather muttered, shaking her head.

“Whatever,” Sable grumbled, the tension of discomfort unraveling quickly while a whole different kind of heat took its place, pulsing through her.

She chose to believe it was anger and not at all the sexy-as-sin look that she’d received from the Shovelers’ sniper. Biting down on her lip for a moment, her brows knit in irritation, she banged on the glass once more with her first and then sunk into her seat with something more akin a growl than anything else.

“I’m going to have to give that guy a piece of my mind after the game is over, you know.”

“Which one? Cayman or Caleb?” Heather asked, only mildly paying attention because apparently Purseblog was
far
more interesting than one of the single most important games the Predators would play that season.

Well, truth be told, to a woman who only got dragged to these things because Sable didn’t want to go alone, then that wasn’t too far from the truth. With Sable’s crazy schedule and Heather’s job as a personal assistant to a certain A-list star who was not to be named—and whose name may or may not have rhymed with Bryan Breynolds—they barely had a chance to see one another despite living together. A two-and-a-half-hour game of hockey was usually just what they needed to get all their gossip out of the way and for Sable to also pretend like she was keeping up with what was going on with her team.

“Heath, obviously.”

That finally got Heather’s attention.

“Wait, you’re trying to tell me you’re going to wait until the game’s over, then find Heath Locklear, one of the main players on the opposing team, they’re just going to let you talk to him, and you’re going to school him for beating up your brothers in a game of professional hockey? I didn’t know you cared so much, honey!”

“I don’t. I just think he needs to hear what a fucking asshole he is.”

So maybe she was projecting a little. Okay, a lot. After her recent painful and very public breakup from Mackey Aldren, a tiger shifter playing for the Florida Gators, she
might
have been a little bit more on edge on the topic of hockey players who were also giant assholes. A girl could only be humiliated on national television once to get properly pissed at most guys who swung a hockey stick and liked to think they were hot shit for chasing a puck around on some blades on ice.

“Riiiight. We’re not taking this personally at all,” Heather said with a sigh, but luckily for both of them, chose not to expand on the topic at hand.

“Damn straight,” Sable said, slouching in her seat and shaking the last remnants of her Milk Duds out onto her palm, popping them in her mouth in one go.

Funny how one bastard could really spoil her enjoyment of the game. At this point, she wasn’t entirely sure if she meant her ex or the preening peacock on the ice now, Heath Locklear, who was suddenly but surely managing to incorporate all that was bad about professional hockey into one completely fuckable and entirely despicable persona. Or maybe that was just the bitterness talking.

Whatever.

I’ll teach him a thing or two about manners,
she thought darkly, watching the man whirl past her again with the clear intention of entirely fucking up the Predators’ chances of winning this game.

When he scored another goal, Sable found herself hating him even more, which a moment ago had seemed impossible. Life works in mysterious ways, doesn’t it?

“He’s cute, though,” Heather said suddenly, tracking the wide-shouldered form celebrating his goal with his stick in the air, giving the cockiest smile imaginable as his team surrounded him in jubilation.

5-4. The damn asshat had taken the Shovelers into the lead. A lead they were destined to hold.

“I don’t see it,” Sable grumbled.

But she did. It was impossible not to. That smile could blind from half a mile away and despite getting his nose broken probably a dozen times and his jaw patched up at least twice, Heath Locklear was one handsome devil.

But the devil was supposed to come in the most enticing form imaginable, right?

CHAPTER TWO

Heath

“Heath bringing the heat tonight, huh?” Jax “Sweeper” Darmuth asked, clapping Heath on the shoulder as he lurched into the seat next to him, almost spilling the two beers and four tequila shots he was carrying.

“I do my best,” Heath commented with mock modesty, earning a round of chuckles as a shot was thrust into his hand and a beer set down in front of his nose. “So what are we drinking to, other than my ever-living glory?”

“Wiping the ice with some Predators! Let’s make it two games—I need a breather after all of this goddamn training Coach has been putting us through,” Logan Garant commented, one half of the famed Garant Grinders duo, with his brother Leo skulking around somewhere at another table.

Probably causing trouble as usual. Those damn twins couldn’t keep their nose out of other people’s business or the knuckled end of a fist for longer than a few minutes usually. That probably explained why Heath got on with them as well as he did.

“I’ll drink to that,” Jax nodded, with Sawyer grabbing the last shot.

Sawyer was a tall, surly guy who you wouldn’t want to meet on a dead-end street. He was also the iron gatekeeper of the Shifter Grove Shovelers, their first goalie, and the best man to have on your side if the gloves came off. Which they did often enough as of late, but in Heath’s opinion that wasn’t to reflect negatively on him, but the aggressive nature of the game overall.

Or at least that’s what he was telling himself.

“To kicking some Predator ass,” Heath bellowed over the hotel bar, rousing a round of cheers as the rest of the tables joined in on the little celebration.

Heath downed his shot, cringing slightly as the hot trail went down his throat, his bear grumbling its grumpy commentary to the whole matter. Heath chose to ignore it; he was sure he’d get schooled for it some other day. The grizzly didn’t like to be flippantly dismissed like that, but Heath wanted to have some goddamn
fun
that night.

Which of course was nearly impossible if Coach Wiley hid them away in the bar right at their hotel, not even telling a single one of the bloggers where the Shovelers were going to celebrate one of their first victories, being back on the ice in an official manner. Luckily, that was where Heath could come in and fix all of that.

A wide grin snaked across his lips a minute later when he caught sight of a flock of at least ten puck bunnies pushing their way through the front doors of the hotel lobby, locking eyes with him and the rest of the team and descending down on them like locusts. They wouldn’t be the only ones, just the first batch, because Heath had posted an innocent little tweet of himself and Jax, with the sign hanging over the hotel bar showing the name of it in clear view.

Coach had called it a night an hour ago though, so it was safe enough to get on with his antics, and if Heath had any say in it, his room would be going loud and strong way past everyone else’s bedtime.

Leaning back in his chair, Heath sipped at his beer, taking part in the conversation moving forward only casually, watching the endless stream of fans pile into the bar in ones and groups. What had been a reasonably quiet gathering of twenty or so hockey stars was turning into a rager fast enough, and the barkeep was getting a bit white in the face. So when Heath ordered a round of tequila for everyone, the poor guy looked like he was going to pass out.

Heath couldn’t help but grin. What was life without a little bit of trouble, right?

He was just stretching his arms over his head, working out a few kinks while trying to figure out which one of the lovely, and obviously eager doe-eyed fans he would be asking up to his room to party that evening, when he stopped in mid-yawn. The next people in through the door weren’t fans at all. It was about six guys from the Predators.

And that hot piece of ass who’d practically snarled at him and threatened to climb over and kick his ass when he took out Cayman and Caleb Lynderly one after the other. That grin that had begun to waver returned in full force now.

Oh, tonight should be interesting,
he thought to himself, taking another bolstering gulp of his beer while the new arrivals got their drinks and settled into the scene.

To his grave and all-encompassing sadness, it seemed that the Predators weren’t looking for a fight that night, but were there to let off steam just like the Shovelers were. Like most of the recently-moved Shifter Grove team—which Heath was still a bit bitter about because Shifter Grove nightlife was quite literally nonexistent compared to anywhere, and especially when pitted against that of Chicago—Heath had been swapped from team to team during his professional career and a lot of these guys had played together at one point or another.

Even he couldn’t deny a friendly nod to the Predators’ goalie now, who he’d been on the same team in college with, despite the fact that they’d spent a solid minute screaming at one another a few hours ago on the ice. One by one, the Predators found places at the tables of hockey players, finally leaving only the miffed-looking minx to stand at the bar, glaring daggers in every direction, but most pointedly at Heath.

At least Caleb and Cayman aren’t here. Otherwise this could turn real ugly real fast,
Heath mused with a mental shrug, weighing his odds.

The girl had caught his eye at the game and now that she was standing here practically in front of him, it was hard to look at anyone
but
her. Soft, flowing auburn hair, tan skin, and plush lips hinting at a bit of a Latin heredity—which Heath loved, since a bit of that stereotypical Latina fire was exactly up his alley—and clever, dark chestnut eyes made for a pretty-as-hell face, but her body could have floored any man. Especially a shifter.

Healthy, lush curves, thick thighs, and wide hips made not only the man but the bear stir with almost too much interest, the growl deep in his throat a clear sign that this was not just any hot chick in front of him. Heath and his bear rarely agreed on what the “right” kind of woman looked or smelled like, but Heath was willing to bet that he’d have to take one whiff of the spirited gal before him and he’d be in full understanding with his grizzly.

“Excuse me, gentlemen. I have a fan to greet,” Heath said with a grin and a wink, followed by a row of snorting comments from his teammates as he got up and strode through the crowd of excited fans.

He made his way to the pissed-off beauty with moderate effort, having to turn down a few offers for drinks on his way to her. Heath leaned on the counter with a dramatic sigh, flipping back his dirty-blond hair and flashing the woman a dazzling smile that was met with such scorn that it could have scorched the earth under the feet of any man less secure in their sense of self.