No Touch Zone: A Single Dad Sports Romance (The Playmakers Series Hockey Romances Book 6) Read online

  No Touch Zone

  Book Six in The Playmakers Series™

  G.K. BRADY

  More books by this author

  The Playmakers Series

  Book One - Taming Beckett

  Book Two - Third Man In

  Book Three - Gauging the Player

  Book Four - The Winning Score

  Book Five - Defending the Reaper

  If you’re interested in being on the ARC team for Book 7, Twisted Wrister, please contact me!

  Want updates about new releases? Sign up for my mailing list or email me.

  Historical Fiction

  The Heart of a Hussar (Book 1 of 2)

  A Hussar's Promise (Book 2 of 2)

  Copyright © 2021 by G.K. Brady

  All rights reserved

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  978-1-7363606-1-3

  Cover design by Jenny Quinlan, Historical Editorial

  Edited by Jenny Quinlan, Historical Editorial

  Proofread by HippoCampus Publishing

  Printed in the United States of America

  Trefoil Publishing

  Contents

  Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter 1 … Mac Attack

  Chapter 2 … Bedbugs and Other Randoms

  Chapter 3 … Life's a Grab Bag

  Chapter 4 … The Trouble with Tribes

  Chapter 5 … Fail-Safe Plans and Other Fantasies

  Chapter 6 … The Power of Plug-Ins

  Chapter 7 … Not-So-Little White Lies

  Chapter 8 … Rock, Paper, Scissors

  Chapter 9 … I May Be Simple, but I’m Sweet

  Chapter 10 … Standing Up for One-Night Stands

  Chapter 11 … Caution: My Licorice Is Loaded

  Chapter 12 … My Little Pink Pony

  Chapter 13 … Did You Say Mentor or Dementor?

  Chapter 14 … Goldilocks Is Cuddling My Pillow

  Chapter 15 … Curveballs to the Heart

  Chapter 16 … Wylder Times

  Chapter 17 … Clubs and Cavemen

  Chapter 18 … Fake Boyfriends Are the Best

  Chapter 19 … True Confessions

  Chapter 20 … Spin Cycles of the Head

  Chapter 21 … Take Me to Your Leader (I'm Not in Charge)

  Chapter 22 … Make It So

  Chapter 23 … Between a Rock and a Steering Wheel

  Chapter 24 … Afterburners

  Chapter 25 … Let the Good Times Roll

  Chapter 26 … Carpe Diem

  Chapter 27 … The Fifth Dimension Isn't Just a Band

  Chapter 28 … Bouleversé

  Chapter 29 … The Lost Dimension

  Chapter 30 … I’ll Be There

  Chapter 31 … Aliens Stole My Red Vines and I Want Them Back

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Also by this Author

  About the author

  Dedication

  To Simone and Dawn. You are truly angels on this earth.

  Chapter 1

  Mac Attack

  Dana McPherson popped a handful of bar nuts into his mouth and winked at the bartender. He nearly fell off his stool when she winked back. Somewhere inside, his teenage self pumped a fist. Yessss! Mac is back. When she followed the wink up with a sly grin, though, he wasn’t quite sure what to do—unlike his younger self. Back then, the brash exuberance of a nineteen-year-old would have propelled him onward, unfazed, confident that if he bombed out with this girl, he could make it with another one. Ah, to be nineteen and stupid again. Now, nine years later, the swagger and optimism of youth had been replaced by one too many doses of reality, yet a little flame of hope still flickered that he could revive that earlier version of himself.

  He pushed his mop off his forehead. Fortunately—or unfortunately—his buzzing phone saved him from figuring out his next move. But caller ID pulled a sigh from his chest. Jesus, he loved his kids, but couldn’t they give the old man a respite for one lousy night? He wasn’t asking for much. And not that he was old, even though his social track record lately was the pathetic proof he acted like it. But tonight—maybe with the brassy bartender—he could reverse that.

  The kids shared the phone, but he took an educated guess as to which one was calling. “Hey, Twinkle Bear. What’s up?”

  “Daaaaaddy!” his daughter squealed, as if she hadn’t just spoken to him in his hotel room ten minutes ago. And despite the fact he had just spoken to her, his heart swelled. “Where are you, Daddy?”

  “I’m at the same hotel I was at the last time you called, sweetheart. Is everything still okay?”

  She gulped in air and burst into the all-important reason for her call. “Yes, Daddy. I just wanted to tell you that Mr. Binks and Miss Flopsy are having an excellent tea party.”

  He held back a laugh. Excellent. Her new favorite word, one her three-year-old tongue had trouble wrapping itself around, unlike the easy way her three-year-old finger had wrapped him around.

  “That’s great. Have Nana take a picture and send it to me, okay?” He slid another glance at the bartender, whose back was to him, offering him an excellent view that encouraged his libido. “Listen, Ry-Ry, your dad has an important meeting with his new team, and I need—”

  “With the Wizard?”

  He chuckled. “Blizzard, Twinks. Yes, that team. I need to meet my new bosses.” Not until tomorrow, which leaves the night open. “But I’ll see you tomorrow when you get to Denver, okay?”

  “Wizard,” she repeated stubbornly. “And then we’ll get a house with a pool! But first I get to ride on an airplane!”

  We’ll see about the pool. “Can’t wait to see you and your brother tomorrow.”

  Looking for a rental would have been far easier on his own, but with the upheaval he was putting his family through, and the fact none of them had a say about where they were moving—including him—he wanted their approval on what house they’d be living in. And while the team would have put them up in a luxury apartment temporarily, he didn’t want to move them twice. Instead, he would move them into a rental home where they could spread out, have a yard. Assuming he’d be in Denver beyond this season, he’d buy the forever one later. Shit, this trade sucked … for so many reasons.

  His daughter’s giddy voice snapped him back. “Me too, Daddy. Love you!” She hung up before he could return the sentiment.

  Less than a minute later, the phone vibrated again. He hadn’t even had a chance to take a sip of his Four Roses bourbon. “What did you forget, Riley girl?”

  “Not Riley this time,” came the cool voice with a perpetual smirk lacing it. “Your daughter forgot I needed to speak to you before she hung up.”

  He rubbed his forehead. Christ! Couldn’t get away from his mother-in-law either. “All set for tomorrow, Dimitra?”

  “Yes. A limo will pick us up and bring us to the hotel, where we’ll meet you and go house-hunting.” She dropped her voice. “I just wanted to remind you that while Riley’s heart is set on a pool, which is completely impractical in Colorado, what you really need to focus on is an in
-law suite.”

  He pushed out a resigned sigh. How many times had they been through this already? Mustering his frayed patience, he said, “I didn’t forget. The agent knows that’s on the wish list.” He couldn’t quite bring himself to admit he’d made it a requirement—why let Dimitra think she always got her way, even if, in fact, she did? Mac had learned long ago to avoid going into battle against the formidable matriarch at all costs.

  “Well, good. Now go relax, Dana dear, but stay away from the bar trolls. How they’d love to get their meat hooks into you, and you, poor boy, are naive enough to let them.”

  Mac swallowed the words dancing on the tip of his tongue: that taking a bar troll back to his hotel suite tonight sounded pretty damn good. A guy who only got away from his kids every now and then needed to take advantage while he could because it wasn’t going to happen at home. He never, ever brought dates home. Then again, though his wife had died over two years ago, he’d only started dating sporadically the past year and had yet to bring anyone home. Besides juggling his kids and his stagnant goalie career, he didn’t have the time or the fuel for kindling anything beyond a quick roll between the sheets—not that he’d done that more than once.

  More importantly, he wasn’t about to get his kids’ hopes up. Any woman he dared bring home and put through Dimitra’s scrutiny would surely become a candidate in his kids’ eyes for their new mommy. Not to mention that exposing women to take-no-prisoners “Dragon Dimitra” was a surefire way to send them running. Dimitra was a real-life suburban version of Christine Baranski, the actress who portrayed cool and cynical to a T. Dimitra would never tolerate an interloper—Christine probably wouldn’t either. “Interloper” in Dimitra’s book was any member of the opposite sex he might look at more than once. Hip-checking her daughter’s memory to the boards. Upsetting the perfect order of the little family she managed like a drill sergeant—not that he was complaining because, God, he needed it. Or at least he had. Now was his chance to get his life back.

  Moving to Denver did have a silver lining because here he could hit the reset button. New town, new life. New encounters with women, getting laid more than the once. Not that he hadn’t had opportunities now and again, but that one time had felt all wrong … maybe because it had happened in Philly, where memories of Becca lingered. So yeah, Denver might not be such a bad place to start up again … like tonight, with the bartender. As long as she wasn’t looking for long-term, they’d be good—assuming she’d give him a shot.

  Someone slid onto the stool beside him, and he felt a gaze blatantly travel up and down his frame. When he turned, he looked into brown eyes topped with two slashes for dark eyebrows. “Are you hoping to make time with the bartender?” Judging by the look on the woman’s stony face, she was dead serious.

  Busted. But what the hell? “Uh …”

  “Thought so.” She gave him a smug head bob, then leaned into him conspiratorially and whisper-shouted, “Trust me. If she’s flirting, it’s only because she wants a big tip. You’re welcome.”

  She glanced down at her phone as if dismissing him.

  Wow! Nothing like putting the old ego back in its place. Unsure what to make of her, he unabashedly coasted his gaze over her the way she’d done to him. Brown hair that fell a little past her shoulders, a straitlaced, button-up blue blouse under a black suit jacket with pants to match, and plain black heels. Not tall, not short, not round or skinny. An average businesswoman sitting in an average bar looking … better than average. Better than the bartender even, though they shared similar coloring.

  The bartender sauntered over with an empty shot glass, a bottle of Buchanan’s Select 15-Year, and a smirk. “The usual?”

  “God, no,” his stoolmate gusted. “After today, I need a boilermaker. Or three.”

  The bartender—Allison, according to her name tag—arched an eyebrow and wordlessly poured the Buchanan’s into the shot glass, blatantly disregarding her customer’s wishes.

  Ms. Boilermaker nodded. “Thanks. Care to join me?” This she directed at the bartender, not him. Damn.

  “Not while I’m on duty.” Without asking, Allison pulled the handle on a beer tap and filled a pint glass, placing it on a coaster in front of Ms. Boilermaker. “How about we start you out with a shot and a beer instead? Then you can graduate to the boilermakers—after I know you have a ride home tonight.” Allison turned to wait on other customers.

  Mac ran his eyes over Ms. Boilermaker one more time, noting a turned-up nose, high cheekbones, and a tiny mole on an apple cheek. No way could this girl hold more than the shot and beer in front of her. He’d lay odds that if she chased them with a boilermaker, she’d keel over.

  Ms. Boilermaker picked up the shot glass. “À votre santé!” she mumbled in perfect French to no one in particular. Put it to her lips and threw her head back. Swallowed the whole pour in one go. Brought the shot glass down hard with a satisfied “Ahhhhh” and swiped her mouth.

  “Et à votre santé aussi,” he toasted back in really awful Canadian French before taking a hefty gulp of his drink.

  She looked up at him. Doe eyes the color of toasted coffee beans blinked. And blinked again. He shoved his hand at her and blurted, “I’m Mac.”

  She shook it, her hand small but strong, and dropped an elbow on the bar with her head in her palm. “Nice to meet you, Mac. How long are you in Denver for?”

  Dismissing the fact she hadn’t offered her name, he said, “How do you know I’m visiting?”

  She lifted her head long enough to flick her hand. “Just … I know things.”

  “Same way you know the bartender’s only angling for a tip?” He tried but failed to inject confidence into his voice, instead coming off as cocky. Yeah, sounding a little full of myself here.

  A laugh that sounded like a small explosion burst from her. “I’m sorry.” She dropped her voice into whisper-shout mode. “I didn’t mean to tromp on your ego, Mac. It’s just that her boyfriend works in the kitchen. Big guy who wields a meat cleaver.” She pursed her lips, which turned her pink mouth into a pout, and tsked. “Jealous type. You don’t want him thinking you’re interested in anything more than having her pour your drinks because if he does, he’ll either pare you down to size or put something nasty in your food.” She stuck out her tongue and made an icky face that reminded him of something his daughter would do. It was totally at odds with the whole businesswoman thing she had going on, and he nearly let loose a laugh.

  Getting himself under control, he ventured, “Do you work here?”

  Allison was back and spoke in her own whisper-shout. “No, it just looks that way because she comes in here whenever she’s had a bad day. She spends a lot of time here.” The bartender’s expression held an incongruous look of … disapproval? To Ms. Boilermaker, she said, “More bad news?”

  Beer glass to her lips, Ms. Boilermaker downed half of it in one gulp. “Pour me my next shot, and I’ll tell you.”

  For a split second, Mac thought he was back in his early playing days in Canada, sitting in a bar with his buddies, daring the cute girl to chug. He gave Ms. Boilermaker another glance. Okay. Much cuter than the cute girls from his youth.

  Allison arched a skeptical eyebrow at Mac’s stoolmate, who glared right back at the bartender. “Don’t you have a job to do? Like getting me my double shot?”

  “Puh-leese. Keeping your drunk ass out of trouble has been my job since we were kids.”

  Ms. Boilermaker scoffed. “Look who’s talking!” Then she side-eyed him. “Don’t listen to her. She exaggerates.”

  Mac frowned, feeling like he was insinuating himself into some BFF moment—or a looming cat fight—but it was better than sitting in his room alone. This was entertainment without having to use a remote.

  “You get your shot after I hear what the last disaster-of-the-day was,” Allison persisted.

  Ms. Boilermaker narrowed her eyes. “Does management know about you withholding drinks from your paying customers?”

&
nbsp; “Don’t know, don’t care.”

  Ms. Boilermaker’s voice rattled out of her on a defeated breath. “Bedbugs.”

  Chapter 2

  Bedbugs and Other Randoms

  Eyes as blue as football’s Derek Carr popped wide, and the big guy with the messy hair—Mac—reared back as if the buggers were swarming over her and about to leap onto him. Which was sort of funny, considering his large frame and the cocky grin he’d flashed her. Not so cocky now, Mr. Badass. Well, he was more overgrown, tousled kid than badass. Then again, the man had quite a set of shoulders on him. Not that Mia was admiring them—just observing. She had more pressing issues to ponder than this guy’s build, and they had nothing to do with insects. Which was why she’d come in tonight, hoping to drown her troubles with Mr. Buchanan or talk them over with her sister. Wasn’t that what bartenders were supposed to do? Listen to your troubles? Of course, they would have to be wired that way in the first place. Getting Alli to actually give a damn about Mia for a change would take some kind of cataclysmic shift in the heavens.

  But Lord love a duck, Mia could use some of that compassion right about now—even if it was of the stunted variety.

  Normally, she was adept at keeping life’s low blows bottled up, putting on her sales smile and sailing through her days without anyone glimpsing her ragged underside. It was a role she’d learned to play to perfection and the reason why she was damn good at her job as a property manager, even if she did hate it.

  But this latest burden—and it was definitely not bedbug-related—was too big to carry around alone. So big, in fact, that it sat like a boulder on her chest, and it was becoming more difficult to hold back the tears that wanted to burst the dam despite the fact she hated showing any sign of weakness.

  Yep, Mia could sure use some unloading right about now. Except she couldn’t—not with this Mac character sitting right there. But all the bar stools had been taken, and she’d had nowhere else to park her tush.