Twisted Wrister: A Next-Door-Neighbor Sports Romance (The Playmakers Series Hockey Romances Book 7) Read online

  Twisted Wrister

  Book 7 in The Playmakers Series™

  G.K. Brady

  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.

  ISBN 978-1-7363606-4-4 (Kindle)

  ISBN 978-1-7363606-5-1 (Epub)

  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

  Dedication

  1. Been There, Dumped That

  2. Mace in the Hole

  3. A Couch Is a Hard Thing to Move

  4. Howdy Neighbor

  5. Micky-Dub Wants to Come Out and Play

  6. That Loud Knock Is Opportunity

  7. The Art of Parsing

  8. Mothers and Other Guilt-Inducing Anomalies

  9. Roses and Cookies

  10. I Think Your Sun Is in My Moon

  11. Cheese and Martinis

  12. You Say Love, I Say Void

  13. Twisted Wrister

  14. That's Definitely a Buzz Saw Up Ahead

  15. The Substitute

  16. Brooding Is Hot

  17. Practice Makes Perfect

  18. Storms and Other Electrical Phenomena

  19. The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly

  20. I Am So Pucked

  21. Zigging Instead of Zagging

  22. Mystery Woman

  23. Hat Trick

  24. How Think Do You Drunk I Am?

  25. A Chalk Outline of the Heart

  26. Debris Happens

  27. A Bad Day for Turkeys

  28. These Rails Lead to Crazy Town

  29. Reunions and Other Disasters

  30. Raising Funds and Frowns

  31. Commando

  32. Family Ties

  33. Crickets

  34. The Bleak Season

  35. Shenanigans Exposed

  36. Mila Kunis Cure-Alls

  37. Kissing Lessons on a Red Couch

  38. Doesn’t Take an Einstein

  Acknowledgments

  Also By

  About the Author

  For Aunt Kay and Uncle Mac, whose commitment and affection for one another gave me hope and showed me what a truly loving relationship looks like. You were the best role models ever, and I miss you every single day.

  Chapter 1

  Been There, Dumped That

  Blake Barrett resisted the urge to give the redhead chewing on his bottom lip a little backward nudge into the hallway so he could close his door. Unlike hockey, where his skill set was innate, his social fumbling at times like these was downright squirm-worthy. Manners he had—his mother had made sure of that—but helping a woman with her coat was a far cry from trying to maneuver her out the door after he’d just had sex with her. “Hey, thanks for letting me bang you. Would you please leave now so I can catch a few hours of sleep before practice?”

  Awkward as fuck.

  Usually, he was the one leaving. No, usually he wasn’t sleeping with a stranger. Yeah, that.

  “Sherry, I need my lip back if I’m going to get any sleep,” he teased, second-guessing his approach. Too light? Too harsh? Should he act like the gentleman ingrained in him, or should he be a dick? Did politeness even count in this situation? A year after earning a permanent job in the big league, this whole puck-bunny phenomenon still mystified him. He wasn’t particularly outgoing or funny, and while he wasn’t ugly, he was no better looking than the next guy. Was it him or his job that drew them in? His buddies all told him not to worry about it, to go with it and enjoy, but he wasn’t sure he’d ever get there.

  Sherry raked pointy nails through her long mane and pouted at him. “Is that all you have to say after what happened?”

  His mind flashed to the horror of accidentally pulling out Sherry’s extensions when he’d been in the throes ... talk about killing the moment. But honestly, how could he have known her hair was fake?

  “Uh, I’m sorry about the hair,” he repeated for the hundredth time since the mortifying incident.

  “You’re forgiven, lover, but that’s not what I was talking about.” Sherry hooked a long leg over his hip and grabbed his ass. “I’m talking about what happened between us.”

  Shit. Did something more than sex and Olympic hair-pulling happen between us?

  She spared him blurting out a painful “Thanks for a great time tonight” when she said, “You’ve got all the right moves, handsome, but we need to work on that kiss of yours. One more nibble. Let Sherry show you how to kiss the right way.”

  Wait. What?

  Her tongue thrust into his mouth, and he nearly choked. It was a big tongue and an active one, performing a thorough tonsil-swabbing. Was that the right way?

  A very loud throat clear made both their heads turn. A woman stood about ten feet away, and her eyes swept them from head to toe. He suddenly realized he only wore boxers—he hadn’t expected to see anyone else out here at 3:00 a.m., especially not with only four units per floor—and her assessing glare made him more self-conscious than he already was. Maybe because he was half-naked, sucking face with a woman he barely knew, who had just dropped the bomb on him that he couldn’t kiss.

  The woman in the hallway had a short froth of brown curls, with a stature and demeanor to match.

  “Excuuuse me,” she said in a frosty tone, “but maybe you should move your wrestling match inside?”

  Sherry pulled away and covered her mouth and the giggle escaping it. “I have to go anyway.” She spun toward the elevator, blowing him a kiss over her shoulder. “Bye, Blakey. Call me. We’ll pick back up with your lessons.”

  He frowned after her, his eyes straying toward her exaggeratedly swinging ass before shooting back to the Curly One tapping her foot.

  “Done ogling? Can I get to my apartment?” Curly huffed.

  He straightened, pretending he wasn’t clad in only his underwear. Time to fight attitude with attitude. “Who’s stopping you?” Then he gave her his best middle-of-the-night smile, hoping he didn’t resemble a nutso slasher.

  She made a rigid lifting motion with her hand. “You’re kinda blocking the way.”

  He glanced around. Apparently, he’d stepped into the hallway without realizing it. At six-two and two hundred pounds, he was big—his teammates had dubbed him “Bear”—but not so big she couldn’t get around him. She was just trying to be a pain. No, she was being a pain. The girl looked to be wound so tight she might pop a few springs, and it showed in the twist of her mouth and the narrowed eyes behind her black-rimmed glasses. Dressed in a starchy blue-and-white-striped button-down shirt, navy slacks, and black flats, she probably moved like her stiff clothes. Where the hell was she coming from so late anyway? Not clubbing—not dressed like that. Maybe she’d had a fight with the boyfriend, which would explain her snippiness. She’d moved in only weeks ago, and until now he’d never met her—never even seen her�
��and he knew nothing about her, other than his roommate had a huge hard-on for her. Exactly why, he had no idea.

  Taking a step backward into his doorway, he swept his hand grandly. “Please.” If his mother could see him, she’d be proud. Well, except for the half-naked part … and the part that preceded it. He could practically hear her slurring in his head, “Always use your best manners, Blake. Make your mama proud.” Making her proud was hit-or-miss depending on whether she noticed, which in turn depended on her level of inebriation.

  With a roll of her eyes, Curly strode past him with a scowl that made her look as though she’d sucked down an entire box of Sour Patch Kids. For reasons beyond his comprehension, he surrendered to a rare impulse and decided to needle her.

  “Did you have fun tonight?” he called after her, a smirk tugging the corners of his mouth.

  Slowly, she turned on her heel. “What?”

  Crossing his arms, he tucked his hands in his armpits. “Obviously, you’re getting back from a night out. Did you have fun?” He enunciated the last words slowly. Mom would not be proud; he was in dick mode, which was unusual for him.

  Curly jutted out a hip and perched her fist on it. Daggers shot from her eyes. “Not that it’s any of your concern, but my ‘night out’ was actually the conclusion of a long day at work.”

  Surprise had him rocking on the balls of his feet. Okay, so he’d made a few wrong assumptions. In his defense, she looked more like a business professional, not a bartender or a waitress or a swing-shift kind of worker—the kind of jobs that clocked out in the wee hours. Maybe she was a nurse, but then she’d be wearing scrubs, right? Curiosity got the best of him. “What do you do?”

  “I do plenty. What I don’t do is talk to strange, half-dressed men in hallways in the middle of the night.”

  “So what kind of men do you talk to in hallways in the middle of the night?”

  He hadn’t noticed before, but the hand not fused to her hip dangled at her side. She brought that arm up and flourished some kind of compact canister she pointed at his face, her index finger poised to depress the top.

  Internal systems all came online at once, and he threw up his hands and backed away. “Whoa, whoa, whoa! Take it easy, for Christ’s sake! No threat here, so put away the mace.”

  She lowered her arm, and he blew out a relieved breath, though his heart was pounding against his rib cage like it wanted to escape. He let out a mirthless laugh. “Damn, didn’t mean to get off on the wrong foot. We’re neighbors. We should be planning movie night or the next barbecue.” He went for a look of contrition.

  Whether or not it had an effect on her would remain a mystery because she wheeled, presenting him her back.

  “Uh, good night?” he ventured.

  As she inserted her key in her lock, she cut him a glare. “Good night … Blakey.” The slam of her door cut off the possibility of any more conversation.

  “That woman could stand a lecture from Mom,” he muttered as he softly closed his own door behind him. A few more cleansing breaths, and his heart rate finally slowed. He ambled to the loft’s floor-to-ceiling windows and took in the glittering carpet of lights stretched out in front of him. He nearly pinched himself. Again. Blake Barrett couldn’t believe his luck. Correction: his life. Because it wasn’t luck that had put him smack in the middle of a luxury apartment with panoramic views of the Rocky Mountains, nor had it gotten him a fat bank account or accolades for his recent play. He’d earned every single thing he had with pools of his sweat and blood.

  “Goddamn, what the hell are you doing, Barrett?” The rasp of his roommate and best friend, Owen Ferguson, nearly shot Blake out of his shorts. “First you keep me up by pounding some skank, and now you’re trolling the fucking hallway? Never mind what a stupid idea it is to bring a hookup home, or that the walls are not soundproof. Do you have any idea what time it is? Some of us need our shut-eye before practice, dude.”

  “Sorry about the noise, man,” Blake grumbled.

  Ferguson let out a condescending laugh. “Yeah, well, at least you closed the deal this time. Or maybe she did the closing for you. Whatever, it’s not like you get lucky all that much, so good for you for a change.”

  Blake bristled. Fergs was a few months older, which placed him at Blake’s ripe age of twenty-four, but damned if he didn’t take every opportunity to act like he was light years ahead of Blake in pretty much every facet of life—even in hockey, and especially with women. Ever since Blake had beat Fergs in face-offs percentage, his childhood buddy had been sour grapes. They hadn’t had a good old-fashioned knock-down drag-out in years, but the temptation to bust Ferguson’s chops had been gathering a head of steam lately. But not tonight; Blake was too exhausted for combat, physical or otherwise.

  With an inner headshake, he directed his focus elsewhere. “The noise in the hallway was all the new neighbor. She fucking pulled a can of mace on me!”

  “Why?”

  “Damned if I know. All I did was ask if she’d had a nice night. You’d think I’d made a threatening move.”

  A hint of a grin tugged Ferguson’s mouth. “Obviously, she doesn’t know you, or she’d know you don’t have a move, threatening or otherwise.”

  Blake ignored the jab.

  A few beats later, Fergs threw him off when he said, “So what was she wearing tonight?”

  “Who?” Fergs had been with him when Sherry had first approached. Had he already forgotten the hot pink number cut down to there and the tiny skirt that had been so tight it had been nearly impossible to peel off? Truth be told, Blake had had little idea which one of them she was interested in until Fergs left to use the john and she’d pushed herself up against Blake and started running her long nails all over him. Her blatant signals had been unmistakable—even for him.

  Ferguson let out an exasperated breath, bringing him back to the condo’s living room. “The hot-as-fuck little brunette who pulled the mace on you. Jesus, picturing her going all cavewoman makes her even hotter, her hair all wild and shit. What was she wearing?”

  “How would I know? Chick was grumpy as hell.” Was Curly hot? Blake’s hotness-alert system had been turned to its lowest setting, and even if it had been cranked up to a higher level, the mace pointed at his face would have knocked out the power to his meter.

  Ferguson’s eyebrows bounced. “She’s not grumpy around me. No sir, she’s all smiles. Real pretty ones too. Must be the power of the Fergs. And never mind about what she was wearing. I’ll let my imagination fill in the blanks. By the way, your sister called tonight.”

  Blake’s stomach acid began a familiar slow churn. He tended to get frosty when it came to his little sister. Amanda showed way too much interest in Ferguson, and Blake suspected that interest was returned—she was a living, breathing female after all, and Fergs didn’t require much beyond that—though if Fergs was interested, he was subtle about it. Thank God Amanda was back in school in Hawaii and not in the guest bedroom, where she’d been for a few weeks this past summer.

  “What’s she calling you for? And what time did she call?” His voice came out in a warning growl.

  Amanda hadn’t called him. Or had she? Come to think of it, he hadn’t checked his phone since getting distracted by Sherry. But no one messed with Amanda, especially not one of his womanizing teammates.

  “Said she couldn’t reach you,” this particular womanizing teammate said. “Sounded to me like you were blowing your wad right about then, so being the good friend I am, I left you alone. You’re welcome.” He paused to yawn. “She said it wasn’t urgent, but she wants you to call her in the morning.”

  “So not right now?”

  “No, she said it can wait.” Ferguson let out a low chuckle. “You know how she always forgets the time difference, bro. It was nine or ten o’clock where she is, so it was still early.”

  Why did hearing Ferguson relay this information stick in Blake’s craw? Because he should have been the one taking Amanda’s call—that’s what good
brothers did—instead of getting the old teakettle to whistle, no matter how much he’d needed to let off steam.

  Ferguson stifled another yawn. “I’m out. We riding to the rink together?”

  “Yeah,” Blake replied absently.

  “Okay. See you in a few.”

  As Blake trundled off to his room on one side of the sprawling condo, questions spun in his head. Amanda never called just to call. She always had a purpose, and that purpose usually centered around their mom. Maybe she wanted to give him good news this time: she’d visited Mom in rehab, and she was doing really well and was so grateful Blake had almost bodily hauled her there himself. Yeah, right. More likely, Amanda was calling to let him know Mom had ditched—again.

  He muttered a curse. As his thoughts swung in that direction, growing louder, they jolted him to full wakefulness. Any lingering effects from the post-sex fog had long since evaporated, and now a cold, steely spike of dread wedged itself inside his chest.

  Chapter 2

  Mace in the Hole

  Michaela Wagner shut the door behind her and sagged against it. As her heart slammed against her rib cage, she wondered what the hell had come over her. She’d never pulled pepper spray on anyone in her life—had never needed to, thank God. And she hadn’t needed to this time either. At least, she hadn’t felt threatened, just annoyed beyond reason. As for acting tough, she didn’t even know if the damn thing still functioned. Her doting father had given it to her years ago when she’d gone off to college—to protect her from the “hooligans” on campus, and later, in law school. And to this day he fretted, which was annoyingly sweet. He simply could not wrap his head around the fact that she didn’t hang out in jails all day. Moreover, while her job might one day bring her into contact with criminals of the white-collar variety, it was doubtful she’d ever rub shoulders with the sort of “unsavory folk” her dad envisioned. She was a real estate lawyer working on ho-hum contracts with everyday clients. Yes, she loved real estate law—it’s why she’d specialized in it—but the kind she worked on was … dull. And never-ending.