I was doing much worse than her.
Because not only was I employed by the Sharks, I was risking Eric’s livelihood.
I truly was a villain.
“I know,” I said. “I’m sorry. I should’ve told you. Talked to you about it the second it got real, but it happened so fast. I’m still reeling. And I’m lost, Ivy. I’m so fucking lost.”
She set the ice cream down and came around the counter to hug me.
That was the beauty of our sisterhood—even during a fight, we didn’t hesitate when one of us was crumbling.
“Look,” she said, hugging me tightly. “I’m sorry. It was a low blow. I’m just…hurt.”
“I know,” I said, choking back tears. “I’d do anything to take it away.”
“I know,” she said, nodding against my shoulder before pushing me back slightly to look at me. “I’ve never seen you like this,” she said.
I tilted my head.
“Wrapped up in a guy. Let alone a player.”
I shook my head. “I can’t control it. Eric is…” Pain flickered across her gaze. “Not something we need to talk about right now.”
She sighed. “Be careful,” she said. “You don’t want to end up like me.”
I smoothed some hair back from her face. “He’s out there,” I said. “Someone perfect. Someone way better than Crosby. Someone kind and strong and patient enough to put up with your sas.”
She chuckled, a half-sob half-laugh.
“Now,” I said, shoving all thoughts of Eric to the back of my head. My sister needed me, here, now, and free of any drama of my own. “Let’s go get green,” I said, grabbing the masks and tugging her toward the bathroom.
“I love you, Pepper,” Ivy whispered as she followed me. “No matter how big of a bitch I can be.”
“Ditto.”
Chapter 18
Eric
“Eric!”
“Eric!”
“Gentry!”
The press called my name with raised hands, and I called on a guy from NBC Sports in the front row for what had to be the fifteenth post-game question I’d answered.
“Thank you,” he said. “Mark Whitman, NBC Sports. You played three remarkable games this weekend here in Nashville.”
“Thank you,” I replied, leaning toward the microphone that sat on the conference table in front of me. “Was that a question, Mark?”
A murmur of laughter rippled through the room.
“Do you feel like the return of Crosby Stanton gave you that needed edge, and what do you feel led to his return so close to the trade deadline next week?”
“Now you’re asking two questions.” I forced a grin and was rewarded with another hum of laughter. “Of course Crosby brings a lot to the table. He’s an excellent defenseman,” and a total asshole, “and we have that proven chemistry on the ice when he’s back on the line. I couldn’t be happier to have him back. As for the timing of his return, that’s something you’d have to ask Coach Harris about.”
Because I honestly didn’t know. Crosby had been silent in the locker room, Coach wasn’t saying a word, and Pepper hadn’t come near me since we’d left Seattle on Thursday. Considering she’d spent Wednesday night with her sister, I hadn’t so much as kissed her in almost a week.
Like a heat-seeking missile, my eyes found hers in the back of the conference room, leaned up against the wall with her arms folded under her Sharks jacket. Man, I wished it was my jersey on her back, my name and number in giant block letters proclaiming her taken. Mine.
Fuck, I missed her.
Not just the sex, though it was phenomenal. I missed hearing her laugh, holding her while we watched a movie on the couch, getting her opinion on decisions that had to be made.
I called on the next raised hand.
“Scott Harrington, ESPN. We’ve heard rumblings about you leaving the Sharks at the end of the season due to better offers in both Denver and New York. Any truth to the rumors?”
Pepper’s head snapped up and her eyes widened.
Awesome. Yet another discussion I hadn’t been able to have with her since my agent took both of those phone calls on Thursday. Gotta love the press.
“All I can say is that my contract is up for negotiation, and I’m incredibly happy in Seattle.”
I looked directly at Pepper, hoping she knew I had zero intention of going anywhere, and called the next question. “Last, one, guys. I’m starving. We farm boys like to eat.”
Another murmur of laughter ran through the press corp.
“Alicia Peters, Seattle Tribune. Can you respond to rumors that the Crosby Stanton issue was caused by fraternization with the team’s new statistician, Pepper Harris? Anything to do with that tabloid picture? And if so, how do you feel about your team’s season being jeopardized by such behavior?”
My eyebrows hit the roof for a second before I caught myself.
“Alicia, man, that was definitely not one question. You and Mark been hanging out?”
She cracked a grin.
I didn’t.
A deep breath later, having collected my thoughts, I looked her square in the eye. “So, first, as I told Mark, anything to do with Crosby should probably be addressed to Coach Harris, or Crosby himself. Second, if you look at that picture, you’ll see that it’s not Pepper Harris, it’s Ivy Harris, who happens to be her twin, so there was definitely some failure in reporting there. Third, the only reason Pepper didn’t come out and say the caption was wrong, was that she has too much class to address tabloid gossip, which is what that was, and quite frankly, whomever Ivy chooses to date is her business. Fourth, I’m not in the habit of commenting on the love lives of my teammates, and that’s what Pepper Harris is—my teammate. And lastly, if you’ll check our record, you’ll see we didn’t lose any of the games Mason Hall played in, so that really makes your last question misleading. Let’s leave the gossip to the tabloids, shall we, Alicia?
“Now that’s it for me, ladies and gentlemen. I’ll see you back in Seattle.”
Pepper: In two minutes, open your door.
Eric: ok
I carried my cell phone to the door of my hotel room and watched the numbers change until two minutes had passed. Then I turned the handle and opened the door.
About thirty seconds later, Pepper flew through the doorway, shutting the door behind her so quickly that it almost qualified as a slam. Her hair was up in a knot on the top of her head, and the tops of her breasts swelled above her tank top.
My dick had no trouble reminding me that we hadn’t been together in nearly a week.
“Hey,” she said, leaning back against the door.
“Hey,” I answered.
There must’ve been something fascinating on the carpet because her eyes hadn’t left it since she entered.
“Pepper?” I prodded gently. “What’s going on? Not that I’m not happy to have you here, but I know how you feel about sneaking around during away games.” I backed up and sat gently on the edge of the large console table in the small entryway of my suite. It was all I could do to keep my hands off her—I was that desperate to connect with her physically seeing as we’d had almost no interaction other than text messages.
“It might help if you looked at me,” I suggested. A feeling of unease came over me. That wasn’t the face of a woman who was happy in her relationship. That expression went along with phrases like we need to talk, and it’s not you it’s me. Leave it to pepper Ha
rris to reduce me to a junior high boy.
Her gaze started at my feet and slowly rose over my legs, my hips, my bare torso, and finally, she met my eyes. She licked her lips and blinked rapidly before looking at the fire escape plan next to her.
“Maybe you could put on a shirt?”
“You’ve seen me in a lot less.”
“I am well aware. So. Well. Aware. It just makes it kind of hard to think with all of that—” she motioned to my chest, “—going on.”
“I can’t think around you no matter what you have on,” I admitted.
We locked eyes, and that same palpable, electric current connected us, even over the five feet that separated our bodies.
“Please tell me what’s going on, Pepper. You’re making me really fucking nervous.” If I wanted her to be honest, I had to give her the same consideration.
“Ivy knows about us,” she whispered.
“Is that it?” I asked, relief sweeping through me. The muscles in my shoulders loosened as I exhaled, feeling the weight of the world evaporate.
“What do you mean is that it?”
“I mean, is that what has you upset? What has you in my room at 11 o’clock at night, knowing any of the other players could’ve seen you walk in?”
“Well, yes. Don’t you think it’s worthy of a little panic?” She asked, raising her eyebrows above those crystal-blue eyes. God, I could look into those eyes every minute for the rest of my life, and never be tired of them. She had to be a horrible poker player. She wore every emotion on her face, in her eyes. It was one reason we steered clear of each other during away games, knowing we’d be caught.
“Do you still want me?” I asked, needing to hear the answer more than I needed my next breath of air.
“Of course,” she answered softly. “That’s why I’m here. We’re in some serious trouble.”
“Thank God.” I let my head roll back for a few seconds, ridding myself of the last of the tension that had struck me the moment she walked in. “I need thirty seconds before we can discuss this, okay?”