I scoff at that. Wife? Nope, not going to happen. My whole life, I was forced to live by the ‘nothing but hockey’ rule, thanks to my hard-ass prick of a father who told me I was nothing but garbage, soft like my mother.
He might be right, which is why I don’t let anyone know the real me, a guy who wasn’t even good enough for his own mother to stick around. It’s Cocky Cannon, The Playmaker, who women want to bed and the crowd goes crazy for.
Nina runs her hand over the stainless-steel appliance. “I would kill to have a stove like this,” she says.
I have a sudden flash of her standing at the stove, cooking for us, and before I can think better of it, I say, “You can cook on it anytime you like.”
Shit, what did I say that for? I turn from her and busy my hands getting two tumblers from the cupboard.
“Really?”
“I know you love to cook,” I say, making light of it. “I know you like to watch TV while doing it, too.” I gesture to the television built into the wall. I pretty much have one in every room. Another suggestion from my decorator, and one I actually liked. I can go from room to room, and never miss a play if a game is on.
“How do you know that?”
“I practically lived at your house, remember? You always made the meals.”
She frowns, and that’s when it hits me. She made the meals because her parents were always preoccupied with something else.
Hating that I brought back a hard memory for her, I open the fridge and change the subject. “Would you prefer lemonade?”
“Sure.”
I take the jug out and pour us each a glass. Her lips part as she takes a drink. Jesus those lips, soft, lush, so fucking kissable. How would they feel on my body, wrapped around my cock? I stifle a groan as that appendage begins to appreciate the thought as well.
Fuck. Three boners within minutes of opening the door to her might not be the best way to starts things off after all this time, even for me. I open the patio door leading to the pool.
“Let’s sit out. The rain stopped.” I walk outside. “Only in Seattle can you go from a downpour to hot and sunny in five minutes, right?”
“It’s this damn heat wave,” she says, and follows me out. As the sun beats down on us, her eyes drop. “You, ah, you should probably put on a shirt.”
Her gaze roams over my bare chest, lingering on the scars marring my body. Most think the wounds are from hockey. They’re not. I can’t remember a day when I hadn’t felt the sting of the jump rope my father forced me to train with. You need to toughen up if you want to play in the NHL.
The NHL was my father’s dream, not mine. Not that I don’t love the game. I do. It’s my entire life now. But as a pro player who never made it to the big leagues, my father was determined his son was going to play in the NHL.
Bastard got what he wanted, and I learned early on to shut down my emotions and present cocky to the world. It was the only way to get through the day. If I don’t feel, I can’t get hurt, right? That motto carries me through life, and into each game, and it’s that guy the crowd loves.
I rub my hand over one ugly scar and ask, “Why should I put a shirt on? It’s hot out.”
“You might…ah, burn.”
“I’m good.” I grab a bottle of sunscreen off my patio table and hold it up. “Want me to lotion you?”
“No,” she responds quickly as she peels her coat off. I grin as my gaze rakes over her thin T-shirt, Aerosmith emblazed across the front.
“What’s so funny?” she asks.
“Aerosmith,” I say. “That was a fun night, and I remember you buying that. You were fourteen. I can’t believe it still fits you.”
“You remember that?”
“Yeah.” I open the lotion and pour a generous amount on my chest, keeping to myself just how much I remember about her.
Nina drops into a chair, her eyes darting around the patio, looking everywhere but at me. What is going on with her? Is my near nakedness bothering her? Doing hot things to her? Damned if I don’t hope it’s the latter.
She’s hands-off, dude.
“So how exactly can I help you?” I ask.