Offside (19 page)

“What do you mean?”

She propped her elbow against her stick. Her
hair was wet from the rain when she’d arrived and she’d clipped it
in a mess on top of her head. Now, small chunks fell free and hung
in long curls down her back. Her cheeks were flushed pink, and her
lips…

Okay, stay away from the porn star perfect
mouth, dumbass.

“Well, that is if you’re feeling up to it,”
he goaded.

The tension inside her seemed to dissipate,
and she offered a small smile. “What did you have in mind?”

He grabbed several pylons and skated out to
center ice, noticing for the first time that they had a crowd
watching. The midget girls from next door were gathered beside the
player’s bench, their excited chatter now hard to miss.

He placed the pylons in exactly the same
pattern that she had done and pointed toward her. “A race.”

“You’re kidding.”

Was that sarcasm? “No, I’m not.”

“Are you sure you’re up for that Forest?”

Definitely sarcasm.

“Lady, you have no idea what I’m up for.” He
cocked his head and nodded toward the pylons.

“All right,” she answered softly. “We’re
nearly done anyway.”

Billie skated over to the bench where she
re-clipped her hair and doffed her sweatshirt.

A loud catcall echoed from the stands and he
spied Stu grinning from ear to ear.

Her midriff was bare and he clenched his jaw
together, refusing to find the sexy-as-hell belly ring he’d spied
earlier. The woman was playing hardball, but that didn’t mean he
had to play along.

Logan pointed toward the net at the far end
of the rink.

“First one to ding each corner wins.”

“Really? And who made you the God of
rules?”

He shrugged. “My challenge. My rules.”

“Okay.” Her eyes narrowed. “Wins what?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” he answered.

“You’re pretty sure of yourself,” she
replied.

“Yeah,” he skated toward the blue line
closest to them where he’d lined up five pucks each. “I am.” He
only needed four, but the extra one couldn’t hurt.

Adrenaline pumped through his body as he
lined up on the right side, she would take the left. Billie was
fast. She was strong and her hands were great. There was no doubt
she had enough talent for the big leagues.

But Logan was just as fast and though his
stick handling might not be on the same level as hers, he could
shoot the puck at a target and hit it. He’d been doing it for
years.

Besides, he was looking forward to claiming
his prize and damned if he was going to let Billie-Jo take that
away from him.

One of the young girls watching them hooted
and hollered. He flashed a smile, grabbed the whistle from Billie
and tossed it over.. It was the Mayor’s youngest daughter.

“Hey, Amanda, you want to start us off?”

She licked her lips. “I’ll blow your whistle
anytime, Logan.”

For a second he was startled. These girls
were what? Sixteen? Seventeen?

Billie joined him behind the blue line and he
took a second to study the pylons. His muscles bunched and small
puffs of hot air fell from his nostrils, as if he was a bull about
to charge. When the whistle blew it was anticlimactic.

He took off, his legs digging deep and then
he grabbed his first puck, maneuvering his body around the pylons
and not losing his puck as he did so. He kept his head up, his body
moving forward and moments later he approached the far blue line
and took a hard slap shot that dinged the top right corner.

It was followed less than a second later by
Billie’s, but he was already skating backward, around the pylons to
get his second puck.

By the time he grabbed his fourth puck, the
girls were jumping like crazy, half of them shouting for Logan, the
other half for Billie—who was seconds behind him.

He took off for his last run grinning when he
heard her swear. Seconds would count in this match. He’d just
cleared the pylon at center ice when a blur of dark hair and blue
and pink pajamas raced ahead.

Fuck!

He poured on the speed, lined up his shot,
but she’d somehow gotten by him and ripped a low wrist shot toward
the right corner.

And missed.

Logan let fly another impressive slap shot
and dinged the top left corner, circling behind the net with a big
grin, and whooping it up as he did so.

Goddamn! He was out of breath but felt like
he’d just won the Stanley Cup.

The girls were going crazy behind the
player’s bench, several of them shouting his name and Logan
grinned, enjoying his moment.

Billie skated over, gloves dangling in one
hand, stick in the other. Her hair was now totally out of its clip,
long pieces of it sticking to her neck and she used her shoulder to
push a good chunk of it out of the way.

“Congratulations,” she said quietly, turning
away but not quick enough that he didn’t notice the wince of
pain.

“Thanks.”

Shit. He had totally forgotten about her
side. After the workout she’d put him through and the little ‘race’
they’d just had, her stitches must be killing her.

Instantly concerned, he started toward her.
“Hey, are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” she snapped.

Her coolness effectively halted any warm and
fuzzies he might have been feeling and he put on the brakes.

For a moment neither one of them said a word,
both jumping when Stu yelled down, “Okay lovebirds, I need to clean
the ice.”

Logan nodded and turned toward the bench,
pausing when he reached the edge of the ice. He glanced over his
shoulder. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“What?”

“Tonight,” he repeated, watching her closely.
“Be ready by seven.”

“But,” she sputtered.

“You lost and now you owe me.”

Damn, if she didn’t bite that bottom
lip—that, sweet, fine, bottom lip. Between all that hair and that
luscious mouth, most men would be in trouble, but not him. Logan
had a plan and he was going to stick to it.

“I’m almost afraid to ask what you have in
store,” she said carefully.

“Seven sharp, and make sure you look
good.”

He stepped off the ice and headed toward the
dressing room, a huge grin on his face. Things were working out
better than he’d hoped. By tonight, he’d have Billie-Jo Barker
right where he wanted her. In his bed and hopefully, once he had
her, out of his head.

Logan tossed his gear and headed into the
shower, feeling better than ever. He would kill two birds with one
stone. Get a taste of something he’d wanted for weeks, and teach
Miss Billie-Jo Barker a lesson while he was at it. He wasn’t the
kind of guy to be played with.

And if that wasn’t a damn fine reason to feel
good, he didn’t know what was.

Billie’s head shot up at the sound of a
vehicle in the driveway. She glanced at the clock, stomach rolling,
jaw clenched. [i]
6:55
[i].

She’d been on pins and needles for nearly an
hour now, pacing the length of her room, trying to calm nerves that
were nearly shot and not doing a very good job of it.

A door slammed.

Shit.

She bit her lip and glanced in the mirror
once more, eyes running over her body critically as she exhaled a
shaky breath and ran fingers through the tousled mess of hair that
she’d decided to leave loose.

Clear gloss was all her mouth needed, mostly
because in her opinion her lips were overly large and she didn’t
like calling attention to them with bold colors. Warm browns
shadowed her eyelids while the mascara she’d used was thick and
dark—which along with eyeliner gave her a bit of an exotic
edge.

She blew a strand of hair off her face.
Jesus! She never wore makeup.

[i]‘
Make sure you look good
.’[i]

She thought of his words and frowned. I’m an
idiot. I should have worn a pair of stinky old track pants and my
stupid, still wet, bunny slippers.

[i]
I shouldn’t have agreed to this at
all
.[i] Except that she had and now that he was here there was
no way she was getting out of it.

The doorbell rang and she jumped, her gaze
returning to the clock once more. She had three minutes and damned
if she was going to go down until it was seven o’clock on the
nose.

She stood back and smoothed the blue boat
neck sweater she’d borrowed from Bobbi’s closet, down over her
hips. It left her shoulders bare and fit her curves perfectly.
Paired with skinny jeans and funky black shoes—again courtesy of
her sister’s closet—she thought that maybe she’d gone a bit
overboard.

It’s not like she was looking to get
laid.

Holy hell, where had that thought come from?
She swallowed. She gave herself a mental shake, but…was she?

No. Not a chance because that would be a bad
idea.

Wouldn’t it?

A long shuddering breath escaped her lips and
she glanced in the mirror once last time, aware of the flush that
touched her cheeks and the energy that thrummed in her chest. She
was on edge and if she didn’t know better,
[i]
aroused
[i].

Her hands fell from her cheeks, down to where
her nipples strained against the soft cashmere sweater. Hello. She
stifled a groan and froze when her grandfather yelled up the
stairs.

“Billie, there’s a young man here for
you.”

“Okay,” she croaked.

Crap. There was no way she could waltz
downstairs with the unmistakable nipple salute that was out there,
front and center. No way in hell. Logan would never let her live it
down.

Her eyes fell on the leather jacket slung
across her bed. It was old and out of fashion, but it would be
enough to at least hide the evidence. She scooped it up, grabbed
her purse from the dresser and left her bedroom.

She paused at the top of the stairs,
listening to the low murmur of Logan and Herschel’s voices. They
were chatting about the NHL standings. Her grandfather was a
Canadiens fan, while Logan was all about the Flyers’ Giroux and
Hartnell. She wrinkled her nose. The Rangers was her team.

With the leather jacket held firmly in front
of her chest, she descended the stairs and didn’t stop until she
was on the bottom step.

Logan Forest looked good enough to eat. No,
he looked better than that. He looked so damn good that for a
moment she wasn’t aware of anything but him.

His hair was damp, as if he wasn’t long from
the shower and he hadn’t shaved, the shadow along his jaw and chin
giving him the kind of dangerous air he so didn’t need.

And Billie was a sucker for the rough
look.

He wore faded jeans, the kind that looked as
if he’d had them for years, but she was willing to bet they cost a
small fortune. Didn’t matter. Either way they fit his long legs
perfectly. A crisp white collar peeked out from beneath a thick,
steel-gray, cable knit sweater and it did nothing but enhance his
wide shoulders.

He was a walking billboard for sex.

“Who’s there?”

Billie’s gaze swung from Logan to her father,
who had been in the family room. He was clad in green and white
striped pajamas and a matching bathrobe. In one hand he held a
newspaper and the other, his reading glasses.

“Dad, this is—”

“I’m not stupid, Billie-Jo. I know who this
is,” he interrupted sharply. Trent Barker took another step, and
thrust out his chin. “Your Max’s son.”

“Yes, sir.” Logan answered respectfully.

“You the oldest?”

“No, that would be Travis. I’m Logan.”

Billie held her breath. Bobbi had warned her
that along with their father’s memory issues, there were mood
swings to deal with. Not only was he agitated at times, he became
confrontational. Angry. Hard to deal with. She hadn’t seen this
side to him yet and it made her uncomfortable. Uncomfortable and
sad.

“You had your hands all over my daughter the
other day.”

Seriously? She shot a helpless look toward
her grandfather who had moved closer to his son.

‘I,” Logan began as a muscle worked its way
along his jaw. “I’m sorry, sir. That was inappropriate.”

“Damn right it was,” her father answered
aggressively.

Trent’s gaze swung to Billie, his eyes
narrowing as he looked her up and down. “Since when do you paint
your face like that? Like a cheap whore.”

She wanted to die. She wanted the floor to
open up beneath her feet and swallow her whole. “I—”

“You be smart, Billie, you hear? Hockey is
your career, not babies.” His eyes clouded for a moment and he
shuddered. “Why are you home, again?”

[i]
Oh, dad
.[i]

Herschel stepped between them and grabbed his
son’s arm. “Come on, Trent. There’s a documentary on the TV you’ll
enjoy.”

“But—”

“No buts. Let the kids have fun.”

Her father cast another mean look toward
Logan. “You treat my daughter with respect, you hear?”

“Yes, sir.”

She watched as her father retreated into the
family room just as a door slammed in the kitchen. Seconds later,
Bobbi walked up the hall from the back of the house. She’d come in
late from work and paused a few feet from Logan, tossing her jacket
on the bench beneath the window, before turning to Billie.

“I see you’re moving on from Shane.” Bobbi
said.

Billie swallowed painfully. She so didn’t
want to do this right now. Not in front of Logan. Not ever.

“And wow, you look good, too,” Bobbi
continued, crossing her arms over her chest. “But that’s not
surprising since that sweater cost me a small fortune.”

Billie opened her mouth to say
something—anything—but Bobbi had already turned to Logan.

“So, where are you two headed?” Her voice was
cool and crisp.

“To the city.” Logan answered.

She arched a brow. “Twisted Lemon?”