Scoring Lacey (2 page)

“Uhm-hm,” she responded, clearly flustered.

Smooth, Donnelly. So smooth
. He swallowed the rest of his drink and searched for an escape route. He had mentally mocked Payne and now here he was, no better. Awesome.

“Did you want a play air hockey?”

“What?” His brain couldn’t keep up as he gazed at the woman beside him.

“Air hockey. Couples tournament. Someone needs to kick my parents’ asses this year. I think we can take them.”

He stared at Lacey, his mind churning the words around. “Yeah,” he said slowly as a grin emerged on his face. “I think we can take them.”

“Keep it clean, Magerins,” the ref said. Walter Lewis was one of her parents’ best friends, the father of her own best friend and was this year’s emcee and referee. He was dapper in his tuxedo, his gaze shifting between the two teams. Lacey expected him to say ‘touch gloves’ like they were in a boxing match.

“Yeah, yeah,” Lacey said then snarled at her mother. Her mother’s blue eyes narrowed in response. “You’re going down, old lady.”

“Watch your mouth,” her mother snapped back and tightened her grip on the plastic mallet. She looked ferocious in her gold evening gown. The bodice hugged her mother’s slender body and the starburst of gems added an extra sparkle. Her mom was gold from the tips of her heels to the elegant upsweep of her hair.

There were times Lacey felt her mom was too elegant for Granville, Saskatchewan. Until she opened her mouth and cursed like a trucker...or the wife of a hockey coach.

“Call it,” said the referee.

“Heads,” Shayne said beside her, glaring at her father. The two men had beady looks in their eyes, like gun shooters standing in the middle of town waiting for high noon.

Air hockey was taken very seriously with this crowd.

Walter flipped the coin. “Tails it is. Swap to the men at five points.”

Favoritism. She knew it. She moved to her end of the table, not sure she wanted to be the red player. She wanted yellow. For no other reason than it would irritate her mother. “Take her down, sweetheart,” her father said, his arms folded over his chest.

“We’ve got youth on our side, Coach,” Shayne said. “You’re what? Pushing ninety?”

Lacey fought a grin as her father glared. Seventy-one on his last birthday. Her mother pointed at Shayne. “You shut your yap, boy-o. I put Band-Aids on your skinned knees.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Asshole,” her mother growled then the thin puck was dropped and Lacey went after it. Light streams of air brushed over her arm as she snapped the puck at the slot at her mother’s end. In, damn it.

“Right on, sweetheart,” her dad shouted as her mother blocked the shot. “Spank her.”

Jesus. It had been awhile since she had played this. She hadn’t participated in the games at the fundraiser in years because Kevin found them demoralizing. She blocked the shot and fired it back, her bracelet sliding back and forth on her wrist. Her mother blocked Lacey’s shot, retaliating in kind. “Fuck,” she muttered when the puck got past her and slammed into the slot. Her mother spun around and high-fived her dad then returned as Walter retrieved the puck.

“Hang on.” Shayne leaned over the table. She stared at her wrist as his fingers brushed her skin. The same skittery feeling from when he had called her a gorgeous woman flittered in her stomach as he removed her bracelet and tucked it into his pocket. “Game on.” He folded his arms over his chest. He looked intimidating, his hazel eyes flat in what she often referred to as his game face. Not even the tuxedo diminished that hard expression.

The man needed to wear a tuxedo more often. It hugged all that muscle perfectly. He was, she searched for the word, sexy.

She blinked twice as the puck sailed right by her. then looked up and over her shoulder, meeting Shayne’s gaze.

“If you move your hand,” he moved his side to side, “your chances of stopping shots increase.”

“My team,” she said, pointing at her chest. “You’re on my team.” Was it her or had his gaze flicked down to her cleavage before snapping back up to her face? What the hell was going on? What kind of drink had he given her? Shayne didn’t look at her boobs, and she never used to notice he was sexy. He was
Shayne
for crying out loud. Her little brother’s best friend.

Little. Brother.

Ten years younger than her. He wasn’t sexy. He was a kid.

He pointed down and she nodded, focusing on the game. The puck dropped, so to speak, and she went after it determined to not be beat by her sixty-eight year old mother. “Damn it,” she snarled as her mother sank another goal.

This was embarrassing.

“Who’s your mommy, little girl? Me.” Her mom was pretty good at the trash talk as she pointed her fingers at herself then flicked them at Lacey in a “come and get it” wave.

This was mortifying.

“Don’t shoot head on,” Shayne said in a low voice, standing at her back. “Hit it off the boards.”

“What? Why?”

“Trust me. Aim for where her champagne glass is. And don’t move when she shoots. She’s always head on and you’re all over the place. Hold it in front of the slot.”

“You told me to move it,” she said, glaring at him.

“Well you were just standing there. At least make it look like you’re moving. Fake it.”

Okay. He was the pro here. She fought the urge to nod and returned to the game. She focused on the game, not the man behind her. Damned if his method didn’t work.

She barely moved her paddle then when she saw her chance; she aimed at her mom’s drink. The puck hit the low wall then bounced off and went into the slot, the sweetest vision ever. “Yes!” She punched her fists in the air. “Take that, old woman! Yes.” She jammed her fingers towards her mother.

“Nicely done. This time block the left half of the slot then aim straight down the middle.”

She turned to look at her partner. Shocked. She was shocked. “You’re a hustler!”

He cleared his throat, his eyes twinkling so they looked more green than hazel. “I’m a goalie. She’s predictable. Center left right. You’re watching the puck. I’m watching your mom.”

“Awesome. We’re kicking ass,” she said with relish.

“We’re down by two, doll. Don’t get cocky.”

She nodded the returned to the game and did what he said. Exactly. Scoring twice on her mom. “Oh yeah, who owns it. Huh? Huh?” She watched as her mom faced her dad for a meeting.

“He’s about to tell her I cracked her pattern,” Shayne said as he gave the couple a hard look.

“What? I did not!” Her mom yelled then spun around to give Shayne the evil eye.

“Would I do that to you?” He flattened his hand on his heart. “You’re the beat in my pulse, Mrs. Magerin. The blood in my heart. Lacey is just that good.”

Her dad glared. “Lay off, boy-o. Get your own woman.”

“What do I do? Stop flirting with my mom and tell me what to do.” Lacey swatted his chest and waited for her instructions. He glanced down at her and she found her thoughts wavering from the air hockey game. Had his mouth always been that sensual?

What the hell was going on?

She got the fact that it had been a long time since she had sex but that didn’t mean she went around eyeing up her kid brother’s friends. For crying out loud!
Snap out of it
.

“Repeat the pattern,” he said as he took a fresh drink a waiter brought over.

“Are you drunk? What?” He had to be. Did he miss that part where he told her that the enemy now knew they had cracked her game?

He handed the glass to her, put his hands on her hips and turned her around. Her heart gave an idiotic extra thump as she sipped his drink. “Repeat the pattern,” he repeated. His hands squeezed her and she almost dropped his glass. “Trust me.”

What the hell was going on? She surrendered the glass, wiped her damp hands on her dress and faced her mom. Her heart was racing. She felt hot and itchy. She was too busy thinking of her malfunctioning body and her mother used that to her advantage. Damn it.

Focus on the game. She stared at the hand braced on the table not far from her. An athlete’s hand, it was large like the rest of him with a broad palm. A finger pointed and she followed the direction to the game. The game, the game.

Right. Okay. Where were they?

“Left,” he said softly.

“Right.”

“No. Left.”

She rolled her eyes but once more guarded the left then fired the shot. Slick as the scotch he was drinking, she made her shot, tying them up again.

She could do this then it would be up to him to win this. It wasn’t an easy shot this time. The plastic puck made sharp sounds as it was pushed back and forth.

“Champagne glass,” Shayne said into his glass.

She banked the shot and watched in total surprise as her puck went in. “Holy cow,” she said quietly. “Holy cow!”

“Point to the red team. Five-four. Partner swap.”

“Did you see that? Yes! Take that!” She gave a hip wiggle as she stuck her tongue out at her mother.

“Nothing like winning like an adult,” her mother said with a dignified sniff, as if she hadn’t started the trash talk. “Game’s not over yet.”

“Please. I have the best goalie in the NHL on my team. Who do you have? Retired left wing? Please,” she snorted, waving her hand in dismissal. She glanced at the best goalie in the NHL and watched as he shrugged off his tuxedo jacket.

Holy.

Hell.

The white silk shirt hugged one broad chest. She wanted to stroke her hands over the breadth of his shoulders and down the soft fabric of his shirt to his ass. Shayne Donnelly had a fantastic ass. He folded the coat and handed it to her before he removed the green cufflinks from the wrists. He tucked them into his pants pocket and rolled up his sleeves.

Holy.

Hell.

Had his forearms always looked like that? They were tanned and roped with muscles. There was a tattoo around his left wrist. Had that always been there? She reached for his hand and turned it so she could see the design. It was the Granville Husks logo. On the inside of his arm were the two hockey stick blades that wrapped around his wrist, turning into wheat ears. Two zeroes were in green between the tip of the wheat and the stick blades. The year he had graduated from MHS. Crap, as if that wasn’t reality right there.

He had left high school
ten years
ago. Ten!

“Have you always had this?”

“Five years.” He took a sip of his drink and handed the glass to her, which meant he had it last time he was here but she hadn’t noticed. “You ready, old man?”

“Bring it, kid.” Her father had removed his jacket also. “You think you can take me? I know all your moves. I know for one you can’t shoot for shit. That’s why they put you in net.”

“How’re the joints? Arthritis acting up?” Shayne took the red paddle, spun it on the smooth surface of the table then settled into place. He crouched down like he was in the net, his legs spread and bent at the knees. He didn’t look at anyone but her father, two warriors facing off.

Lights glinted off her dad’s steel grey hair and his brown eyes were locked on Shayne as if the power to win was in his gaze alone. Her dad was competitive. His rule with hockey was to have fun but “Who says you can’t have fun and win?” was often heard coming from his mouth more often than not. His nose had been broken a few times in the game and decades ago the top three teeth had been removed by a facer from a puck. His knee was shot, arthritis had kicked in, and none of it kept him off the ice – even now.

She loved every bump and line in his craggy face, but he needed to go down.

The puck dropped and it was a vicious battle. She and her mother were amateurs in comparison to her father and Shayne. The puck was barely visible as it flew back and forth. She moved so she could watch them better. Shayne’s gaze was everywhere as he tracked the puck with ease. Unfair.

Granted he was used to keeping his eye on the puck but, really, this was rubbing it in. His arm snapped forward and the puck was a blur as it flew over the little streams of air. Right past her father’s yellow paddle and into the slot.

His eyebrows rose and fell. It was all the trash talk he did.

He settled back into position and this time she watched him instead of the game. He was utterly absorbed in the game, his gaze tracking and following, his hand barely seeming to move as he stopped shot after shot. No, he wasn’t following the puck. He was anticipating. He was almost two seconds ahead of where the puck would go.

She watched as he delivered another hard shot, sinking it. Her father cursed and once more those eyebrows rose and fell. She sipped Shayne’s scotch, enjoying the smoky flavor on her tongue as Shayne spun the paddle once more, letting the puck coast away before he recaptured it and hunkered down.

“This is almost sad,” her brother said behind her. “Watching the old man get spanked like this.”

She glanced at Todd who was smirking. “You bet on this game.”

“Please. Shayne versus Dad? Everyone has bet on this game. It’s like making a six-year-old go against the NHL. But Dad’s needed to be knocked off this pedestal for a while. Way to kick Mom’s ass.”

“She’s predictable.”

He snorted as he squeezed her shoulder. Clearly he knew who had shared that wisdom. She looked at the game then back at her brother. He looked grown-up. When had that happened?

Like the other men in the room, he wore a tuxedo but with a green and yellow vest instead of a cummerbund. The colors matched the team colors for the Granville Husks. Usually his hair was a mess, the curls dominating but tonight it was almost smooth to his skull. He had tried shaving his head once. He did not have the right face and head shape to go without hair, even a crew cut. So it grew wild. Like him. Even his blue eyes looked older tonight. When had these two grown up on her?

Damn.

The third face off and once more the puck was being abused. She focused on the game. “He knows where Dad’s aiming before Dad does. How does he do that?”

“He’s good, Lace. He’s really good. He can’t shoot for shit though.”

The puck hit the corner of the slot before her father knocked it away. Yeah, she thought, her brother was right. Every time Shayne missed a decent shot, his left eye twitched as if he was cursing in his head. On the outside though he was utterly calm.