The Billionaire Heartbreaker (12 page)

“Hi!” The woman at the front desk greeted her. “Are you checking in today?”

Reily slid her credit card and ID across the counter. “Yes. Reily Martin.”

The woman's expression perked up and she gave Reily a knowing smile. She handed Reily an envelope and said, “Mr. Christensen left this for you,” before she turned her attention to her computer to check her in.

A renewed flush of heat raced through Reily's veins, half embarrassment, half smug pleasure. She slid her finger across the flap and peeked inside the envelope to find a plastic room keycard and a note:
I'm in room 626. I want to see you before I take the ice tonight, so get your ass up here. –T

That lovely bloom of smug pleasure dropped to the bottom of Reily's stomach and landed with a splat. They'd made an agreement about keeping a respectable distance during the playoffs and he'd promised just last night to behave. Had she imagined the emotion he conveyed? Had she let herself believe she meant more to him than a hookup because she'd wanted more with him? Those quickly scribbled words only helped to convince her that he thought she was nothing more than some vapid sports groupie, there to supply a way for him to take the edge off between games. Travis had blurred the lines and she'd let him. Hell, she'd
helped
him!

“Okay, you're set,” the front desk clerk said with a cheery smile. “Here's your room key and if you need anything, let me know.”

“Thanks.” Reily slipped her credit card and ID back into her wallet and scooped up her carry-on suitcase in her grip. She couldn't let things with Travis go any further. Not when both of their careers were at stake.

She focused on the click-clack of her heels as she crossed the lobby to the bank of elevators at the far wall. When the doors of the first available car slid open, Reily's fingers hovered over the number six—Travis's floor—for the barest moment before pressing down on the four. There was no doubt in her mind that if she allowed herself to go up to Travis's room, she'd let him talk her into doing something she shouldn't. One of them had to be responsible. It just sucked that it always had to be her.

Reily's phone rang as she let herself into her room. Her stomach did a nervous backflip as she dug the cell phone out of her jacket pocket—Bob Spencer. It didn't do much to calm her nerves, however, and she swiped her thumb across the screen. She set down her carry-on and her laptop bag before she collapsed onto the mattress and put the phone to her ear. “Hi Bob. I just checked in to the hotel.”

“We'll want you at the game tonight,” he said without preamble. “And the press conference afterward. You'll fly out with the team tomorrow to accompany him to the rest of the games for the duration of the Cup. Is that going to work for you?”

She was going to have to spend the next couple of weeks stuck to Travis like glue. What could possibly go wrong? Reily swallowed down a groan and kicked off her heels. “Of course, Bob. That's what you're paying me for.”

“He had a rough practice today,” Bob continued. “His head needs to be in the game. If we bench him it'll be detrimental to the team, but if he doesn't straighten out, we'll have no other choice. I don't think the rest of the guys would appreciate having their chance at the Stanley Cup disrupted because Travis can't stay out of a bar or some girl's panties long enough to win a few games.”

Bob's underlying tone got through to her loud and clear: Travis had better stay out of
her
panties as well.

“I can guarantee you, he'll be on task and focused.”

“That's good to know,” Bob said. “Scott Tomlinson told me to tell you that if Travis plays up to par and we win the cup, there'll be a big bonus for you.”

In any other circumstance, Reily would have jumped for joy at that news. Instead, guilt weighed her down. “The bonus isn't as important as proving myself to the organization,” she replied. “I'd like to be able to work with you in the future.”

“Make sure Travis behaves himself, and you will. I'll see you tonight.”

“I'll be at the rink early. See you there.”

Reily set her phone down on the mattress and let out a long sigh. The envelope Travis left for her at the front desk was still clutched firmly in her left hand. Her stomach churned with nervous tension and her muscles grew taut. The only sound in the quiet room was her own breath as she fought the urge to push herself up from the bed and race to the sixth floor, where Travis was waiting.

His words from last night, rough and passionate, resonated in her mind and she shivered.

She shouldn't want him as much as she did. Couldn't. One more slip and he'd be benched. She'd be fired. And they'd both be screwed. Her text alert went off and Reily scooped her phone up from the mattress. She didn't have to look at the screen to know who had sent the message and her stomach knotted tight.

Where r u?

She stared at the screen, her fingers itching to reply. It wouldn't do any good to ignore him. Travis was too stubborn to be ignored. Reily fired off a quick text. Short and to the point:
Just got in. Need to go over some things with Bob before tonight's game.

Did you get my envelope?

Reily glanced at the keycard beside her on the bed before she typed,
Yes.

Then why aren't you in my bed, naked right now?

A riot of butterflies took flight in her stomach, floating higher into her throat. A steady thrum settled low in her abdomen and a rush of wet heat spread between her thighs. It was pathetic that after one night and a little phone sex with Travis, all he had to do was snap his fingers and she was ready to come to heel. Reily reminded herself that what she was doing was for both of their good as her fingers moved over the screen.

You have to be at the rink soon. And I have meetings. You need to focus on the game. I'll be with Bob in the box and I'll be at the post-game conferences. We'll see each other afterward.

Long minutes passed with no response. The pleasant butterflies swirled and dipped into a dive bomb that crashed and burned in the pit of Reily's stomach. She wasn't rejecting Travis. Not exactly. But if she didn't put him at arm's length, they'd both suffer. This was about more than Reily's job now. She cared about Travis and his insistence that she come to his room made her feel like something to be used at his disposal. She couldn't be that for him. And likewise, she couldn't let him continue on a self-destructive path. They both deserved better. She wouldn't be able to live with herself if she was the reason he was benched, or worse. When his response finally came, Reily jumped at the sound. She brought the screen up to read the words:

Fine. Whatever.

Her chest ached and she loosened the buttons on her jacket to give her lungs room to expand. She hoped that in trying to salvage Travis's career—and her own heart—she wasn't ruining her chance for happiness.

*   *   *

Travis jerked the helmet and mask off of his face and let it fly. It bounced several times along the dull surface of the ice before skidding thirty or so yards away. He stared up at the scoreboard—
five to fucking two
—and swore loud enough to draw stares from the spectators seated close enough to the goal to hear him. And considering the roar of the crowd, he'd obviously projected his voice well.

With his shutout streak officially broken, the press was going to have a heyday with him at the post-game conference. Not to mention Bob, his coach, and the members of his team who counted on him to stop the puck from getting into the tiny motherfucking net that he couldn't seem to guard for shit tonight. His gloves joined his helmet on the ice and his stick a second later before a shout erupted from his chest. “Fuck!”

Travis skated toward his discarded gear. His pads restricted his movement and all he wanted to do was take them off and kick them to the other side of the rink. After Reily had blown him off, the rest of his afternoon had gone to shit and it hadn't gotten any damned better. Tonight's loss was a blow he couldn't stomach. His pride—not to mention his reputation as a player—had taken a serious hit. All he wanted to do was get out of his pads, take a scalding hot shower, and drown his sorrows in a bottle of Macallan.
Alone
. Because it was damned obvious that Reily didn't want to have anything to do with him.

“Take that shit into the locker room, Christensen.” Lance Chase, the team's captain, whooshed by and circled Travis. “Don't let them see you lose your temper.”

The crowd of pissy fans who'd shouted at him every time he missed a puck? Travis didn't have any fucks left to give about them. As far as the other team went, they'd better get an eyeful. Because tonight was the first and last time they'd see him fall apart on the ice. He threw a scowl Lance's way as he skated toward the locker room entrance. As the crowd began to exit the rink, he looked up to find Reily standing at the top of the stairs, her gaze focused on him.

The edge of his blades dug into the ice as Travis came to a stop. He stared her down and his heart beat so hard that he thought it might burst right out of his damned chest. A furrow cut into Reily's delicate brow as she looked down at him and he scowled. If she was worried about the fallout from tonight's game, she had good reason to. It had been a long damned time since he'd been this pissed off. And the only thing that would fix it would be for him to blow off a hell of a lot of steam.

*   *   *

“Travis, you seemed a little off tonight. How do you feel about your performance on the ice?”

Seriously?
“I feel like shit,” he snapped at the reporter. He'd get dinged for swearing when he knew the post-game conference was being televised, but he didn't care. “True, I was a little off my game tonight, but that's not going to happen again. Everyone has an off night, including me. You have any other burning questions? Want to know how I felt when my mom died from cancer when I was kid?”

Behind him, he sensed Reily bristle. He didn't have to look at her to know that she was about to blow her top. Hell, he was surprised that steam wasn't billowing out of her ears right now. She leaned in to whisper something in his coach's ear and he inclined his head toward the mic in front of him on the long table.

“Emotions are always high with so much at stake. Every member of the team has our complete support, including Travis. He and the defense work together on the ice. No goalie can stop every puck, not even the best in the world. We'll bounce back in game four.”

“Do you think Travis's recent bouts of partying have anything to do with it?”

Travis searched the crowd for the lousy SOB who had the nerve to ask that question and he met the gaze of the snarky bastard from ESPN who'd hassled him at the Boys and Girls Clubs event.

“My partying had about as much to do with tonight's game as your stupid-ass question does,” Travis replied.

From the corner of his eye he caught Bob's eyes roll into the back of his head. It looked as though he'd gripped his chest near his heart. Travis swallowed down a snort. Melodramatic much?

“Does anyone have a question about tonight's game?” he asked the room at large. “Or are you all more interested in what I had to drink or who I slept with earlier in the week?”

The room fell deathly silent except for the clicking of cameras. A long suffering sigh escaped Reily's lips. If she didn't like his behavior tonight, it was too damned bad. He'd been so wrapped up in why she'd brushed him off and the unexpected hurt he'd felt, that it had messed with his head. She was as much to blame as anyone for his shitty performance on the ice tonight.

“I think we ought to wrap this up,” Reily said into the mic next to Travis's. “Like Coach Metcalf said, emotions were high tonight and I'm sure you can understand how important it is to cool down after a high-pressure game. Any further questions for Mr. Christensen can be directed to myself, Coach Metcalf, or Bob Spencer.”

Travis threw a glare in Reily's direction before pushing back his chair. The sound of questions being shouted out rang in a cacophony before Bob took control and directed the media's questions back to the rest of the team where they belonged. Travis didn't look back as he left the room, but he knew Reily trailed close behind him. No doubt worried about her precious reputation as well as his. As though a bunch of strangers' opinions mattered one fucking bit.

He scooped up his gear bag and made a beeline out of the United Center. The team bus waited to shuttle everyone back to the hotel, but Travis didn't want to wait. Instead, he hailed and cab so he could get the hell out of there ASAP.

The driver took his bag and put it in the trunk. Travis paused as he noticed that Reily had taken a seat in the back of the cab. Lovely. Now his babysitter was convinced he'd need looking after for the next few hours. Instead of climbing in beside her, Travis took the front seat. He slammed the door and said, “Get me the fuck out of here.”

Travis let out a gust of breath as he settled back in his seat. Tonight's loss had stung but what really had his temper roiling was the fact that Reily's perception of their “images” meant more to her than he did. The alien hurt he felt stabbed into his chest and he didn't like it one bit. What she thought shouldn't matter.
She
shouldn't matter.

But goddamn it, she did.

Twelve

The tension that built from the moment they'd left the United Center had become nearly unbearable. Reily stood in the far corner of the elevator, opposite of Travis, his enormous gear bag a barrier between them.

“I don't think tonight's press conference was entirely a disaster.” Reily had to say something. The silence was killing her. She kept the conversation geared toward work. Tonight's game had to be the reason for Travis's sour mood. Right? Reily couldn't imagine him being this upset over her not coming to his room when she'd gotten to the hotel. Travis was famous for his revolving door hookups. She had a hard time believing she was anything more than another body through the turnstile. “ESPN will make a big deal out of it, but everyone knows that guy is a jerk. It'll fizzle out. And if anyone follows up, I'll field it.”