Ice Hard Page 2

  Placing a glass on the counter, she pours. “Nice speech. Your friend was touched. There wasn’t a dry eye in the bar.”

  “Except yours?” I offer her the glass she just poured, holding mine up for a toast.

  The bartender surveys the crowd before clinking her glass against mine and downing a large gulp of the bourbon she just poured. “Sorry, but I’m a skeptic. Tried and true.”

  “Shame.” She has potential. Hot, in a teasing Britney Spears way. Yep. I’m now leaning in that direction. “Britney?”

  “Hit me, baby, one more time.” She leans over the counter again. That one button has let loose, exposing her black sports bra and the voluptuous flesh peeking above it. I imagine her skin is soft, like silk. The thought makes me harder. “This outfit brings in extra tips. Guys, especially you hockey types, love old-school Britney. Who am I to disappoint?”

  I’m anything but disappointed. Cat-cooking Kristen has nothing on this smoking-hot bartender.

  “Hey, thanks for covering for me.” A guy hustles from the far end of the bar. “Britney. Again?”

  “It never gets old. Maybe you should try it sometime.” She’s as tall as he is. “Besides, what do you care when I covered for you?”

  “I don’t. Thanks.” He resembles her, with the same brown hair, only his eyes are much darker. “Time for you to go. I can’t get in trouble.”

  Turning to me, she holds out her palm. “If you’re going to tip me, now would be a good time.” Why does my mind immediately travel to the many lusty ways I could tip her? It’s got to be her full breasts, peeking just above her bra. Or it could be the Britney schoolgirl outfit. I’m a sucker for it. Or maybe, just maybe, I’m a sucker for her? I wouldn’t mind some hot-and-heavy with the woman leaning against the bar.

  I reach into my wallet and hand her a fifty-dollar bill. It’s the only cash I’ve got. She rolls it up and stuffs it into her bra. “Thanks, Nick. Pleasure doing business with you.” Winking at me, she twirls the end of a braid. Who needs Scorcher when I’ve got this woman making me think dirty thoughts? And such dirty thoughts they are.

  “You’re taking the good tips.” The other bartender blocks her exit. “You know what that means.”

  She holds her hands in the air. She’s got a lot of hand gestures going on. “No. I’m never doing it again. Family or not.”

  “You are so doing it. I’ve got tuition.” He starts chanting “Britney” at the top of his lungs. Things are getting interesting. My teammates have joined in and…“Baby One More Time” is now blaring from the speakers.

  Glaring at him, she straightens her shoulders. “If you weren’t my baby brother, I’d kick your ass.”

  “On the bar?” He smiles.

  “There’s no way in hell I’m doing this on the bar.” She turns to me and downs the rest of her bourbon before adding to the new guy, “It’s a good thing I love you, little brother. Now, pause it.”

  The music stops, and my teammates whine and whistle. “Yeah, okay. Enough!” she shouts, sauntering from the bar with her hands raised high in the air. “First off, I’m not a stripper and this is no Coyote Ugly, okay? You guys want Britney, you’re gonna join in.”

  The guys boo. “Come on, guys. I’m not doing this by myself. The music won’t start until you’re on the floor with me.”

  I’ve never seen my teammates move so fast, even on the ice. I guess hockey guys are Britney fans. Horny Britney fans. Christ, I’m a horny bartender fan, which is why I stay seated. Because she is turning me on way too much for my own good.

  Pushing tables and chairs aside, Lucky and Thor are the first on the makeshift dance floor. They shove each other, jockeying for the prime spot in front of her. The other guys either join in or wait to the side of the action.

  “All right. Nice job, guys. First, the rules. Rule number one: No copping a feel. Rule number two: Fun is allowed, touching is not. If rules one and two sound similar, it’s because they are. Who understands?”

  My teammates hoot and holler.

  “I can’t hear you.” She places her hand against her ear. She’s taking command of the crowd like a champ. They obey right away.

  My teammates holler louder as the ones on the sidelines join in. I remain on my barstool, getting the perfect view of her plaid-miniskirt-clad ass.

  “I can’t believe I went to business school for this,” she mutters under her breath as she turns to face the bar. It’s loud enough for me to hear, even over the crowd. After nodding to her brother, he turns on the radio and Britney starts blaring. That intro: “Oh baby, baby.” I know it well. It’s been every teenage boy’s wet dream, whether they admit it or not.

  The bartender owns it. The dance moves, the shimmying, the spinning, and the kicks. She’s also singing. No karaoke here. She is full-on singing it like she owns the song.

  Lucky is all fired up, though he’s got no rhythm to save his life. Thor is dancing like there’s no tomorrow, and he knows all the words. He and the Vamp are singing this shit like stars. Lip Sync Battle’s got nothing on them.

  Chris places his beer on the bar next to me. “No strippers. Thank God. I was afraid you and Damon would go all out.”

  Technically, we did. I quickly send a text canceling the strippers. This is way better. Besides, Chris is okay with it and that’s what matters.

  The bartender returns her attention to the guys, teaching them the moves. “Follow what I do. If you can’t dance, nod with the beat.”

  She’s done this before. Teaching dance. She must have. She’s too good at it, and the guys are eating this shit up.

  “Where did you find her?” Chris asks.

  I shrug. “Here. Her brother. He bartends here. She went to business school.” I don’t know why it was important for me to add the last bit. It just was.

  The song ends, and another starts playing, one by Imagine Dragons. We’re running the gamut with our playlist. Chris waves the mystery woman over. “Thanks for teaching the guys to dance. You’re great. Are you a cheerleader? Dancer?”

  “Never,” she laughs. “I was too gangly and awkward growing up. I just watched a lot of Britney videos and memorized the moves. I’ve also got nieces and nephews. Dancing makes babysitting fun for all of us. That song is one of the staples on my playlist.”

  “So, you treated our teammates like they’re kids?” I can’t hide my smile. If she’s awkward, then she makes it sexy as hell. I’d love to learn what else is on her playlist.

  “Yeah. You could say that.” She turns to Chris. “Congratulations. You’ve got quite the best man. I mean, talk about a toast.”

  Her tone is laced with humor, and sarcasm. Heavy on the sarcasm.

  “He’s leaving me with lots to live up to,” Chris quips. The guys have now moved on to the electric slide and are doing a lot of grinding. “I’m going to try to keep my bachelor party PG-13. Excuse me.”

  Note to self: The electric slide to an Imagine Dragons song is almost as disturbing as a naked Lucky streaking through the bar.

  The hot business-school-graduate bartender reaches into her bra and my eyes widen. Unrolling the cash, she calls down the bar. “Matty!”

  “Hey, thanks for that.” Her brother taps his hand against the bar. “They’re gonna be thirsty.”

  Placing the cash in his palm, she folds his hand into a fist and yanks him closer. “Tuition. Or books. Nothing else. Got it?”

  “You sure? You need—”

  “Forget what I need. I’m sure. Now, get back to work.” As a side note, she shouts, “Wash your hands first!”

  The whole scene was protective…sweet. Though I want to know what she needs the money for, I know better than to ask. Not now. Not yet.

  “Nice meeting you, Nick. Thanks for the tip.” She’s pretty in a natural way, with a smile that brightens the bar, making me feel warm from within. A reactio
n I didn’t know I was capable of.

  “I never got your name.”

  She takes a step back. “I never told you.” She grabs her purse from behind the bar, slings it over her shoulder, and, weaving through the guys, who are dancing to the current song of choice, heads toward the exit.

  “Hey!” I follow her outside. Though we’re in March, winter in the form of crisp temperatures hasn’t yet released its hold on us. The street is cold and dark, with nothing but streetlights illuminating the sidewalk. “You don’t have a coat.”

  Looking over her shoulder, she surveys me. “I don’t need one. I’m just going next door.”

  There’s an Italian restaurant around the corner from the End Zone. She unlocks the entrance doors, and our hands brush as we both grab the handle at the same time. It sends a jolt through my system. I’m suddenly awake, alive, all my nerve endings humming for this woman I just met.

  “This is my real job.” She walks through the entrance, oblivious to the responses she’s awakening in me, and I follow, squinting when she turns on the lights.

  I’ve been here many times, but don’t recall seeing her. “You bartend here?”

  She places her purse on a table. “Only if someone calls in sick. It’s a family-owned business and I manage the office side.”

  Though I’m new to the Nighthawks and the area, Binetti’s is famous. It’s been around for decades, and they’ve served their share of stars—in both the sports and entertainment industries. Rumor has it they’re struggling. I remember the tip she gave to her brother and wonder again what she needed the money for.

  “You’re doing that staring thing again.” She studies me, her amber gaze penetrating, unrelenting.

  “Would you like to have dinner?” I blurt it out, fumbling over my words. After clearing my throat, I try again. “Would you like to have dinner? With me?” My baritone sounded smoother the second time.

  “Thanks, but no. It’s not a good idea.” She offers me an I’m-sorry smile.

  “Why not?”

  She inhales a deep, ragged breath. “More reasons than I can count. The first of which is that I don’t date hockey players. The rest…well, they all stem from the reason that I don’t date hockey players. Sadly, you’re a hockey player.”

  “True. But I’m not your average hockey player.” That’s my argument? I should ask her what she’s got against my profession, then argue my case.

  One of the doors opens.

  “Sorry, we’re closed.” She turns, and if snark had an expression, she’d be wearing it right now at the sight of two strippers in cheerleader outfits.

  “We’re looking for the bachelor party.” One of the two blondes stands against the doorframe. “They hired a Britney, too?”

  The not-so-bartender plants her hand on her hip, as she mutters so low that only I can hear. “Sorry to break it to you, but you are an average hockey player.”

  “I canceled them. I swear.” That’s my defense. My only defense. It sounds weak even to me.

  “Yet your strippers are in my restaurant.” She points to the left. “The End Zone. Around the corner.”

  What does a guy do when his strippers leave and the woman he wants to pick up suddenly hates him? “What’s your name?”

  She shoots me a wry glance. “Seriously?”

  “Yeah. What’s your name? You know mine. You’ve even seen my awful DMV picture. Is asking for your name too much?”

  “Cami. That’s all you get. Now go.” Though her voice is gruff with cynicism, she wears a grin. She’s full of contradictions and I want to know more about her.

  Her name is Cami. I’ll assume her last name is Benetti, like the restaurant. “Nice to meet you, Cami.”

  “Bye, Nick.” She waves, one of those see-you-never waves, still grinning at me.

  The restaurant door closes behind me. As soon as I hear the lock click, I hurry back to the bar. The team is watching a striptease and Chris is sitting at the bar wearing a grimace.

  “Shit, Nick. Strippers?”

  “I tried to cancel them. I swear.” I flag down Matt. “Is your sister on Scorcher?”

  “Scorcher? Are you on Scorcher?” Chris stares at me like I’m some mutant who has body-snatched his best friend. I ignore him.

  Matt blinks. Twice.

  “Is that some sort of Morse code? Talk to me, Matty.” Staring at the kid, I hold my cell in a tight grip.

  “What makes you think Cami is on Scorcher?” His eyes widen. “Oh my God, are you interested in my sister? Nick George of all people?”

  Ignoring Matt’s obvious disbelief, I unlock my cell with my finger. “I’m Nicholas Alexander on the app but don’t tell anyone, except your sister. Speaking of Cami, how do I find someone I’m not matched with?”

  “You’re on Scorcher but you don’t know how to use it? And you’re using your middle name? Holy shit!” Chris is like an old man obsessing.

  “I’m on Scorcher. Yeah. Middle name. Right. Please keep up.” I snap my fingers, drawing my best friend out of his bizarre haze.

  “Why are you on Scorcher? You know that new hire heading our PR department has a crush on you, right?”

  “Yes. But I don’t date people in our franchise. Besides, she’s dealing with enough after the Mike Gallagher debacle. What team was he traded to, again?” Textbook change of subject. I’m a master at it.

  “Nice try. You know what team Gallagher was traded to—San Diego. Stop stalling.” My best friend knows me too well. College roommates, we bonded over our love for hockey and have been like brothers ever since. From skating together at Michigan State, to our years at the Indianapolis Infernos where we brought home two Stanley Cups, to the Nighthawks…we’ve had each other’s backs. We’ve also confided in each other. Always. Scorcher is the one exception. I can’t explain why I kept it from Chris. I just did. And I’m not ready to talk about it yet.

  Returning my attention to good ole Matt, I look him straight in the eyes. “Dude, I need your help, buddy. Your sister doesn’t date hockey players.”

  Bartender Matty coughs.

  “Am I missing something?” I ask, watching Matt pull out his own cell. Though I can’t see what he’s typing, I assume he’s texting his sister and telling her I’m clinically insane. God knows I’m acting like it.

  My cell pings. I have a match. Camille. Likes sarcasm, karaoke, and keeping a man on his toes. Right swipe.

  Matty boy is still typing on his cell.

  A message comes through mine. Let’s meet for coffee. Thursday morning. You in town?

  Hell, yeah, I’m in town. I’ve got a date with a hockey-hating, sassy, sexy-as-hell woman. My pulse races. Never have I been so excited to hear someone’s cynicism.

  It’s on.

  Chapter 2

  Nick

  The town center consists of a gazebo, grass, trees, and lots of benches surrounded by stores and restaurants. As I stand waiting for Camille, I wonder why she insisted on meeting here instead of inside the coffee shop where it’s warm. Especially since temps were below freezing again last night. The damn groundhog was either dead wrong or pranking us. Early spring my ass.

  Arriving early is my typical MO and this morning is no exception. Everyone has their hang ups. For me, it’s the thought of being late. To anything. Especially meeting Camille. I kick the grass around the foot of the bench and it’s still frozen. Yeah, we should have met inside. As I reach for my phone, I notice Camille in a gray wool coat with a hood, heading down the other path straight to the coffee shop. I call her name, but she doesn’t turn. So I jog over to her.

  “Camille.” She still doesn’t slow down, so I tap her on the shoulder. Before I can do anything to stop it, she responds with a jolt, loses her footing, and falls flat on her back. Though I try to catch her—to keep her from falling—I fail. Miserably.

 
Tugging her earbuds free, she releases a diatribe. “You scared the shit out of me! What the hell are you doing? Are you stalking me?”

  What the hell? is right. Stalking? “We have a coffee date. Scorcher, remember?”

  Cami’s eyes narrow and she’s studying me like I’ve lost my mind. “Scorcher? Wait…what?”

  “We’ve been messaging on Scorcher.” I begin to worry that she hit her head. Hard. Does she remember anything? “What’s your name?” It was the first question that popped into my head.

  “You don’t remember my name? It must have been your strippers.” Nice to know her sarcasm is fully intact. She takes the hand I’m offering and stands with a loud grunt. “Damn it.”

  “What hurts?”

  “My ankle. I’ll ice it. It’ll be fine.” She tries to walk it off, but her limp is pronounced.

  I reach for her, offering her my arm. When she leans against it, accepting my help…that’s when I know she’s injured. “We’re not taking chances. I’m taking you to a doctor.”

  “No, really, I’m—”

  “You’re limping. You’re not fine. You need to see a doctor.” I’m ready to scoop her up into my arms and carry her to my truck, but something tells me that going all Neanderthal would be an even bigger blunder than accidentally causing her to fall. Instead, I reassure her with a little humor mixed in. “Lean on me. It’s the least I can do.”

  Cami clutches my arm tight. “For the record, the only reason I’ve acquiesced is that I loathe arguing in public. I don’t need some knight in a leather jacket to save me. I’m not a damsel in distress.” There’s a hint of humor in her words. She is serious, but also playful. It’s a delicate balance, and she pulls it off.

  “Duly noted. No knights and no damsels. Got it,” I answer in a mock-serious tone. All I want is to get her to the doctor before obsessing about the worst first date in the history of man. I unknowingly frightened her and now she’s injured. How the fuck do I come back from that? To think of all the times I ribbed Chris about his Slurpee incident with Serena. This is more of a clusterfuck than that ever was.