The Trouble with #9 by Piper Rayne

Ismile at my reflection in the mirror, dressing in a T-shirt and shorts. She wants me. I saw her dilated eyes and open mouth. But I have to take this slow because she’s not going to just jump my bones. Something tells me Paisley has the willpower of a saint.

Walking out of the bathroom, I compose myself and sit on the bed, leaning my back against the headboard and stretching my legs out in front of me. She crosses her legs and pulls out a pad of paper.

“Ready to get started?” she asks, her thumbs pressing on the screen of her phone.

“Do you need a drink? You sound parched.” How I’m saying this with a straight face, I have no fucking clue because the pink flush to her cheeks makes me want to lean over that chair and kiss the living shit out of her. Take out that messy bun and see those gorgeous curls fan over her shoulders. I cross my legs, adjusting my half chub.

“No. Thank you.” Her voice cracks, but I don’t offer again. I need to play this casual.

“What do you want to know?”

She skeptically glances at me. “Why are you so eager to get started?”

“Because the faster we get through three of these, the faster you’ll be in my bed.”

She inhales a deep breath. “Maksim.”

“Yeah?”

Just when I think she’s going to give me a talking-to, she taps her pen. “What was your childhood like?”

I guess this is therapy. “It was like any other normal life.”

“What about familial pressure? Did you ever feel like you had no option but to play hockey?”

I lick my bottom lip, trying my damnedest to concentrate. “Only pressure I felt was from myself. Sure, my parents wanted me to play, but…” I don’t finish. For some reason, I forgot the bullshit story I was going to tell her.

She jots a few things on the paper. “And no siblings. What’s that like?”

“Do you have any siblings?” I ask.

“We’re not talking about me. Answer the question.”

“I like this stern side of you. Turns me on.” I pat the bed next to me.

She acts as though she didn’t see me. “Let’s stay on task.”

“I liked not having any siblings. I had good friends.” Which is true. Armen was my best friend and a brother to me.

“How is your parents’ marriage?”

I don’t much care for these questions. “What about your parents?”

She places the pad of paper in her lap, the pen following. “I’m not sure this is going to work.”

“What?”

She waves her finger between us. “You can’t keep flirting with me.”

She uncrosses her legs and plants both feet on the floor. Fear courses through me that she’s going to leave the room.

“I’m trying not to, but I want you.”

She closes her eyes and inhales. “We’ve been over this.”

I slide down to the corner of the bed, breaking the distance between us. “Tell me you don’t feel this.”

She shakes her head. “It’s just attraction. Nothing more. We can do these sessions, I’ll sign off, and you can move on.”

“And then you’ll allow me to take you out on a date?” I reach forward, but she squeezes her pad of paper with both hands, making me retract mine.

“No. I still work for the Fury.” She shakes her head and packs up her bag. “We can be friends and that’s all.”

I watch her put the pad of paper in the bag, along with the pen. When she stands, I do too, cornering her. “You’ll never quench the thirst you have for me with someone else. I know I never will.”

She looks up at me, and her caramel eyes blind me to any reason why we can’t be together. I step closer.

“What do you need from me in order to cross the line?” I ask in a low, rough voice.

She shakes her head vehemently. “Nothing. I can’t. There are ethics involved.”

“Who the fuck cares? Do you think I’d tell anyone? We’re both adults.”

“People will find out. Plus, I know right now it looks all great, but if this goes sour, you could sue me. I could lose everything.”

I lean forward, reaching around her, and grab the small notepad that comes with the room, along with the pen. I scribble a note and sign my name then date it before handing it to her. “This should handle it.”

She reads over where I wrote. “I am willingly sleeping with Paisley Pearce and firing her from being my therapist regardless of what Mr. Gerhardt wants. He doesn’t own me.”

Her expression falters and she shoots me that look. The one that makes me see her as an innocent injured bird who needs to be loved and cared for. Damn if I don’t want to be her reason to wake up in the morning. “You’re going to do this just so you can sleep with me?”

I shake my head. “This isn’t just about sex. I want to explore this.”

“And Mr. Gerhardt and your therapy?”

“I can deal with him and his demands that I have therapy at another time. For now, we’ll keep this quiet.”

She steps back but hits the edge of the desk. I lean over and place my hands on the desk on either side of her hips, caging her in.

“So you get exactly what you want—no therapy and to sleep with me.”

“I told you, I don’t need therapy.” I take the tie thing from her hair, watching the long dark curls fall down over her shoulders and back. “Tell me you don’t want me, and I’ll back off.”

Our eyes lock. She’s searching for something, but I don’t know what. “I can’t say that.”

I feel almost buoyant. “Let me kiss you.” My voice is soft and cajoling.

Her breath labors and staggers, so I place my hand over her heart, dangerously close to her breast. Picking up her other hand, I place it on my chest. “See? I’m just as nervous.”

“No one will know?” Her gaze darts to my lips.

I shake my head, narrowing the distance between us. “Not a soul.”

“Okay,” she agrees.

I’m so fucking happy that I freeze for a moment before I bend down, bringing my lips within inches of hers. I smile and my tongue slides out, skating over my bottom lip. I’m ready to kiss the shit out of this woman—finally. I’m half a second away from what I’ve wanted for months when the hotel room door flies open.

“Saige, you’re being unreasonable,” Aiden’s voice sounds.

Paisley slides out from between my arms, rushing to collect her stuff.

“Don’t go,” I whisper.

I look down at my tented shorts. Fuck. I quickly turn and tuck my hard-on under the elastic waistband of my track shorts, covering it with my T-shirt before facing him again.

“Sorry, guys, I’ll be out in a second. I forgot this.” Aiden holds up a picture of Saige on a wooden stick.

“Oh no, I was just leaving.” Paisley looks at the corny picture. “Cute idea.”

“Paisley…” I say.

“Good luck tonight, guys.” She never looks at me, and she’s out the door before I can protest further.

“You fucking idiot,” I say to Aiden who’s still talking to Saige, oblivious to what he just interrupted.

Then he leaves the room and I flop forward on the mattress and scream into my pillow. After a moment, I slide up against the headboard, turning on the television. I guess it’s porn and a nap. At least I don’t have to worry about a change of routine fucking up my game.

Mid-game, I catch sight of Paisley sitting in the front row. Usually she’s up in the suites, but Mr. Gerhardt didn’t come with us this trip. She’s eating a pretzel and watching the game, but every time I get close to the glass, her gaze diverts away from me. I had her right there, then fucking Aiden had to fuck it up for me.

Sometime in the second period, McGregor high sticks Aiden and red veils my eyes. It’s a cheap shot against one of our best players, so screw McGregor. I skate over and push him into the boards. He falls and loses his stick. Glancing back at me, he has that look in his eyes, the challenge telling me he thinks he can kick my ass. Let’s see about that.

I throw down my gloves, but before we get into it, I hear the buzzer. Satisfaction that my team just scored fills me, which only pisses off McGregor more.

The referees skate next to us, ready to get between us if it gets too dirty. This is when I wonder what it was like to play hockey back in the day. Players like Bobby Orr or Paul Coffey, when it wasn’t all talk about concussions and political shit. You went out on the ice and you played hard as fuck to win that game no matter what it took.

I grab McGregor’s jersey and use it to flail him around a bit. He throws the first punch, nailing me in the eye, but I hammer back another one. Soon both our fists are flying, and we each have a hand on a jersey. But way too soon, the refs break it up and we’re thrown in the penalty box.

As I sit there, my gaze lingers on Paisley. She’s biting her lip and staring at me, her look soft yet concerned. Heckles and chirping come from the opposing fans surrounding me in the penalty box. Toronto fans are faithful ones, and they’re pissed I went after one of their guys.

Midway through my penalty, I can’t take it anymore and raise both my hands, flipping off the fans. Of course, boos ring out. Because it would be no other way, the cameras catch it and there I am on the Jumbotron. Either I own it or show I’m soft, so I own it, standing and flipping off the entire arena.

When I’m finally out of the box, I rush back out on the ice and do my fucking job. The one I was hired to do. The one that pays me a shitload of money. I couldn’t care less if the Toronto fans hate me. It’s all part of the game. I have to be intimidating and show no weakness if I want people to fear me and fear fucking with the rest of my boys on the ice.

My repercussion comes after a two-to-one win. Coach calls me into the office and asks me to shut the door.

“Flipping off the entire arena? A bit much, no?” He sits down and pours himself a glass of Jack Daniels.

“You should have heard what they said.”

“They’re fans, they’re supposed to razz you. You’re the professional athlete, being paid millions. You need to control yourself.” He sips his drink.

I debate asking for one. I could use a shot to calm me down. All I want to do is fuck Paisley Pearce until I pass out, but I’ve ruined my chance by not being able to hold it all together for three therapy sessions. That pissed me off, and I took it out on McGregor.

“I’m sorry, Coach, it won’t happen again.”

He downs the rest of his drink. “I hate to break it to you, but people don’t like enforcers as much anymore. We both know there’s a place for them and we need guys like you to keep the other team honest and not go after our high scorers, but you have to do better with the fans.” He pours himself another drink.

“Got it.”

“I hope so. Now go play whatever video game is cool right now, or go get laid, go hunting and kill some wild animal—whatever you need to do to get some of this temper out of you.” He shoos me away with his hand and I leave his office.

I’m not going to do any of those things, but I am going to deal with Paisley. That somehow feels equally as dangerous as dealing with a wild animal.