Strictly for Now by Carrie Elks

CHAPTERSEVEN

MACKENZIE

Dad officially retired from the NHL when I was twelve-years-old, but I still have vivid memories of him coming home after a defeat. My brothers would be fast asleep in bed, and my mom would usher Isabella and me to our bedrooms, waving off our protests that we wanted to see our dad before we went to bed.

You could always tell when he got home. The sound of the engine on his sleek Ferrari would echo as he pulled into the driveway and then the garage door would whirr. It could take him any time from a minute to an hour to walk through the connecting door into the kitchen.

And my mom would just wait. For as long as it took.

I know all this because one night I snuck down to watch him come home. I’d finished my book and I was bored. So I sat on the stair that gave the best view of the kitchen and watched the back of my mom’s head as she waited, too.

I don’t know how long it took for him to walk in. But I do remember the tightness of his face, the narrowness of his eyes and the way he held his body.

Anger radiated off him. And for a moment I was scared.

But then mom stood and walked over to him, not saying a word. He closed the door behind him and watched her with wary eyes. And though I couldn’t see her face, I could see her hands as they reached up to cup his jaw. Something in his eyes flashed.

And then he kissed her. Hard and desperate. At that moment I knew I should go. This was private stuff. Mom and Dad stuff.

I was eight then. I didn’t know exactly what was going on. By the time I was twelve, I knew and I was embarrassed.

She soothed him the only way she knew how. And in the morning he’d be okay. He’d eat breakfast with us, talk about the game, about our day ahead.

Because Mom always knew exactly how to deal with him.

For some reason I’m thinking about those nights as I watch Max let the golden goal in and throw his stick down in disgust onto the ice.

Everybody in the staff box lets out a groan. And I’m groaning internally too because I’m going to have to tell Gramps that we lost.

The other team celebrates to muted applause – this is the AHL and there’s not a huge contingent of away fans who’ve come to support them – as our own team bump their fists half-heartedly and head to the tunnel.

The last one to leave the ice is Eli. And though I’m too far away to see his expression, even though he’s taken his helmet off – I know exactly what it looks like.

Because I know how important it is to win.

From that early age I learned that nothing else matters. Coming second is for saps. There are no awards for taking part or even for doing your best.

You win or die.

That’s it.

Brian and the rest of the office staff say their goodbyes and leave. I’m the last one sitting here, staring out at the ice.

And I know it’s because I don’t want to go to my office and phone Gramps. I don’t want to go downstairs either. I’d forgotten how much I hate it when a team loses. The atmosphere makes me feel uncomfortable. I don’t know what to say.

It isn’t until the stadium is empty that I finally stand and walk back to my office. There are emails to send and invoices to pay, and I have to review this week’s staff payroll to make sure they will all get some money in their banks. It’s almost ten-thirty by the time I pick up the phone and tap out the number for Gramps’ nursing home.

When I speak to the nurse in charge she tells me that he’s already asleep but she’ll let him know in the morning. I let out a huge breath of relief. There’s nothing more for me to do but to go home, go to sleep, and face this all again in the morning.

The arena is in darkness as I make my way down the stairs to the staff exit that leads out to the parking lot. It’s only when I hear a thud of something against the floor that I turn around.

And see Eli Salinger walking out of the locker room, wearing jeans and a hoodie. His hair is dry but it looks fluffy, like he showered an hour ago and didn’t bother doing anything with it.

I wonder if he’s been sitting there alone in the locker room, the same way I’ve been sitting in my office. I feel a weird pull to him. It’s like an itch I can’t scratch.

He doesn’t notice me standing there. His jaw is so tight I’m wondering if it’s wired shut. I hold my breath as he presses his lips together then shakes his head, stalking with intent toward the door.

And toward me.

He stops short when he finally realizes he’s not alone. His eyes look so dark as they reach mine. I part my lips but really, I can’t think of a word to say.

Nothing that makes losing feel better. Because nothing can. Dad taught me that.

I step toward him, and he doesn’t move. His gaze is wary but still on me. My heart hammers against my ribcage as I lift my hands and press my palms softly to his bearded cheeks.

This is all kinds of messed up. I’m so aware that I barely know him. And apart from knowing what my panties look like when I’m laying prone on the locker room floor, he doesn’t know me either.

And yet touching him feels natural. It feels good.

It makes me want things I shouldn’t.

I open my lips again, this time to say something. But he gives a barely perceptible shake of his head.

Maybe he’s right. Whatever I say is going to ruin this moment. I let out a long, ragged breath.

As the last of it escapes, his mouth comes crashing down on mine.

His lips are warm, hard, needy. Without even thinking I kiss him back, my fingers curling into his hair. His tongue slides against the seam of my lips, requesting entrance, and I part them, sliding my own against him. There’s a vibration from his throat – a grunt – and then my back is against the wall and his body is pressing against me. I feel a throb between my legs that matches the rhythm of his kisses.

I feel the hard planes of his stomach as it presses against mine. I clutch onto his arms, my fingers no match for the iron of his biceps as he holds me close.

His hand slides down my side, fingers feathering my hips, then he hitches my skirt up and touches my leg. His hand curls around my skin, lifting it, until my calf brushes against his hip.

And he’s there. Hard and thick. Pressing against the part of me that’s pulsing with need. My nipples pebble as he pulls his mouth from mine, kissing my jaw, my neck, the little dip where it meets my chest.

My breath catches in my throat as he kisses down. Even through the fabric layers of my blouse and bra I feel it as his lips close around my nipple. Moistening the silk, tugging, the roughness of his beard against my breast making me arch my back and let out a cry.

He drops to his knees and presses his face between my thighs. Somewhere in my hazy mind there’s a voice telling me to stop this. Because I’m the one who started it. He might be making me gasp right now, but there’s no doubt who has the power here.

He breathes in and groans. Neither of us has said a word. I’m not sure I could. My entire being is focused on the apex of my legs and the way his nose is pressing against it. My fingers are still tangled in his hair, the tips touching and caressing his scalp. While his are tracing the line of my panties, his index finger sliding them aside, and he lets out another low groan as he feels how wet I am.

His breath is warm against my skin. And this whole thing feels inevitable. He’s going to devour me. I’m going to let him.

I’m going to love it.

I don’t think about what will happen afterward. How embarrassing it will be to face him tomorrow. How I’m jeopardizing every piece of professional repute I’ve built up over the years.

All I can think about is how to soothe him. How to be soothed.

A light flickers overhead, buzzing like a fly caught in a net. And I tense, half-expecting to see a member of staff walking toward us.

We’re in the hallway, in full view. My skirt is hitched around my hips, my thighs are pressed against his cheeks and there is no way to explain this away if we get caught.

Eli must be thinking the same thing. He lets go of my thighs and slowly stands, pulling at my skirt, smoothing it.

Oh God.

I’ve spent my life giving presentations. Telling people how I can make their companies run better, how I can save them money, make them succeed.

But right now I can’t string two words together. It’s like he’s stolen my voice along with my common sense.

Oh no, honey. He didn’t steal them. You practically threw them at him.

“I’m so fucking sorry,” he rasps.

I shake my head, still mute.

“I shouldn’t have…” He trails off, his face full of horror. “Jesus, I’m sorry.”

I need to tell him it’s okay. That I started it. And I wanted him to keep going. That if the light hadn’t flickered he’d be face deep in me right now.

“Eli,” I finally manage to say, my cheeks flaming hot.

He looks at me as though I’m about to give the Gettysburg Address. His eyes don’t leave my face.

But I have nothing. No words of wisdom. No apologies. Just a throat that feels like it’s got the Hoover Dam halfway down it.

So I do the only thing a self-respecting woman who’s just gyrated her body on a hot coach’s face can do.

I get the hell out of there.

* * *

ELI

As soon as I walk through my front door I slam my bag on the floor and lean against the wall, banging my head against the painted brick.

I’m a fucking idiot. I want to punch something, probably myself. What the hell was I thinking, touching her.

You weren’t thinking. Or at least your brain wasn’t.

I toe my sneakers off and kick them against the other wall, all too aware that throwing a hissy fit at forty-years-old is fucking stupid. Not least because if I dent the wall I’ll have to repair it myself.

Having a tantrum is less exciting when you’ve learned to have some modicum of responsibility.

Still pissed with myself, I stomp into the kitchen and open up the refrigerator to grab some fresh water.

This is bad. Really bad. I actually feel worse than the day I was told I couldn’t play in the NHL again. More angry than I was at fucking Hart for deliberately fouling me.

I put my fingers to my face and fuck if they don’t still smell like her.

And there’s the other thing. I’m horny as fuck because I somehow cock blocked myself and all I can think of are those little sounds she made as I ran my finger along her wetness.

She mewled like a damn kitten. The memory of it sends blood rushing where it shouldn’t. I think about her wide eyes and the softness of her fingers as they raked through my hair and I think I might be losing my mind.

To top it all off, we lost the first game of the season. Funny how that’s not the first thing on my mind right now.

And it should be. I’m the coach. I should be watching the game and making notes, ready for our early start tomorrow because I’m the idiot who insisted on early training every time we lose.

My phone rings and my brother’s name appears on the screen. I tell myself to get a grip and slide my finger across the glass.

“Hey. Aren’t you working?” I ask him. Holden’s the brother closest to my age, and also a doctor in New York. I’ve never gotten my head around his shifts, but nearly every time I talk to him he’s working.

“On call,” he said, clearing his throat. “I saw the final score. I’m sorry.”

I pinch my nose. I don’t want to talk about this now. I don’t want to hear the empathy in his voice. “Yeah. We played like shit.”

“You went to overtime. That isn’t shit.”

“That’s like saying you took somebody into surgery but couldn’t save their life,” I tell him. Holden always understands medical metaphors. He doesn’t understand hockey at all.

My older brothers – by a couple of years – Liam and Myles – have already sent me messages saying they watched the game on television and they’re sorry.

I haven’t responded to them yet. I will when I calm down.

“It was always going to be a tough match,” Holden says. “Especially as it's your first.”

“Third.”

He clears his throat. “The other two were pre-season, they don’t count. You have time to turn things around.”

“Sure.” I lean against the kitchen counter. “So what’s up with you?”

“Nothing. Just working.”

“You’re always working.”

“That’s because I’m a doctor,” he says. “It’s what we do.”

Funny thing is, working is what all of us Salingers do. To the detriment of nearly everything else. It’s a minor miracle that Myles and Liam are both married – for a while there it looked like they were going to be perpetual bachelors.

Before I can say anything more, there’s a beep and Holden huffs. “I have to go, sorry, bro.”

“It’s all good.” Or it will be. Once I chop my own head off.

“Speak soon.” He disconnects and I throw my phone onto the counter. Our little conversation hasn’t helped take my mind off of what happened back in the stadium though.

And no, I don’t mean the loss. I mean Mackenzie Goddamned Hunter.

The team will expect me to give them words of advice. To tell them how to improve things.

And right now the only thing I can think of is that I wish I’d put my tongue against her just once.

I throw my now-empty bottle of water into the recycling and grab an energy bar because I probably spent two thousand calories on the ice and I’d like to wake up tomorrow and not feel like I’m dying.

And then I head upstairs because it’s late and I have a hard on that won’t go away so I’m going to beat myself off to the memory of the way she parted her mouth as she cupped my face and the fantasy of sliding myself between those pretty lips as her tongue flutters against me until I explode inside of her.

Tonight I beat myself off like crazy. Tomorrow I apologize.

Maybe by next week I won’t feel like punching myself in the face.