A Secret for a Secret Page 3

I shrug. “She’s having trouble letting go.”

  Bishop blows out a breath. “Dude, if my ex was still messaging me, Stevie would shit a brick.”

  “I don’t have a girlfriend or a wife, though, so I don’t have to worry about anyone else’s feelings getting hurt.”

  “Not right now, but you’ll have a new girlfriend eventually. How do you think Jessica’s going to react when that happens?”

  “I don’t know. I’m hoping I won’t have to deal with that scenario.”

  Bishop’s brow creases. It’s not an unusual expression for him to wear. “Are you planning to get back together with her or something?”

  “No. Definitely not.” Jessica was under the very misguided impression that once we got married I would quit playing professional hockey. When I explained that I would continue with my NHL career for as long as they kept renewing my contract, she got upset, accusing me of putting my career before her.

  And in some ways she was right. I had put my career before her. But she hadn’t proven to be very supportive over the years, always talking about our life together after hockey.

  At thirty I have some solid years left in the game. Goalies can have long careers, and I signed on with Seattle for seven years. I won’t even be in my midthirties by the time my contract is up for renewal, and as long as I stay in good shape and keep my stats up, I’m hoping for more years after that. I didn’t want to continue in a relationship that felt like it was on hold until I was done with hockey, since realistically I can’t imagine ever being finished with it. I realized that no matter how much history we had, she was never going to be able to handle my career, so I broke it off.

  We arrive at the team meeting room. A catered hot breakfast buffet is spread out along one end of the room. Half our team is already seated at the tables, shoveling food in their faces while they catch up after off-season. Bishop and I grab a plate and load up.

  “Shippy, King, have a seat!” Rook Bowman, our team captain, gestures to the two open seats at his table.

  “Always with the Shippy bullshit,” Bishop mutters.

  Bishop and Rook loathed each other with the fire of a thousand burning suns during the team’s first season. It got a lot worse when Rook found out Bishop was dating his younger sister. They had it out behind a garbage dumpster—I mediated—and now most of the time they get along.

  “Keep calling me Shippy, and I’ll tell you all about your sister’s favorite positions in the bedroom,” Bishop mutters as he takes the seat across from Rook.

  Rook half chokes on his sausage link, and Chase, one of our teammates, who’s sitting on his other side, gives him a couple of slaps on the back. He waves his hand away and shoots a glare at Bishop. “You wouldn’t.”

  Bishop gives him a you-try-me look. “Only your sister is allowed to call me Shippy, so unless you’re going to start snuggling with me during movies and fondling my—”

  I slap the table to prevent Bishop from finishing that statement. Also, Rook looks like he’s about to launch himself over the table. My shirt is white, and I would prefer not to walk around all day with remnants of my breakfast splattered on it.

  “It’s too early for this nonsense. We don’t need the team captain scrapping with teammates on day one in front of the actual rookies.” I nod in the direction of two very fresh faces standing by the door, watching their new captain and his brother-in-law get into it. They’re too new to know that it’s just two guys giving each other the gears. Mostly.

  “We’re good.” Rook shovels in a forkful of scrambled eggs and pushes away from the table. He wipes his mouth with a napkin and tosses it at Bishop before he heads for the new guys.

  “Man, I’m glad I don’t have to be all friendly and peppy this early in the morning like he does.” Bishop picks up a strip of bacon and folds it accordion-style into his mouth.

  “I’m not sure peppy is something you could achieve, even if you mainlined energy drinks and ecstasy,” I offer.

  “Probably not.” Bishop looks around the room and tips his chin up. “You think our GM got himself an assistant?”

  I follow his gaze to the front of the room. Standing at the desk with her back to us, arranging papers, is a woman with wavy chestnut hair that nearly reaches her waist. “Maybe an intern?”

  She’s wearing a navy dress that conforms to her very feminine form. I trace the dip of her waist and the curve of her hip, skimming down to where the hem of her dress hits the bend in her knee. Her calves are bare, athletic, and toned, and her heels boast a little bow on the back. Classy, yet sexy. “Possibly.”

  “I hope the eye candy is gonna be permanent,” someone at the table behind us says, loud enough for everyone close by to hear.

  “I wouldn’t mind if she helped me with my jockstrap,” one of the other guys chimes in, eliciting a loud chuckle from the rest of the table.

  I glance over my shoulder and pin them with an unimpressed glare. I recognize Foley from Tampa, and Dickerson is an LA trade. They’re notorious womanizers. “Watch your mouth and have some respect. That’s someone’s daughter.”

  “Take it easy, King. It’s not like we’d actually say that to her face,” Foley says.

  I don’t have an opportunity to reprimand him further because the GM, Jake Masterson, and our head coach, Alex Waters, enter the room through the side door. The GM crosses over to the woman, whose back is still turned to us, and he gives her a smile that seems . . . overly warm. He leans in and squeezes her shoulder as he says something with his mouth close to her ear.

  “Maybe she’s not his assistant. Maybe she’s his new girlfriend, ’cause that looks pretty damn friendly to me.” Bishop jams a sausage link into his mouth.

  “Maybe,” I agree.

  She turns slightly, giving me a glimpse of her profile. Her cheeks are flushed pink. I blink a couple of times, because she seems incredibly familiar.

  “I think I know her,” I mumble, more to myself than to Bishop.

  “Not as well as our GM does, by the look of things.”

  It hits me like a puck in the chest without pads on. I do know her. Queenie. My one-night stand who bailed the next morning and left a Post-it and panties hanging from my doorknob. Destroyed panties. “Oh God.”

  Did I sleep with the GM’s girlfriend? Memories come barreling into my brain, and I want to sink into the floor. My behavior that night was highly atypical. Everything about that night was. I chalked it up to the alcohol, the family drama, and the fact that she seemed to be a very eager and willing participant in our adventures. Do not think about the things you did to her.

  I’d be lying if I said I haven’t thought about Queenie and our night together. I’ve even considered driving by the bar where we met, but I don’t know if she’s likely to show up there. And it’s not as if I can ask the bartender about her without looking like a creep. Besides, if she wanted me to have her number, she would’ve left it.

  “Are you okay? You look like you’re about to hurl,” Bishop asks.

  I cover my mouth with my palm, not because I’m going to be ill but to hide the fact that it’s hanging open and I can’t seem to close it. Although my stomach is starting to do those awful somersaults that will soon turn into full-on nausea. The kind I used to get when I’d first hit the ice for a game.

  This is bad. Really bad. I’ve never had a one-night stand before. I’ve always been in committed relationships, and I prefer to get to know my bed partners before they actually get into bed with me. Teen pregnancy was pretty common where I grew up in Tennessee, because there wasn’t much else to do apart from playing sports or getting into trouble with drugs and alcohol—my brother, Gerald, went the latter route. I obviously fit into the sports category. By the time I became a teenager, my parents had finally learned their lesson. It was drilled into me to never become that kind of statistic, or to turn my girlfriend into a mom before she was ready to take on more than senior-level algebra.

  Ironic how my actual mother would’ve been one of those girls
had my grandparents not made the choices they had.

  “King?” Bishop nudges me. “You’re staring, man.”

  Jake whistles with his fingers, causing the woman beside him to cringe but then quickly school her expression into an uncertain smile. “Who’s ready for a new season?”

  He’s rewarded with a chorus of cheers from the players. Waters stands off to the side, clapping enthusiastically. He generally runs all team meetings, but Jake is a hands-on GM, so he always manages first-meeting intros before he hands it over to our coach.

  Jake waits for everyone to settle down and take their seats before he continues. “Gentlemen, I’d like to introduce you to my personal assistant, Queenie.” He throws his arm over her shoulder and pulls her into his side.

  A hot spike of anger rushes down my spine—it’s a foreign feeling. I’m usually very levelheaded. But not right now. It’s obvious by the way Jake and Queenie interact that there’s a relationship there. Is she a cheater? Did she make me one? There’s a definite age gap. He’s young for a GM, but he’s in his forties, and I’m pretty sure she’s in her midtwenties.

  “She also happens to be my daughter, so don’t get any ideas, boys.” He somehow manages to wink and glare at the same time.

  And it just went from bad to worse.

  My one-night stand isn’t my GM’s girlfriend; she’s his daughter.

  CHAPTER 3

  I WISH THE FLOOR WOULD SWALLOW ME

  Queenie

  This is not happening. I blink several times, hoping that my lack of sleep last night is causing me to hallucinate. It’s not.

  My hookup from six weeks ago is sitting front and center amid a sea of hockey players.

  What are the freaking chances?

  My mouth is suddenly dry and my nipples harden as the memories wash over me. Such a pretty boy. So nicely dressed, so polite. So very, very respectful. But good God, get that man’s clothes off and get him into a bed, and it’s a whole different story. One I’d like to write a few more chapters in, or maybe an entire novel—a long one. I took the Boy Scout out of the polo and unleashed a very dirty man.

  Based on his wide-eyed, horror-struck expression, he’s as shocked to see me as I am to see him.

  For the past six weeks I’ve replayed that night, and the following morning, in my head. I can’t believe I left a Post-it and my destroyed panties behind. I wonder if he threw them out. Or kept them.

  I wonder if he was as disappointed as I was that I didn’t bother to leave a number. I still have his address, thanks to the Uber ride from his place to the diner my dad and I frequent every single Saturday.

  The father who I now work for.

  Who manages this guy’s team.

  Who told me not to get involved with any of the players. It’s day one, and I’ve already inadvertently gone against the one request he made.

  This isn’t a great situation, and, based on how pale Ryan’s face has gone, I’m thinking he feels exactly the same way.

  I’m so stunned I forget to be embarrassed about the fact that my dad pulled the father card in front of the entire team.

  “Queenie?”

  I drag my gaze away from my one-night stand—I’ve been staring at him—and give my attention to my dad. I smile questioningly. “Yes, Jake?”

  His right eye twitches, like he has something in it. But he doesn’t. It means he’s irritated, likely because I’m calling him by his first name, and there’s some annoyance in my tone. I’m sure I also appear mortified, but not for the reason he probably thinks.

  He passes me a stack of folders. “Can you hand these out, please?”

  I want to say no, because that means I’ll have to make some kind of purposeful eye contact with Ryan. But since I’m my father’s assistant, my role is literally to do every single menial task that could potentially distract him from anything important. Which means I get the job of handing things out to the team, and collecting them and filing them. Riveting work, really.

  If I’d been on the ball this morning, which I was not, I would’ve had the forms already set on the tables to make it easier on myself and the players. And then I could avoid some up close and personal embarrassment.

  “Of course.” I take the folders with clammy hands and start on the left side of the room, setting one in front of each player. I get a lot of mumbled thanks and brief, uncomfortable smiles.

  Maybe my dad was right about the dress not being the best idea. Most of these guys are wearing some kind of casual pants and T-shirts. A few wear jeans. Ryan has on a pair of gray casual pants and a white polo. I try to keep my breathing even and a smile plastered on my face as I hand him a folder. We make eye contact. My nipples harden further. Thank God I’m wearing a padded bra.

  His lips part and his tongue peeks out to wet the bottom one. I remember, very, very vividly, how it felt to have that tongue circling my bare nipple, among other places. Some kind of sound, halfway between a groan and a sigh, slips out of my mouth.

  His eyes widen and his cheeks flush. I’m still holding the folder, and he’s trying to free it from my hand. All of this takes place over a few short seconds, but I feel like there’s a spotlight on us and that every single person can read the thoughts in my head.

  His deep, rich voice feels like a caress between my thighs when he murmurs thank you. I’m about to step away when his fingers wrap around my wrist to stop me from moving on. His hand is just as big, warm, and rough as I remember. I don’t expect the contact, so I jolt and nearly lose my hold on a few of the folders.

  He releases my wrist. “You dropped something.” He leans down and picks up a piece of paper. I have no idea what I could’ve possibly dropped, since all I’m holding are folders. He slips the fallen piece of paper into my hand and mumbles something about needing to talk. I give him a strained smile before I move to the next table.

  He’s certainly right about the talking part, but there’s no way it’s going to happen in a roomful of his teammates with my dad watching.

  During the meeting—which lasts a good two hours—I find out my hookup’s last name is Kingston and he’s the team goalie. That certainly explains his incredible flexibility. It would be fantastic if I could stop thinking about the time we spent together while naked.

  After the meeting there’s a team workout led by the coach, Alex Waters. He appears to be younger than my dad, by five years or so if I had to guess. He’s built the same as the hockey players and looks like he should be an underwear model or something.

  I don’t have a chance to check the piece of paper Ryan gave me—or “King,” as everyone else seems to call him, including my father—because I’m too busy trying to decipher the players’ barely legible handwriting. Except for Ryan’s, which is ridiculously neat.

  I don’t even have time to look Ryan up on social media because I’m too busy transcribing notes, making copies, and getting my father coffee. By five I’ve decided I need to wean him down to fewer than six cups a day, or at least alternate between decaf and caffeinated since he drinks so much of it. And I’m going to try to switch out the cream for milk to save his poor arteries.

  I set the one-sugar, one-cream coffee on his desk. “Can I get you anything else?”

  He peers over the frames of his reading glasses—they’re new, and he hates them. “I think I’m good for now. You did a great job today, Queenie. You should be proud of yourself.”

  I feel like a glorified lackey in a pretty dress, but I appreciate his trying to make me feel good with the compliment. “Thanks, Dad.”

  He smiles and taps the end of his pen on the desk. “I’ve got another hour or so of paperwork to finish up, but you can head out if you want.”

  “I can wait; it’s not a big deal.” I’ll just internet stalk my hookup.

  “No point in you hanging around for nothing. You can take an Uber, and I’ll meet you at home.”

  “Sure. Okay. That sounds good.”

  I leave my dad to his paperwork, quickly tidy my desk, order
an Uber, and head for the front doors of the arena. It’s quiet in the building, the team workout long over, and most of the administrative staff have already left.

  The car is already waiting for me, so I slip into the back seat. Uber Man is super chatty. I Mm-hmm and make other affirmative sounds while he regales me with his plan to open up his street-taco shop. At least he has a dream and a plan to go after it. By the time he drops me off at the house, I’m craving tacos.

  I walk around the side of the house and down the short path to the guesthouse, which is a one-bedroom miniature bungalow—it’s three times as big as my previous apartment and much, much nicer. Not that I need the space, or the luxury. In fact, I’d trade it in a heartbeat if it meant I’d be more self-sufficient and would have a real direction in life. At least my dad is understanding, and he likes having me around.

  As soon as I’m inside my apartment, I flip open my planner and retrieve the piece of paper Ryan gave me this morning. It’s actually a grocery receipt. I get caught up in scanning the items he purchased. Four gallons of milk? Geez, he must really love dairy.

  I flip it over and scan the rushed but neat writing on the back. Receipt paper is notorious for smudging, and my hands were clammy when I took this from him, so the ink is smeared across the white paper, making it difficult to read. I think it says Please call me, and there’s a phone number, but I can’t tell if the second number is a three or a six or a nine, or what.

  I drop down on the couch and squint at the receipt some more. I definitely need to figure out how to handle this. The last thing I want is my dad finding out I messed around with one of these guys, when he specifically asked me not to.

  I exhale a long breath and watch the ceiling fan spin for a minute. How the hell am I going to see this guy every single day and not think about all the amazing things he did to my body?

  CHAPTER 4

  CREEPING CREEPER

  Kingston

  “I think it might be better for both of us if we didn’t talk for a while.” I cringe and turn down the volume as Jessica’s sob comes through the surround sound. I’ve been sitting in my car for the past hour. At first I was waiting for Queenie to leave the arena, but Jessica called, so now I’m trying to explain, again, why her texting me every day isn’t in either of our best interests.