Body Checking (Men of Havoc #3)

3

MY OFFICE phone rings just as I start to note a color change to the Samuels’ home renovation project. I’m really excited about this project and so grateful the Samuels are taking a chance on me. They hold status in Houston, and just their seal of approval could launch my career as an interior designer slash home renovator extraordinaire to a whole new level.

The phone rings for a fourth time and I answer it.

“Maren Thompson Designs.”

“Get changed and be ready to go in thirty minutes,” is what I get instead of a greeting.

“I’m sorry. Who is this, please?”

I hear mumbling then Sasha says, “Bitch don’t play with me today. I have exciting news and if you’re not going with me, then I’ll find someone else who loves hockey.”

My body freezes and I drop my pen, all ears and attention focused solely on Sasha .

“Can you repeat that? I don’t think I heard you correctly. It sounded like you said you have tickets to tonight’s hockey game.”

“Mhm. I sure did. Now am I taking my sister Ashley, who we both know hates anything cold, or are you going to get that fine ass in your best pair of jeans and be ready to make googly eyes at your man?”

“I’ll be ready in twenty,” I tell her and hang up the phone.

I quickly power down my laptop, put all the papers back into the Samuels file and tuck it into my file cabinet. With a flick of the lights I walk out the door and straight into my bedroom to get ready.

I’m lucky to be able to own my business and be my own boss. Since I’m a one woman show with a limited budget, I chose to work from my home and use money on advertising to gain clients. Until I can afford my own fabulous office with vaulted ceilings, a cozy sitting area with a fireplace and library, and large windows to look out on my expansive property that I plan to buy one day, I meet clients at an upscale coffee shop for meetings.

I flip through my clothes, looking for the perfect outfit and land on a pair of light gray jeans, my Havoc jersey with number thirteen, and a cute pair of chunky, low heeled boots. Rushing into my bathroom, I give my reflection a classic Lucille Ball ew face when I see what a mess I am.

There's no time for curls and glam make-up, so I put my long brown hair into two French braids and give myself winged liner and pink lips. Just enough to look put together but not overly done.

I”m just finishing a final coat of mascara when I hear my front door open.

“Are you ready to go meet your future husband, Swiss Miss?” Sasha’s voice grows louder as she approaches my room.

“I’m ready to watch him in action, but I don’t think it will result in any marriage proposals.” She walks into my bathroom and lets her eyes roam over my body.

“Good choice. I like that you went with the dedicated fan look, and not a desperate woman looking to bag a rich player.”

“Because I am a dedicated fan.” I screw the mascara wand back into the tube and toss it in my make-up drawer. “Are you driving or are we Uber-ing?”

“Let’s Uber. I have a feeling we’re going to want to have a few cocktails tonight.” I tip my head to one side and examine her, trying to figure out if there’s a hidden meaning behind her words .

She just gives me one of her bright girl-next-door smiles and I let it go.

I slip my ID and credit card into my back pocket and my lipstick into my front pocket and tell her, “Ready.”

“Let’s go get your man.”

I deadpan her with an annoyed look and tell her, “Watch a game. I am not in any rush to find myself another boyfriend. I’m taking a man-cation, a vacation from men. Just me and my job and my best friend. That’s all I need for now.”

Sasha high-fives me and we step into our ride and off towards a hot night on the cold ice.

The seats Sasha scored us are absolutely amazing. We’re seated several rows up from the players bench and it has the most delectable view of Cade Hamliin. I can practically see the vein on his forehead pulsing from here.

The men of Havoc are playing outstanding, but it’s the coach that really has me hot and bothered. He’s dressed in a killer suit and a Havoc purple tie. But as the game has progressed, the tie has loosened around his thick neck and the suit jacket is bound to fly off at any moment .

“Here,” Sasha says when she returns from her trip to the snack bar.

“Mmm. Thank you.” I take the box of kettle popcorn from her and lick my lips.

“You’re welcome. I had to fight an old lady for the last box, so you better eat every damn crumb.” I laugh but not because I think she’s joking.

There’s a very high probability that what she just said is one hundred percent true.

“And now Havoc fans,” a loud voice booms from the speakers. “Please direct your attention to the jumbotron. It’s time for Fan Superlatives.”

Everyone in the arena shouts and claps for their favorite Havoc break moment. The camera starts scanning the crowd and lands on a man with a harsh side part and large glasses. Next to his face it reads, ‘most likely to be on the run for tax evasion.’ The laughter in the arena roars and the camera moves on.

It next lands on a guy –probably my age– with his hat backwards, one hand high in the air, and the other holding a beer that is sloshing over the edge. Bright purple letters light up saying, ‘most likely to date your mom.’ Then the screen splits and a shot of a gorgeous woman appears and above her reads, ‘your mom.’ The fans holler and the little game continues .

I’m shoveling handfuls of popcorn into my mouth when the camera stops on a very familiar face. There on the largest screen I’ve seen, one hundred feet up in the air, is a closeup of me, my cheeks packed full of popcorn like I’m a chipmunk storing up for winter.

The bright letters pop up and say, ‘most likely to marry a hockey player.’ Just like the party dude, the screen splits and a live shot of Cade Hamlin appears. In large flashing letters the words ‘or coach’ grab everyone’s attention.

I watch in horror, and mouth full, as a player taps Cade on the shoulder and points to the screen. He looks up, drops his jaw, and starts swiveling his head this way and that way. I. Am. Mortified. I hold my popcorn box up in front of my face and wait for the laughter to subside.

When the attention is back to the players on the ice, I turn to Sasha and demand, “We have to leave. Now!”

“Absolutely not,” she replies. “It just got good. I want to see how it plays out.”

“How what plays out? The game, or my death by embarrassment?”

She takes a sip of her can of wine and looks at me with an arched brow. “Both.”

I glare at her and contemplate dumping my popcorn over her head, but it’s good and if we’re staying, I’m going to need something to cry into .

I watch the game, but mostly Cade, and notice that every so often he looks around the arena. He’s probably looking for an employee to choke for doing that to him. I highly doubt Cade Hamlin would be into a girl like me. He probably dates skinny supermodels with huge boobs and two percent body fat. Not a plus sized girl with wide hips and cellulite on her ass.

No. Men like Cade Hamlin never settle with girls like me.