Crew (Hockey Royalty #3)

4. Liv

Chapter 4

Liv

H ands drop to my shoulders, gently. “Whoa. Fireball. Where’s the fire?”

“I…” I see the tattoos first. Then the smirk. Then the eyes. Hazel. They’re hazel. “I… I just…”

“Didn’t want to be kissed by him,” the stranger finishes for me. Is he a stranger? He looks familiar for some reason. His smirk is fading but his expression remains soft. Kind. “Don’t worry. He didn’t read the signs. He’s not offended. He’s still up there waiting for you to come back.”

“I… I will.”

“Nah. You won’t.”

“I should.”

“You shouldn’t,” he counters calmly. “Because you don’t really want to.”

He’s right. How is he right? I don’t even know him. “I had a plan.”

“To kiss a guy who makes you look like your puppy just died?” he asks me, the smirk reappearing. “That’s an awful plan.”

“I did NOT look like a puppy had been murdered!” I realize his hands are still on my shoulders, so I take a step back, even though his touch doesn’t bother me.

“Murdered? Whoa Fireball, I didn’t say this was a Dateline episode. Maybe the puppy died by accident. Like it got hit by a car." He laughs softly, but it's deep and has bass to it, and I find myself biting back a smile. I like it. I like this whole thing with this stranger. This is drunk, I guess, liking ridiculous conversations with tattooed strangers.

“Manslaughter,” I reply. “That’s puppy manslaughter.”

“Are you a law student or an animal rights activist?” He tilts his handsome head as he studies me.

"Neither. I mean, I love puppies, I'm not a serial killer. But I'm an Art Education major," I reply. His smile drops in shock. "Surprise, Inky! I'm not some shot-slurping bimbo. And who I kiss, and if I like it or not, is none of your business."

He steps back like I slapped him, but his smile returns with an intensity I wasn't expecting. "Okay. All valid points. But for the record, I didn't think you were a… shot slurping bimbo. I don't even know what that is, and I would never shit on any woman for kissing anyone, even if they didn't like it."

“Oh.” I blink and my tipsy little mouth won’t shut up. “I’m not degrading women either. It’s a valid life choice, being sexually liberated and liking shots. I just… I’m just not good at it, I guess.”

“Just admit you didn’t like him,” Hottie Mc Stranger says. “Give me that. Also, what’s Inky?”

"You" I point to his arms covered in tatts, but my depth perception is off and I end up poking his forearm.

As soon as my finger touches his skin I feel a snap of electricity between us, like static electricity but stronger and deeper and much more enjoyable. My finger stays there like it's stuck to his warm, smooth skin and I trace one of the lines on his arm, the stem of a rose. It's nice.

His eyes drop and watch my finger move. There's something hot about it. Something intimate, which is weird. Right? I mean what do I know? Nothing and that's why I'm here. To change that. "I should get back to what's his face."

“The guy you don’t like kissing?”

I frown and our eyes meet again. Man, he’s fucking something. “You’re gorgeous.”

“Thanks,” he says easily. This is not news to him. He doesn’t need to hear it. Oh to be that self-assured. “You’re beautiful.”

A blush blooms on my skin. I look away and concentrate on tracing another tattoo. Until he puts a finger under my chin and tips my head up toward his. “Now admit you didn’t like kissing him.”

“Why do you care? You don’t even know me.”

“I know you’re staying at the Wynn. I know you like to punch things.” Okay… maybe that’s a red flag. Maybe this is a sign there’s danger. He smiles that sweet yet confident smile at me again. “I was in the gym this afternoon when you walked in. I’m staying there too. I’ll try not to take it personally you didn’t notice me.”

“Oh.” So that’s why he looks familiar. I remember there being men in the gym, but only vaguely. Because I almost turned around and left when I saw them. But how the hell am I forgetting what this specimen looks like in workout wear? Tenley wouldn’t. Hell, even my book nerd of a little sister Mae wouldn’t have missed him. I think I’m broken.

“You gonna say it now, Fireball?”

“I didn’t like kissing him,” I blurt out and it feels good, which I wasn’t anticipating. I ignore his victorious smirk and look him dead in the eye. “But I do like kissing. So I should have liked it with him. I blame me, not him.”

“Bullshit.” His voice is so strong and confident it’s contagious and I start to feel it too. “Chemistry isn’t easy. You didn’t have it with him, maybe because I stole it.”

I blink. He chuckles. “You looked over at me before you kissed him and you felt it. Just like I did. We have chemistry.”

“You’re not my type, Inky.” It’s the truth but it’s also kind of cruel. I hope he realizes I don’t mean it that way. I’m too shy to look up at him to gauge his reaction so I go back to sliding one of my manicured nails over his ink, this time a skull with a flower crown.

“Right. Because your type is people you’re not attracted to?”

Okay, now I look up. He’s smirking. I feel it in my underwear. I swallow and bite my lip. He reaches up and presses his thumb just below my lip, pulling it from between my teeth. “If someone is going to bite that, it’s going to be me.”

“Okay.”

Yeah. I said okay, all nonchalant and unbothered like I was agreeing to a pizza topping. Even he is shocked, his eyebrows raising sharply. But he recovers fast and then his head is bending and I'm tilting my chin—which he's still kind of holding—and…

I’m kissing this ink-covered stranger.

It’s soft, at first. He’s testing the waters. His lips gentle but not timid. He’s still got my chin in his big hand, and he angles my mouth to the side, his tongue ghosting the edge of my lip.

It feels so good. Like really good. Like oh my God, I finally get why everyone is so horny all the time type of good. Not a single part of me tenses or freezes or turns to stone. My fight-or-flight instincts have left the building. I could stay here, kissing this guy, for years.

I grab his ass as I open my mouth and his tongue finds mine. Sparks fly and they clear my head for a second. Just long enough that I register the feel of his ass under my palms. His very hard, very round, very muscular ass. There is one specific type of man that has that specific kind of ass.

I pull away like the sparks flying from the kiss are actually electrocuting me. His eyes fly open and he looks equal parts startled and confused. “What happened? You were into that.”

“I was,” I admit as I wipe my mouth. “But you play hockey.”

He blinks. “You recognize me?”

I shake my head. “Do you recognize me?”

He frowns, confused. “Why would I recognize you? And how would you know I play hockey if you don’t recognize me?”

“Are you… a Quake?”

“Yeah.”

“Fuck no.”

I bolt. Like a fawn in the forest after the startling boom of a gunshot. I make my way out of the club and through the casino it's attached to without incident. I'm on the famous Las Vegas Boulevard gulping fresh, warm air and trying to get my bearings when I feel a hand on my shoulder.

Of course, he followed. The lights of the strip give me a much better view of his face, which is even more ruggedly handsome than I thought. Chiseled jaw, high cheekbones, and eyes… they're the real masterpiece. A shade that could be described a thousand ways, because it's not just one color, it's a vortex of many. I see moss and amber and chocolate and storm cloud.

"So hockey players are a no-go? Why?" he asks. "And why would I recognize you? You said you were an Art History student. How would a professional hockey player know a?—"

“Art Education. I teach kids about art and music. Well, I will when I graduate.” I sigh and shake my head, trying to clear what’s left of the alcohol from my body. “Which one are you and why aren’t you wearing one of those stupid shirts?”

He stares. Hard. Like he’s searching his brain for a reason I’m this crazy. He’ll never find it. I’m the Garrison no one knows about. I hide easily and gratefully in the giant shadows of my relatives. I avoid hockey games, and when I do have to go because someone in my family is being awarded something or winning something, I duck cameras and leave early.

“Westwood.”

Westwood? Is he a Westwood? I smile and then I laugh, because of course he's a Westwood. I see it now. I've met both his parents on multiple occasions. I've even seen him before, although we never officially met. The cheeks are his dad’s, the hair is his mom's color, the eyes a mix of both. "Which one? Crew or Nash?"

“Crew, and to answer your earlier question I’m not wearing the shirt because there was a fuck-up with the order and mine came in a small” he replies. “Nothing about me is small.”

A bubble of laughter explodes from my mouth. “Nothing about you is subtle either, apparently.”

“I just had my tongue in your mouth, and you liked it, so I figured we could be candid.” Crew shrugs. “If you hate hockey players, why do you know our names?”

“I don’t hate hockey players,” I reply. “I love them. But I know them so I avoid kissing them. Thanks though. That was great. Really. Five stars.”

I start down the street. He hooks my left arm and spins me to face him before I even realize what’s happening. “The Wynn is that way.”

He points in the other direction from where I was walking. So much for a strong finish to this weird failure of a night.

“Oh.” I could pull my arm back, but I don’t. I love how his skin feels on mine. How he holds me with gentle force. I feel safe but nervous when he touches me, and I like that chaotic blend. Who knew?

"You were heading home, right?" he questions. "Or do you have another club to go to where you mind fuck another poor hockey player?"

“All the hockey players are in this club.”

“You are equal parts intriguing and confusing.”

“Thanks.”

We’re still chest-to-chest. His hand is still around my bicep. We’re within kissing distance and the thought of doing it again crosses my mind, but that would be crazy, right?

But didn’t I come here for crazy?

“What did you mean when you said you know hockey players?” Crew wants to know. “How? Why did you ask if I recognized you?”

"Because I'm drunk and confused. You confuse me," I babble and then answer the first question with some vague lies. "I follow TMZ Sports. I know the Quake won the Stanley Cup and are here to party hard. I'm not into partying hard or wild nights and random hook-ups. No judgment, but I don't fit. So best to avoid me, so you're not disappointed."

“There was absolutely nothing disappointing about that kiss.”

He’s right.

A warm breeze wanders through my hair, sending a piece across my face where it sticks to what’s left of my lip gloss. Before I can brush it away, Crew does. It’s such a simple, gentle gesture but it births butterflies the size of pterodactyls in my belly. Whoa, this man is reeling me in like a fish on a hook. I’m not at all used to this. But isn’t that the point?

“I’m not going to lie, I’m not a relationship guy, and we, as a team, are definitely here to party. But why are you in Vegas, letting dudes you don’t know kiss you if you’re not looking for something meaningless too?” Crew just took a proverbial hammer and nailed it.

I am here looking for some random guy to rid me of my virginity because that near-mugging-slash-more proves if I don’t make the decision, someone may make it for me. And what would be safer than hooking up with Crew Westwood? I know for a fact that hockey players get regular STD tests and that they don’t want a baby as much as I don’t. They always have protection on them. And they’re usually incredible in bed. At least, that’s what I hear.

“Fireball, that wasn’t a tough question for a smart woman like you,” Crew reminds me. His eyes sparkle. His smile is somehow equal parts cocky and kind.

“Wanna go back to the hotel with me?”

My heart gallops as soon as the question leaves my lips. See, Mom, I do have some of your DNA. He doesn’t say a word. He just wraps his arm lazily over my shoulder and we start to walk together.

* * *

On the short stumbling walk back to the hotel, I make a mental list of everything I know about Crew Westwood, which isn’t much. I know my cousin Tate talks about him a lot and considers him a friend, which is good. It means he’s a nice guy. Tate doesn’t suffer fools. I know he’s the son of Avery Westwood who was the league’s poster boy when he played. He was a child phenom from Canada who was drafted number one when he was eighteen and an avalanche of trophies, Cups, and endorsement deals followed. Avery made the most money of any player in the league in his day. I know Crew is a twin. I know his mom is the sister of one of Avery’s old teammates so his bloodline is double hockey, like ours. My mom’s dad was also a professional hockey player. I know he had a significant other at some point because I remember Tenley coming home from a party she went to with Tate and complaining that “Crew Westwood had just gone through a horrible break-up.”

So as we approach the lobby I decide to be direct. "Do you have a girlfriend? Because I don't do one-night stands with guys who cheat."

“Fair policy,” Crew replies. “I’m single. Entirely unattached in every possible way.”

I nod and he holds open the door to the Wynn for me. As we cross the lobby, his hand pressing gently against my lower back, I feel like every set of eyes in the place is on us. I'm probably paranoid, mostly. I mean Wynn employees know there's a slew of hockey players in their hotel, but no one cares about the women they bring up to their rooms… probably.

“And for the record,” his head dips so his breath glances off my cheek, causing me to fight a shiver, “I have the same policy. I don’t fuck with people’s relationships.”

“I’ve been single since last October,” I reply, and he gives me a small nod as he punches the button on the elevator panel.

The doors slide open and he ushers me inside. He stares at the panel of floor numbers. I watch him carefully. The elevator is filled with light. Crew looks even more handsome than in the dimly lit club and shady street. His skin is dewy and smooth, a tan making the lighter grays and greens in his eyes pop. He's so damn big. I've been around hockey bodies my whole life, but I've been related to all of them so I've never really looked at them. There's a lot to admire. Broad shoulders, bulky biceps, taut, trim tummy, the bubble butt. Yeah, I get why women like that now. It felt really nice to grab onto.

“Your place or mine, Fireball?” he asks as the elevator doors slide closed but we don’t go anywhere. He pulls his room key from his back pocket. “Full disclosure I’m in a two-bed suite on the second to last floor. It’s nice. Has a private hot tub on the balcony, but it also has the thief of joy in the other bedroom.”

“Who?”

“My brother. He’s what would happen if Squidward and Eeyore fucked without protection.” He says it without an ounce of jest or sarcasm in his voice and the absurdity makes me smile. “He’s likely home from the club already and muttering to himself about the room being too cold or the club being too loud, and how he never should have come.”

"Oh. Well then my place it is." I take my keycard out of my tiny little purse and swipe it over the reader before punching the button for the top floor. My head tilts back and I look at him. "Since we're being brutally honest, I'm in a three-bedroom suite with three other people, but they definitely aren’t home and they definitely won’t bother us when they do come home. If you’re still there.”

“I’ll still be there and I’ll be completely indisposed.” His tone is confident and smooth. I’m not sure if it’s a promise or a warning, but it warms me from the inside out.

“For the record, I only use protection. Lots of it,” I blurt out. “No Squidward-Eeyore offspring in my future. I’m on the pill and you are wrapping it up. Got it?”

"Yes ma'am." Crew grins down at me and my abnormally blunt mouth. His hand moves to my lower back again but slides down to casually cup the round of my ass. "For the record, my offspring would be more of a cross between Prince Eric and He-Man."

I smile. He’s taking away my nerves without even knowing it. I’m going to do this. With Crew Westwood. “Okay, so we agree protection is non-negotiable.”

“Not a worry Fireball.” He winks at me. “I have a couple condoms in my front pocket. You are more than welcome to go fishing for them… see what else you might find. I’ve been hard since I set eyes on you.”

Whoa. The casual way he tosses that out there has me flustered, but it also reinforces my desire to do this. I’m going to get rid of my virginity and Crew Westwood is going to help me. This is what I’ve been hoping for since I stepped off the plane.