Penalty for Boarding (Curves on Ice #3)

7. Calvin

CALVIN

6 :55pm. Olivia should be here any minute. I told the concierge downstairs that I’m expecting her, and to send her straight up. Would it be weird if I just opened the door and stood there waiting to see her walk off the elevator? It would, wouldn’t it…

God, I’ve got it bad. I'm so desperate to see her and make a good impression that I’ve spent the last hour tidying my already spotless apartment. But now I'm second-guessing every choice. Is it too sterile now? Should I have kept some of the clutter for a more relaxed look? Or would that make it too busy? And the lighting... Is it too dim? Too bright? Does it smell OK in here? I may have gone a bit overboard with the air freshener…

I reach a hand up to rake my fingers through my hair and wince as the movement sends a bolt of pain shooting through my shoulder. I bite back a groan, trying to stretch out the kinks in my neck, but every muscle protests. It's like my entire body has staged a revolt after yesterday's Pilates class.

I try to roll my shoulders, hoping to ease some of the tension, but the simple motion has me gritting my teeth. Even my abs ache, the muscles quivering with the effort of just standing upright. I feel like I've been hit by a truck, every joint creaking and every fiber screaming in agony.

Training today was a killer, but I pushed through it—even though my teammates were teasing me for skating like an old man. Whatever. I can take a ribbing from them. But I can't let Olivia see me like this. I don't want her to think I'm some kind of weakling who can't handle a little stretching. I'm a professional athlete, for fuck's sake. I've taken hits that would knock a lesser man out cold. I should be able to breeze through a Pilates class without feeling like I'm on death's door the next day.

So I take a deep breath, ignoring the twinge in my ribs, and try to plaster on a neutral expression. I lean against the kitchen counter, aiming for casual nonchalance, but even that simple act sends a fresh wave of pain radiating through my hips and lower back. Maybe I should just sit down. Cleaning this place had been a workout in itself, but if I collapse onto the couch now, there’s no way I’ll have the energy to host Olivia properly. I glance at the clock again—six fifty-eight. She could walk in any second, and I want to be ready.

With a reluctant sigh, I shuffle back to the living room, contemplating calling Olivia and shifting the location of our date to a Japanese Onsen instead. Then the doorbell rings. I straighten up, suppressing yet another wince, and make my way to the door, each step feeling like a Herculean effort.

“Be a fucking man, Barrett,” I coach myself, as I reach for the door, fix a smile on my face, and pull it open.

The moment I see her, the only sensation in my body is the feeling of my dick twitching awake. She’s stunning. A goddamn vision in a simple sundress and a fitted cardigan to keep her warm. Her dark hair is tied back again, but a few tendrils have escaped, framing her strong face and accentuating her intense blue eyes.

Olivia's eyes meet mine, and she smiles in a way that has me suppressing a groan. Fuck dinner. I’d rather just feast on her.

“Hey,” she says after a while of me just staring at her and getting hard.

“You look…” I shake my head slowly as I step aside to let her in. “…fucking amazing in that dress.”

She ducks her head, a pretty blush coloring her cheeks. “Thank you. You don't look so bad yourself.” She gives my pec a playful punch, and I almost cry out in pain. And although I manage to suppress the sound, I don’t manage to hide the wince that flashes across my face.

“Are you OK?” she asks, her brow furrowing as she searches my expression.

I grin as I close the door behind her. “I’m totally fine. I feel great, actually. Dinner's almost ready.”

I take her hand, leading her toward the kitchen, trying to walk as fluidly as possible despite the stiffness in my legs. Each step feels like I'm wading through wet cement.

As we enter the kitchen, Olivia's eyes watch me closely and I let go of her hand and move over to the bottle of wine I have breathing on the counter. When I pick it up and gesture as a way to offer her a glass, she just raises an eyebrow, her expression growing even more skeptical when the bottle quivers slightly from my aching arm.

“Are you sure you're OK, Calvin?” she asks, tilting her head a little. “You seem a bit... off.”

“Me? Off? No, no, I'm peachy,” I assure her, my voice coming out slightly higher-pitched than usual. “Why do you ask?”

Olivia crosses her arms, giving me a pointed look. “Well, for starters, you're walking like you’re a robot. And now you're talking to me through gritted teeth while you hang onto that counter for dear life. That's not exactly normal behavior, even for you.”

I let out a forced laugh, waving off her concerns. “What? No, I'm just... I'm just excited to see you, that's all. You know, a little nervous energy.”

She doesn't look convinced, but before she can press further, I lift the wine bottle again, hoping to distract her with a drink. But as I reach for it, a sudden, intense cramp seizes my shoulder, causing me to let out a yelp of pain. The bottle slips from my grasp, and I watch in horror as it tumbles toward the floor.

But before it can shatter, Olivia's hand shoots out, catching it deftly just inches from the ground. She straightens up, holding the bottle securely, and fixes me with a stern, yet slightly amused, look.

“Calvin Barrett, you are a terrible liar,” she says, shaking her head. “Now, are you going to tell me what's really going on, or do I have to drag it out of you?”

I sigh, knowing the jig is up. I can't hide anything from this woman, even if I wanted to. And if I'm being honest with myself, I don't want to. I want her to know me, the real me, even if that means admitting that soccer moms are tougher than me.

“All right, you got me,” I concede, holding up my hands in surrender. “That Pilates class yesterday... it kicked my ass. Like, really kicked my ass. I'm sore in places I didn't even know existed.”

Olivia's eyes widen as a smile plays across her lips. I can tell she’s on the verge of laughing, but she’s being kind enough to hold it in. “Oh, Calvin,” she says, setting the wine bottle safely on the counter. “Why didn't you just tell me?”

“I guess I just didn't want you to think I was a wimp. I mean, I'm supposed to be this big, tough hockey player, and here I am, nearly taken out by a few stretches.”

“Pilates is far from being ‘a few stretches’. Those exercises work all of those tiny supporting muscles that your normal training often neglects. Honestly, I’d be shocked if you weren’t sore.”

“You don't get it,” I sigh. “This isn't just about being sore. It's about getting old. My body's starting to betray me, Olivia. It's tellin’ me I can't keep up this pace anymore.”

“Thirty-seven is hardly old,” she says, her voice soft as she steps closer to me and places a hand on my arm.

“It is in professional hockey. I’m practically ancient.”

She lets out a heavy breath and looks me square in the eyes. “So what you want to do? Roll over and quit? Or keep showing those guys you’re just as great as you always were, that you still have years left in you?”

I smile at her attempt to lift me up. She’s obviously way better at her job than I am at the moment, because I have to admit, this is kinda working.

“ Years ? Who are we talking about here, doc? Me, or you?” I ask, my tone laced with playful teasing.

She rolls her eyes, her smile barely concealed. “You, of course. You’re the one facing the existential crisis, not me.”

“Existential crisis? I’m just facing my own mortality, that’s all.”

“Because you’re so ancient?” she retorts, her voice light and teasing as she steps in front of me and runs her hand over the front of my shirt. “I’m of the opinion that time has been incredibly kind to you. You’ve gotten hotter, and hotter with age.”

I lean in, feeling her warmth against me. “Really?” I ask, my voice husky. “You think I’m hot?”

“Absolutely,” she whispers, her breath hot against my lips. “I’ve been watching you play your entire career, and you’re definitely…scorching hot.”

“Well, in that case.” I run my fingers over her soft skin, savoring the feeling of her under my touch. “Maybe I should keep playing for another ten years or so. Wouldn’t want to go backward in your eyes.”

She laughs, a soft, seductive sound that pools warm in my groin. “With me on your side, you could play for however long you want,” she says. “I’ve got all the tricks for keeping the body primed for excellence. You’ll just have to listen to me.”

“Oh, I’m listenin’, doc. I’d like to see these tricks up close,” I murmur, lowering my head to hers and brushing our lips together.

“You have no idea how much I want to show you,” she breathes, wasting no time in closing the distance between us and taking my lower lip between hers and sucking gently.

I have zero patience and quickly grab the back of her head, tugging her hair and deepening the kiss. Olivia responds eagerly, her tongue sliding against mine as her hands roam over my chest and shoulders. The pain in my muscles fades to the background as desire takes over, every nerve ending alive with the sensation of Olivia pressed against me. I groan into her mouth, my hands sliding down to her hips to pull her closer. If I had the strength right now, I’d lift her onto this counter and have my way with her, but I settle for pushing her back against the cool granite, my body pinning hers in a way that feels just the right amount of possessive.

Olivia breaks the kiss, her breath coming in short pants as I unbutton that cardigan of hers and push it off her shoulders, my fingertips trailing down her skin as I slide it down her arms. She looks up at me with hooded eyes. “You know, I could…help you with those sore muscles.”

I raise an eyebrow as I place her cardigan on the counter. “Oh yeah? And how exactly would you do that, doc?”

Olivia trails her fingers down my chest. “Well, as a sports medicine specialist, I happen to be quite skilled in therapeutic massage. Especially when it comes to helping athletes recover.” She lifts up on her toes, lowers her voice as she whispers in my ear, “And I promise you, I’m very thorough.”

A slow grin spreads across my face as I consider her offer. “A massage from Dr. Angelo herself? How could I possibly refuse?”