Puck & Make Up (A Rush Hockey #7)

Chapter 3

Three

Fox, Two Weeks Later

“ T hat’s not how you do it,” the beautiful goddess next to me says, yanking the spoon from my hands and elbowing me out of the way.

I smother a sigh, but allow the woman, who’s tall and strong, but nowhere near as tall and strong as I am, to shove me to the side, knowing that this is just Dessie.

Or maybe, this is just Dessie with me.

She’s beautiful, full of lean curves and lithe muscles that give hint to her former career—a firefighter battling blazes, at least before she up and quit for some reason that she won’t share with anyone. And she’s got height, towering over her friends.

But she’s still tiny when compared to me.

Because I’m a fucking behemoth.

Six-five.

Six-eight on skates.

So even as she’s shoving me out of the way, she’s doing it from nearly a foot beneath me.

And I’m letting her.

Because ever since the truth has come out about my birth mother, the hatred that Dessie has for me is…

Tempered.

Oh, she still gives me sass and her wit is full of sharp edges rather than gentle teasing.

But she’s different.

Same as Rosie’s been different since she found out the truth.

They’re all looking at me like I’m fragile.

Like I’m going to snap and freak out and?—

Well, pull an Annie Donovan.

At least it won’t be much longer before I head down to San Jose, before I get some space.

Of course, it’s not going to be far from my Rosie, seeing as how Joel’s career isn’t over and he’s heading down to San Francisco.

At least the handcuff incident I witnessed—the one that led to acid-filled eyes I wanted to gouge out with a spoon—from a couple weeks ago was worth it.

Joel got a contract too.

He’s going to the Gold.

From teammates to rivals.

That’s a hockey player’s reality.

“You know,” I mutter, leaning back against the counter and fixing my stare on Dessie, focusing on the here and now because if I stop and think about the rest of it, I want to punch something. “ I’m the one who was trusted with making the chocolate chip cookies in the first place.”

I know it’s because they’re trying to giving me something to do so I’m not focusing on the fact that Annie Donovan has disappeared again.

And so I’m also not fixated on figuring out how to tell my actual parents—and not my fucking egg donor—about the circumstances of my ending up in River’s Bend in the first place.

Or if I should tell them at all.

Especially considering that creating a relationship with my birth mom isn’t high up on my list of priorities.

She’s…well, I feel sorry for her.

But do I seriously want a relationship with a person who treated Rosie like she had?

Who’d made it clear that she looks after herself first and foremost?

I’ve built a family here.

I have great parents.

I don’t need Annie Donovan.

And I?—

Cookies!

And I need to focus on the fucking cookies and stop spending so much time in my head.

These cookies are my specialty.

I can’t make many things—or at least not all that many that are edible—but my chocolate chip cookies are the shit. Ooey, gooey and with just the perfect hint of salt so that the sweet doesn’t overwhelm.

My grandma taught me the recipe.

I just…perfected it.

So, the lean, grumpy goddess trying to take over the one thing I can control right now isn’t all that helpful.

We’re at Bailey and Axel’s ranch house on the edge of River’s Bend, the sprawling cattle farm settled against the foothills of the Sierra Nevada Mountains. It’s not far from my apartment closer to town (the one I only have for a couple more weeks), but it may as well be on another planet with its wide porch looking out onto acres and acres of grazing land. The rest of the guys—Axel, Joel, and Ryan—are currently hanging out around a small, landscaped patch, enjoying the warm evening air, playing games with Rosie, Bailey, and Veronica.

Along with Dessie.

Except, now she’s in the kitchen, taking over.

Training camp starts in a couple weeks and with us now on three different teams, I know we won’t have many opportunities to get together like this again any time soon.

I want to make it count.

Only now, I’m stuck in the kitchen with a woman who can’t stand me as she tells me I don’t know how to make chocolate chip cookies.

I smother a grin.

Okay, fine.

There’s never an instance where I don’t like being close to Dessie.

Yeah, she pushes my buttons.

Yeah, sometimes I want to throttle her.

But there hasn’t been a moment from the first time I’ve seen her that I haven’t wanted her.

“You may be in charge,” she says, “but you’re doing it wrong.”

Scowling, I lean close to her, inhaling the soft scent of orange, but shoving down the urge to move even nearer, to inhale again. Instead, I focus on what’s more important. Cookies. “I’m not doing it wrong,” I grumble, peering over her shoulder and glancing into the mixing bowl. There’s butter, sugar, flour, chocolate chips, all the normal things that go into making chocolate chip cookies.

Check. Check. Check.

“Okay, sugar lips,” I drawl, shifting to lean a hip against the counter. “Want to clue me into what exactly I’m doing wrong?”

She huffs out a beleaguered sigh, drops the wooden spoon into the bowl—because if Grandma taught me anything, it’s that mixing by hand is the best—and cuts her gaze to the side.

Which is when I see something I hate.

Something that means she’s right and I’m wrong.

Christ, I’m never going to hear the end of it.

“The batter looked wrong,” she says by way of explanation, and if I hear a hint of remorse in her tone, then she must really feel sorry for me. “How many?”

“Three.”

She nods but doesn’t say anything else as she scoops up the carton and pulls out three eggs, making quick work of cracking them into the bowl.

I steal the bowl from her once the eggs are in and start mixing the cookie dough, loving the little sound she makes in the back of her throat.

She’s frustrated with me, which is way better than the pity from the last couple of weeks, and frankly, so much better than her normal reaction to me.

That being her ignoring me.

I like her frustrated.

I love it when she can’t ignore me.

Yeah, I’m an asshole.

“I can do it,” she snaps, whirling toward me, reaching for the bowl.

I keep it out of her reach. “I know you can, but it’s my job.”

“Says who?”

“Seriously?”

“I could have just bought cookies from the grocery store.”

“And they wouldn’t be as good as mine,” I say, still stirring.

She scowls.

“And because I know you love both chocolate and my cookies, why don’t you just let me work so we all get what we want as quickly as possible?”

She huffs out a sigh, but as is often the case with Dessie, she doesn’t just give in, doesn’t accept defeat. She just…finds a way to bypass it. Case in point? She doesn’t engage in this argument with me further, just turns away, picks up a cookie sheet from the opposite counter and brings it over, dropping it with a loud clatter.

Then immediately steals the bowl once I finish mixing and starts to spoon out the dough.

“You know,” I drawl, leaning past her and fixing a lopsided ball, “one could say you’re doing it wrong.”

“Just add the salt,” she grinds out, shooting a glare my direction. “I’m PMSing and need chocolate.”

“So that’s why I get the pleasure of cranky Dessie,” I tease.

She just scowls at me again before she carries the bowl to the other cookie sheet and keeps scooping. “I don’t know why you couldn’t make these before you came over like a normal person,” she mutters. “Then I wouldn’t be stuck talking to you when I could be self-medicating with chocolate.”

My mouth kicks up. “I didn’t know you liked something about me enough to stoop low enough to endure my presence.”

“I like the cookies you happen to make,” she says tartly. “That doesn’t mean I like you .”

“Yeah, about that,” I say, not taking her words personally—we’re long past that—as I finish with the salt, lean close, and swipe my finger into the bowl, scooping up a dollop. E. coli or not, I won’t turn down raw cookie dough. “You never did explain what your problem with me is.”

“Annie—”

“Nope,” I remind her. “You hated me long before that.”

Her expression gentles. “I am sorry,” she says. “That Annie…” She trails off and I almost feel bad for her.

“I have a great mom.”

More gentle, and swear to fuck, it’s like she’s wrapped her hand around my cock and squeezed. I don’t often get to see this side of Dessie, and it’s intoxicating as hell.

“I’m luckier than Rosie in a lot of ways,” I go on. “I never dealt with what she did, never had to feel like I wasn’t wanted.” A beat. “She deserved better.”

Guilt slithers through me.

“She did,” Dessie agrees.

And for a moment we exist in perfect harmony.

But her stare drifts back to mine and she lies with that gorgeous mouth. “I don’t have a problem with you.”

The edgy tone makes me smile.

“You don’t have a problem with me?” I ask, not able to smother the laughter in my tone.

“Nope.” Her shoulders tense.

“Are you sure?”

“Yup.”

“Seriously?” I press, my temper beginning to fray at the edges. “ That’s what you’re going with?”

“Fine,” she snaps. “Yes, you’re annoying, and everyone knows it.” She rolls her eyes, picks up a cookie sheet, and carries it over to the oven. “But aside from that , no, I don’t have a problem with you.”

I laugh, watch as it makes her shoulders lift higher, the tension in her frame ratcheting even more tightly, until she resembles a coiled spring ready to explode.

“Right,” I say dryly.

Her chin comes up. “I don’t .”

“Such a beautiful liar.”

A flush spreads out on her cheeks, but she just snags the other cookie sheet and shoves it into the oven. “I’m not a liar.”

Ha.

This woman is full of secrets and deceptions and distance.

But…

I know her well enough by now to bite back the urge from pushing this further.

Instead, like I do on the ice—or maybe like I’ve learned from her over the last year—I pivot.

“Well,” I say quietly, “if you really don’t have a problem with me…then prove it.”

Immediately, her head swivels, gaze snapping toward mine, mouth pressing into a firm line. “I don’t need to prove anything to you.” Those deep brown eyes blaze as she glowers at me.

“Hmm,” I say. “Maybe that’s true.” I lift one shoulder with a careless shrug that I know will piss her off.

“Maaaybe?” she asks, drawing out the word with deadly intent.

Yes, maybe,” I say, stepping a little closer, clenching my hands into fists at my sides, desperate to touch her, to stroke the velvet of her skin, to run my fingers through the silky black locks held tight in a ponytail that teases her nape, but also knowing that she won’t welcome the contact.

That if I so much as dare to lay a finger on her, my balls will be in my throat.

Her eyes are filled with fury. Her chin comes up higher. Rage sparks across her expression.

But all of that is here and gone in a second.

Furious, passionate woman is replaced with an icy, steel-covered mask.

God, I hate when she does that.

“Pray tell me,” she says with a roll of her eyes, “how can I prove it to you?”

Smirking, I step a little closer, edging into the bright, citrus scent of her, the heat of her body, the need I feel when I’m close to her. “You really want to know?”

Her mouth hitches up into a sarcastic smile that has heat edging towards my dick. “Yeah, big shot.” Her eyes cut south and then back up to mine, derision in their chocolate depths. “I’m positively desperate to know.”

I bend, having to do it a long way because she’s so much smaller than me, but not stopping until my lips are nearly at her ear.

My beard brushes against her hair.

My nose fills with her scent.

“Meet me at Maggie’s”—the only halfway nice restaurant in town—“tomorrow. Seven o’clock.”

She jerks and I straighten, mouth falling open. “What the fuck, Fox?”

I shrug again. “ Then you can prove it to me.”

And with her mouth gaping open, I check on the cookies, set a timer on my phone, and head out onto the porch.

Then I proceed with doing something I’ve become incredibly comfortable and familiar with over the last months.

Avoiding Dessie.

Even as I track her coming out a few minutes behind me.

Even at I watch her sipping her beer.

Even as I strain to hear what Bailey says that makes her laugh.

Even as…she’s the first to the plate of hot cookies when I bring them out.