Puck & Make Up (A Rush Hockey #7)

Chapter 5

Five

Fox

I knew she wasn’t going to show up, and that’s why instead of heading to Maggie’s at seven o’clock, I stay home and wait.

And plan.

And wait.

And once I’m absolutely sure that Dessie’s uncle will have sent her home from the bar—because we’re not doing this in the front room of Monroe’s with half the fucking town looking on—I drive over to her apartment.

I pull in behind Monroe’s, park in the small lot there, and look up at the second-floor railing that does little to obscure the entrance to Dessie’s apartment. I’m not a fan of her living above the bar, and I like even less the fact that her front door is visible from the parking lot—and thus vulnerable—to any drunk assholes hanging out around in the dark after last call.

But that’s something for another day.

Tonight I’m…

Well, I’m being a fucking idiot.

Or maybe I’m finally doing something smart, something I should have done months ago.

Something I’ve avoided because I was too chicken shit to risk fucking with the status quo.

But…that’s done.

I’m moving, and I don’t want to leave her behind.

And she…well, maybe it’s purely out of pity, but this is the most open to me that she’s been in years.

I need to see this through.

I’ve watched Axel and Bailey find their way to something damned close to perfect despite a plethora of obstacles. I’ve watched Billie Rose navigate a shitstorm and come through, if not unscathed, but whole, and she did it largely because she had Joel at her side.

So, the least I can do is clear the air between Dessie and me.

And maybe…I can find a way for this woman to stop glaring at me, to stop poking at me, to…

Finally move forward.

Explore the connection between us.

And the almost palpable sexual attention I feel every time I’m within a hundred feet of her?

Maybe I can do something about that too.

My dick twitches and I glare down at it, silently ordering it to behave.

Patience.

This is not about getting a taste of Dessie—not solely, not yet . This is about doing something different, something better, something—I reach over and snag the bag of cookies from the passenger’s seat of my car—that may win over a woman’s heart.

A woman who is more porcupine than soft female when it comes to me.

But one who’s…

Going to be mine.

“Enough,” I mutter, popping the door and unfolding myself from my sedan, careful not to hit my head because no matter how big of a car I get, I still manage to crack my skull on the frame regularly.

Tonight, though, I escape without head injury then cross the dark parking lot, climbing the stairs to Dessie’s apartment. There are lights on inside, and I can hear the soft echo of a TV through the front door.

She’s home.

Excellent.

Yeah, this is working exactly as I planned.

I knock.

There’s a long pause, and the TV goes quiet. I don’t panic, just wait, knowing she’s going to be laser-focused on the door, hoping that the intruder leaves her be.

In answer to that silent glare, I just knock again.

More quiet, and for a long moment, nothing happens.

But then I hear footsteps approach the door, and my heart beats faster, my pulse picks up its pace through my veins, and my lungs work in overtime as every nerve in my body becomes completely focused on the woman walking my way.

There’s a rattle as the lock is disengaged, another as the chain is pulled free, and then the door is whipped open.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” she snaps.

My anger wants to match that anger. To fight temper with temper.

I push that down.

That’s not what I’m here for. Plus, I know my temper is fed by my frustration because this woman doesn’t see me, doesn’t like me, doesn’t want me, even after all this time.

But I’m done with that shit.

I win on the ice.

I’m going to win off it too.

“Hey, sugar lips,” I taunt, crossing my arms and leaning a shoulder back against the open door frame.

She scowls, and, fuck, she’s beautiful when she does that, same as she is when she smiles, when she glowers, when she laughs, when she torments me or says my name like it’s the worst curse on the planet.

Her scowl stays in place at my greeting, and she doesn’t react other than to tense when I shift a little closer. “Why are you here?” she grits out.

I lift a sardonic brow. “I thought you were gonna prove it to me.”

Her chin comes up. “I don’t need to prove anything to you.”

Grinning, I allow my asshole to peek out as I drag my gaze down her body and then back up, smile widening as her cheeks flush. “Clearly.”

She’s in pajamas—adorable fucking pajamas. The bottoms are dotted with hedgehogs and puffy clouds, and she’s wearing a matching tank that shows off her lithe curves.

Curves I start to make a comment about.

But then I manage to tear my gaze from her tits in time to see something that turns my blood to ice.

Hurt.

Fuck.

“Dessie,” I begin, remorse tearing through me.

She thinks?—

Her lips press flat, the emotion gone in an instant, but just because it’s buried doesn’t mean it’s not in her, in the tension in her shoulders, the muscle ticking in her jaw, the frost in her normally hot brown eyes. “I’m tired,” she says frostily, the tone settling heavily on my shoulders and filling me with renewed guilt. “Since I’m going to go to bed without impressing anyone.”

“Des—”

She turns away from me, reaching for the door, starting to swing it shut.

I catch it before it can latch, slip inside and close the wooden panel behind me before she can protest.

“Get out of my apartment,” she snaps as I lock it.

I fucked up.

Already.

Dammit.

I grit my teeth together then exhale. “I’m sorry.”

“Just go away, Fox,” she mutters. “I don’t need an apology. Least of all from you.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Sure you didn’t.” One slender shoulder lifts then drops in a frustrated shrug. “And anyway, I just need all annoying hockey players to leave me the fuck alone.”

“All?”

She crosses her arms. “ All.”

I exhale quietly, grab tight to my temper then say, keeping my tone deliberately light, “You stood me up.”

She sniffs. “Come on, you didn’t actually think I was going to meet you at Maggie’s.”

“Maybe not.” I step a little closer. “I did think you were going to prove that you didn’t have a problem with me, though.”

Her laughter is brittle. “Funny story, Fox. But I think that we’re both equally guilty of having issues with each other.”

I dark to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “Not exactly.”

She lifts her brows in question.

“My only problem is that you hate me,” I explain.

Only the moment the words cross my tongue, I still again.

Because it’s not hurt drifting across her face this time. It’s…

Guilt.

“What the fuck, Dessie?”

Her body goes ramrod stiff. Her expression locks down, even tighter than before.

“Just go away,” she says quietly.

“Hey.” I move closer to her, cup her jaw. “Just drop the tough girl act for once and talk to me.”

She jerks out of my hold. “It’s not an act.”

“Dammit, sugar lips,” I snap. “Just stop . I’m not some asshole trying to hit on you in the bar”—I’m just an asshole who wants to get in her pants—“I know you.”

“You don’t,” she denies.

“I know you enough to see through this bullshit.” I wave a hand at her—the mask, the pulling back, the shadows in her eyes. “You’ve been off. What’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

“Is that why your friends practically had to twist your arm to get you to dinner last night?”

A flush spreads out on her cheeks. “I didn’t have coverage at the bar.”

“And the time before that?”

Her flush grows. “One of the servers called out late.”

“And before that? ”

“Ugh,” she snaps. “Why do you care? Are you my keeper?”

“No, Des,” I say. “I just pay attention.”

Pay attention to everything about her.

“I’m fine.”

“So fine that you decided to kill time in the kitchen last night with someone you can’t stand?” I ask. “Thus avoiding any extra contact with your best friends?”

She stills. “I feel sorry for you is all.”

That stings. I can’t lie.

But I see it for the distraction it is. “At least I’m dealing with the bullshit from my past.”

“And what? You’re magically over it?”

I laugh darkly. “God no. But I’m working on it,” I say. “And I’m not in denial, trying to pretend that trauma doesn’t exist.”

There’s a long blip of quiet.

Then she mutters, “I’m tired. You need to go.”

“Liar,” I accuse, stepping close again, cupping her jaw, feeling the silk of her skin beneath my fingertips. “You’re hiding something, sugar. Something you don’t want even your friends to know.”

A sharp shake of her head. “No, I’m not.”

I lift my brows.

“Like I said, I’m tired.”

“Okay, so say I buy that,” I say, my tone clearly conveying that I don’t, not at fucking all. “Then why?”

A sharp sigh. “Why what?”

“Then why”—I brush my finger along her bottom lip—“did you choose to spend time micromanaging my cookies last night?”

Her throat works, and her voice is almost inaudible when she whispers, “I don’t hate you.”

I open my mouth, but I don’t get the chance to reply.

Because she bursts into tears.