I scan the traffic on the street and lift my hand to hail a yellow cab approaching. He swerves over to the curb.
“Wow, that was fast,” Emerie says. We move toward the car. “Um…are you coming with us?”
I hesitate. “Why?”
“You didn’t come up to Vince’s box. He didn’t see us together.”
“Oh. Right.”
“He’ll be home in a while and…you could be there.”
After I brief pause, I say, “Okay.”
I join them in the back seat of the taxi and Emerie gives him the address.
“We had a lot of hockey questions,” Emerie says as the driver takes us straight over to Park Avenue, then zips up and around Grand Central Terminal. “Right, Cat?”
“Yeah. It was fun going to a game. Hockey’s cool.”
Emerie bites her lip. I almost laugh.
“I can probably explain stuff to you,” I say. “I know a little.”
Cat laughs. “Maybe sometime we could watch a game on TV,” she says. “And you could watch with us and explain it to us.”
“We could definitely do that,” I agree.
Man. How do these two women suck me into these things so easily?
“I love watching hockey,” I add. It’s true. I’m always studying the game to learn more and be better.
“Okay,” Emerie says. “We’ll figure out a time.” She’s about as enthusiastic as if we were planning a tonsillectomy for her.
“Hockey’s fun.” I bump her shoulder with mine.
“Sure. Right.”
I pay for the taxi and follow the ladies up to the penthouse apartment again. This time the place is dark and quiet. Emerie flicks on lights, opens a closet, and takes off her coat. “I’ll take yours,” she says to me. I hand it over. Then she walks into the living room. “Have a seat. Can I get you something to drink?”
“I’m okay, thanks.”
“Bedtime,” she says to Cat. “Go get ready and I’ll come tuck you in, in a bit.”
Cat grumbles something about it being Saturday and not that late but trudges off down the hall. I sit in a big armchair near the fireplace and look around. This place is super formal, not my style at all, with some uncomfortable looking chairs against the wall, a small sofa, and a big crystal chandelier above us. Oil paintings hang on the walls as well as a huge, gilt-framed mirror above the fireplace.
Emerie sits on the other chair flanking the fireplace. She’s wearing loose jeans, black Chelsea boots, and a black and white striped sweater, looking more like her busker persona than the sophisticated socialite she appeared to be the night of the party.
I gesture toward the grand piano at the far end of the room. “Do you play that, too?”
She glances at the piano. “Yes.”
“I’m impressed.”
She smiles.
“Why was Roman there?”
Shit. Why did I blurt that out?
“I don’t know. I assume he invited himself. Vince probably told him I’d be there.”
This annoys me. Dammit, the man’s basically my boss. I can’t be annoyed at him.
“Your teammates will think we’re together,” she says. “But I don’t think they know who I am.”
“I don’t know if they do.” I pause. “This is bigger than I thought when I suggested this crazy idea.”
“I know.” She sighs. “I hated not being totally honest with Cat.” Her bottom lip pouts out.
Damn, that’s cute. And hot.
“Do you still want to do this?”
She meets my eyes. “Do you?”
“Answer me first.”
“I haven’t come up with a better plan, so…yes.”
I nod. “Okay. Me too.” I always stick to my commitments.
“Thank you.”
The door of the apartment opens and closes. We both straighten. Then Emerie jumps up and scoots over to the sofa, beckoning wildly at me. I get it, so I throw myself across the room to sit next to her. We’re just settling in when Mr. D’Agostino walks in. He stops when he sees me but recovers and strolls toward us.
“Great game tonight, Owen.” He extends his hand.
I stand and shake it, my stomach clenching. “Thank you, sir. Things were clicking for all of us.” Then I add, “Maybe Emerie being there had something to do with it.”
Mr. D’Agostino’s lips thin, but then he smiles. “Maybe so.” He looks around me at Emerie. “Now you’ll have to come to every game. Hockey players need their good luck charms.”
She laughs. “I don’t think I’m a good luck charm.”
“A win over Pittsburgh is excellent,” Mr. D’Agostino says. “They’re right behind us in the standings.”
“Yeah.” I sit again as Mr. D’Agostino moves away. “They’ve got a good team. Some really good goal scorers.”
“We need to stay ahead of them in the standings.”
“Yep.”
“Why?” Emerie asks.
“Well, for one thing we want to make the playoffs,” I say. “The top three teams in each division earn berths in the playoffs. The next two teams in terms of total points in the conference, regardless of division, earn the wild-card spots.”
Her eyes glaze over.
“The top seed in each division plays one of the wild-card teams in its conference. The division leader with the most points plays the wild-card team with the fewest points. The second and third seeds in each division face each other in the first round. So where you finish in the standings effects who you play in the first round.”
Mr. D’Agostino nods, eyeing me attentively. He’s not all that involved with the day-to-day stuff, but he has to know how this works.
“And if there happens to be a tie, the number of wins can break the tie. Wins, among other things.”
“Fascinating,” she says, trying to stifle a yawn.
“You asked,” I remind her gently with what I hope looks like an affectionate smile.
“You’ve got your work cut out trying to make Emerie into a fan.” Mr. D stands. “I’m going to bed. Good night.”
“Vince?” Emerie speaks up.
“Yes?”
“Could you say goodnight to Cat? I’m sure she’s still awake.”
“Oh. Right. Of course.”
We both watch him walk out, then turn to each other. Emerie makes a “yikes” face, then mouths, “Thank you.”
I nod, my stomach unknotting somewhat. “This is fucked up,” I say in a low voice.
She laughs softly. “No shit.”
Our faces are close together. Her scent teases my nose—both earthy and sweet, flowers mixed with spice. Her skin is smooth, her tip-tilted nose adorable, her big blue eyes a different, lighter blue than my own, with flecks of silver sparkling in them like tiny diamonds. Like the diamond that glints on the side of her nose. Her pink lips are bow-shaped, the lower lip plumply curved.
My cock thickens.
She’s studying me as well, her gaze moving over my face, and when it lingers on my mouth a powerful urge to kiss her rockets through me. A desire to feel how soft her lips are, to know how she tastes, to have her tits pressed against my chest.