Right, he needed to regroup here. He played hockey, yeah, but he wasn’t a player anymore. His fuckboy days were in the past. Not only that, but he was sick to death of women fawning all over him because of his career. Nowadays, all he had to do was walk into a place—club, bar, the public library—and a warm, willing woman was by his side, ready to jump his bones. And he couldn’t even count the number of times he’d heard, “Do you like it rough off the ice, baby?”
Well, screw that. He’d been down the casual road, had his fun, scored off the ice as often as he scored on it, but now it was time to take a new path. One where the woman in his bed actually gave a shit about him, and not the hockey star she couldn’t wait to gush to her friends about.
The sexual fog in his brain cleared, leaving him alert and composed and completely aware of the flush on the brunette’s cheeks and the hint of attraction in her eyes. If this woman was looking to score with Mr. Hockey, she had another think coming.
“I’m Hayden,” his new opponent said, uncertainty floating through her forest green eyes.
“Brody Croft,” he returned coolly, waiting for the flicker of recognition to cross her features.
It didn’t happen. No flash of familiarity, no widening of the eyes. Her expression didn’t change in the slightest.
“It’s nice to meet you. Brody.”
Her voice lingered on his name, as if she was testing it out for size. She must have decided she liked the fit, because she gave a small nod and turned her attention to the table. After a quick examination, she pointed to the ball he’d failed to sink and called the shot.
Okay, was he supposed to believe she genuinely didn’t know who he was? That she walked into a sports bar and randomly chose to hit on the only professional hockey player in attendance?
“So...did you catch the game last night?” he said with a casual slant of the head.
She gave him a blank stare. “What game?”
“Game one of the playoffs. Warriors and Vipers. Seriously good hockey, in my opinion.”
Her brows drew together in a frown. “Oh. I’m not really a fan, to be honest.”
“You don’t like the Warriors?”
“I don’t like hockey.” She made a self-deprecating face. “Actually, I can’t say I enjoy any sport, really. Maybe the gymnastics in the summer Olympics?”
He couldn’t help but grin. “Are you asking or telling?”
She smiled back. “Telling. And I guess it’s very telling that I only watch a sports event once every four years, huh?”
He found himself liking the dry note to her throaty voice when she admitted her disinterest in sports. Her honesty was rare. Most—fine, all—of the women he encountered claimed to love his sport of choice, and if they didn’t truly love it, they pretended to, as if sharing that common interest made them soulmates.
“But I love this game,” Hayden added, raising her cue. “It counts as a sport, right?”
“It does in my book.”
She nodded, then focused on the balls littering the table. She leaned forward to take her shot.
He got a nice eyeful of her cleavage, a tantalizing swell of creamy skin spilling over the neckline of her top. When he lowered his eyes, he couldn’t help but admire her full breasts, hugged firmly by a bra he could only see the outline of.
She took the shot, and he raised his brows when the ball cleanly disappeared into the pocket. She was good.
All right, more than good, he had to relent as she proceeded to circle the table and sink ball after ball.
“Where’d you learn to play like that?” he demanded, finally finding his voice.
She met his eyes briefly before sinking the last solid on the table. “My dad.” She smiled again. Those pouty lips just screamed for his mouth to do wicked things to them. “He bought me my own table when I was nine, set it up right next to his. We used to play side by side in the basement every night before I went to bed.”
“Does he still play?”
Her eyes clouded. “No. He’s too busy with work to relax around a pool table anymore.” She straightened her back. “Eight ball, corner pocket.”
At this point, Brody didn’t even care about the game Hayden was certain to win. The sweet scent of her perfume, a subtle fruity aroma, floated in the air and made him mindless with need. Man, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so drawn to a woman.
After sinking the eight ball, she moved toward him, each step she took heightening his desire. She ran her fingers through her dark hair, and a new aroma filled his nostrils. Strawberries. Coconut.
He was suddenly very, very hungry.
“Good game,” she said, shooting him another smile. Impish, this time.
His mouth twisted wryly. “I didn’t even get to play.”
“I’m sorry.” She paused. “Do you like to play?”
Was she referring to pool? Or a different game? Maybe the kind you played in bed. Naked.
“Pool, I mean,” she added quickly.
“Sure, I like pool. Among other things.”
A cute rosy flush spread over her cheeks again. “Me, too. I mean, I like other things.”
His curiosity sparked as he stared at the enigma in front of him. He got the distinct impression that she was flirting with him. Or trying to, at least. Yet, her unmistakable blush and the slight trembling of her hands betrayed the confident air she tried to convey.
Did she do this often? Flirt with strange men in bars? Looking at her again, now that he was able to see through the fog of initial attraction, it didn’t seem like the case. She wasn’t dressed to seduce. Sure, the top was low-cut, but it covered her midriff, and her jeans weren’t skintight like those of most of the other women in this place. And hot as she was, she didn’t seem to be aware of her own appeal.
