Dirty Score, A Rough Riders Hockey Novel(68)

The cocky bastard looked Rafe right in the eye and said, “It’s not okay for me to talk shit about her, but it’s okay for you to fuck her?”

Someone caught Rafe’s arm before he even realized his hand was fisted. Surprise cleared the haze of venom, and he found Beckett holding Rafe’s fist where it was pulled back to his shoulder and on a trajectory to Cole’s smug face. And Rafe hadn’t wanted anything as badly as he wanted to pound Kilbourne right now except Mia.

“What the hell is wrong with you guys?” Beckett’s bellow echoed off the walls. He used Rafe’s arm to shove him backward, then stepped between Rafe and Cole, glaring at them. “Do you want to win the fucking Cup or not? Because we’re not going to win it with our heads up our asses, which is where your heads”—he used a hand to point to each of them—“are right now.”

“Kilbourne.” Tremblay’s bark made Rafe start and turn. “My office. Now. Savage. Hit the ice. The rest of you, try to teach these guys how to act like adults. These are only the most important goddamned games of the season.”

Rafe jerked his arm away from Beckett, whirled toward his locker, and ripped his pads from the hook. A weird, icy-hot panic swirled around his ribs. Adrenaline and fury still burned in the pit of his stomach, joined by the innate anger of injustice over having to hide his feelings for Mia and the guilt of both hiding them and still seeing her. And in about sixty seconds, he was going to have to lie about it, because Rafe could feel Tate coming up behind him.

This sucked. The pressure inside Rafe was so intense, he felt like he was going to crack. He had to just…

Tell Tate.

God, he had to just…

Tell Joe.

Fuck, he had to just…

Let Mia go.

The pain that hit him dead center in his chest could only be described as agony. Rafe closed his eyes and rubbed his hands over his face.

“Is there something you need to fuckin’ tell me?” Tate’s low, menacing, rough voice, shaking with tension, sounded at Rafe’s shoulder.

He pivoted on Tate, putting his face within two inches of his friend’s and matching his tone. “What the hell do you think?”

“I think you’re still playing like a motherfucker on fire when the chick you were screwing is back in DC.”

“I think you’re looking for someone to take your frustrations out on. We both know I play just fucking fine regardless of who I do or when.”

Tate searched Rafe’s eyes for a long, extremely tense moment.

And stood down.

But he didn’t look happy about it. “I think it’s time to get on the fucking ice and take out some of this stress on the pucks.”

Tate disappeared down the hall toward the rink, and Rafe dropped to his bench, taking his sweet time suiting up. The guilt and anger and frustration had reached a fevered pitch. The stress of Tate finding out added a little more weight to Rafe’s shoulders every day. And the thought of losing either Mia or Tate ate at Rafe’s gut like acid.

As he jerked his shoulder pads over his head and tightened them into place, Rafe knew something had to give, because if it didn’t, he’d snap.



Consciousness tried to drag Mia to the surface, but she resisted. She didn’t know why, only that she wanted to stay right where she was—comfortable, warm, content, and happy. So very happy. Everything about her—inside and out—was at complete and utter peace.

She felt complete.

Complete.

Something about the thought created a burr beneath her blanket of comfort. Mia stirred, repositioning her head on the pillow, searching for that utopia again. What she found was a whole different kind of paradise, hard and warm and erect—again—cradled by the indentation of her ass cheeks. Which was when she felt the familiar, rhythmic tug of her hair as Rafe stroked one piece before he wound it around and around his finger, let it fall, and started over again.

A sleepy smile lifted the corners of her mouth. She parted her lids and searched for the LED numbers on the clock. They read 2:00 a.m. “Baby, you need to sleep for your game tomorrow.”

He just hummed softly.

The front of his body cradled the back of hers from shoulders to ankles. He was like a heated blanket. She reached back and took the hand playing with her hair in hers. Threading their fingers, she pulled his arm across her body and hugged it tight.

“What’s wrong?” she asked softly. “Something’s been bothering you since you got back from practice, and it wasn’t any better after you had dinner with the team.”

He pressed his face to her neck, took a deep breath, and let out a hum of pleasure, then kissed her there. But he didn’t talk, and she realized this was why she hadn’t wanted to wake. This tension stole the joy between them.