And since Ethan couldn't be in the play-offs himself because of the accident, it was Luke's duty to succeed on his behalf.
Yet despite the pressure, and the hoopla, and his messed-up shot, Luke was having a hard time focusing on anything but Holly.
She was ballsy. He liked that about her. Most reporter types, though dogged, kept a reverential tone when they talked to the players, as if they were trying to butter them up. Not Holly. She was a straight shooter, which he appreciated. But it was also the reason he couldn't quite buy her ditzy routine. He'd met plenty of women who couldn't care less about hockey during his lifetime, and she wasn't quite pulling it off.
He'd been unwillingly impressed that she hadn't taken the Ethan bait, though. Despite all the red flags, he liked her. What was that about? He hadn't been "in like" with a woman since, well, since ever. "In like" was for mooning high school students.
All his recent relationships had been about good fun, good conversation and good sex...not necessarily in that order. But when it was time for him to suit up, hockey reigned supreme. So why was she always creeping into his thoughts now?
Luke stopped at center ice and sent the puck sliding toward the net, watching until it crossed the goal line and came to a stop at the back of the net.
Maybe Sillinger was right. Maybe it was just lust and he should get it out of his system. Maybe if he spent some time with her, he could break this ridiculous and ill-timed crush on the infuriating woman who kept popping into his mind at the most inopportune of moments.
He turned to leave the ice but stopped short. As if he'd conjured her, Holly Evans was standing in the players' box, arms crossed over her chest, waiting for him. And every single reason that he should stay away from her left his brain.
* * *
"YOU CAN'T HIDE from me forever."
Luke skated over. "Who says I'm hiding?"
"You're the one out on the ice, avoiding the interview we're supposed to do. I'm the one who's here, questions at the ready, reporting for duty."
"You calling me a coward?"
"Hey, if the skate fits..."
He smiled at that, and her heart stuttered. She'd never seen him smile for real before. He'd flashed his PR smile on a couple of occasions during their on-camera stuff, but his real grin was something to behold. It was the first time he'd looked carefree. Like he didn't have the weight of the world on his shoulders. And it suited him. She had the irrational urge to make that smile come out more often.
"You think I'm gonna fall for some thinly veiled reverse psychology? I play hockey for a living. Trash talk doesn't faze me. You'll have to do better than that."
Luke stepped off the ice and over the boards like they were nothing-God, why was that so hot?-and sat down on the bench. Holly turned her back to the ice and leaned against the boards, facing him. He set his stick against the side of the box and divested himself of his hockey gloves and his helmet. Then he ran a hand back and forth over his helmet hair. Somehow, after just a few careless swipes, his short brown coif looked photo ready. Holly lamented the hour and a half it had taken to make herself camera presentable.
"You don't like me very much, huh?" she asked.
"I don't like that you take the team's focus off the game and disrupt our routine. We need to be at our best, mentally and physically. I have to trust that every man on that ice is playing for me, and they have to believe I'm playing for them, too."
"Admirable sentiment, Captain Maguire, but there's really only one person you have complete control over. Sometimes you just have to keep it simple and play the game for you."
"I know exactly who I'm playing for," he countered. Then he went on the offensive. "So, Ms. Reporter, what kind of hard-hitting questions do you have for me tonight?" he asked, pulling his elbow pads off and setting them beside him. "What I ate for breakfast? The last song I downloaded?"
Luke pulled off his shoulder pads and jersey together and set the amorphous mound on the bench. Just like that, he was stripped down to a T-shirt-a T-shirt that was damp and clinging to his muscles. Suddenly his leg seemed very close to her bare thigh, and the fact he was wearing shin pads and hockey socks didn't deter a warm tingling from spreading through her body.
"Favorite sexual position?" he continued.
Oh geez. That warm tingling upgraded to hot throbbing in a split second.
He stood up. His skates made him incredibly tall. He loomed over her, but she didn't feel threatened. On the contrary, she felt sort of powerful-like she wanted to tame the beast. The smoldering look in his eyes said he'd let her. Somewhere, in the deep recesses of her brain, a warning light flashed.
She was here to do a job. She shouldn't get romantically involved with a story. Especially not a top suspect in a betting scandal that had the potential to rock the sports world. Her head knew walking away was the smart play right now, but her body overruled the call, especially since he'd provided the perfect opening. "So what is your favorite sexual position?"
His eyes darkened like a stormy sky. "Off the record?"
"Of course." Her words were a breathless rush.
"I like all of them." He reached for her, his big hands biting into her hips. She wrapped her arms around his neck as he hoisted her onto the edge of the boards and stepped between her legs. Her short skirt slid farther up her thighs, but she barely noticed the cold plastic against her skin. His mouth came down on hers, stealing her breath and wringing a moan from her.
God, she wanted him. Something about Luke Maguire called to every cell in her body.
Screw journalistic integrity, she decided. Finding out hockey players' favorite colors barely counted as journalism anyway. Then she stopped thinking altogether.
There was nothing but his lips against hers, his hands tugging her blouse from the waistband of her skirt and the sexy thrill of knowing that he was the only thing keeping her from falling onto the ice. Despite that imminent danger, she trusted he'd keep her safe.
He groaned as he slid his warm palm under her shirt and up the bare skin of her back. She returned the sound. The dichotomy of the cool, icy air and the warmth of his skin was a delicious push deeper into the sensual spell he'd cast.
She resented the T-shirt he was wearing and she tugged it up, revealing those washboard abs Paige had been so enamored with in the pages of Sports Illustrated. They were even better in real life, and Holly took pleasure in revealing each ridge, the definition of his pecs, his beautiful big shoulders and the flex of his muscles as he raised his arms so she could divest him of the shirt entirely. And then he was all naked torso and harsh wanting.
Holly couldn't get enough.
* * *
LUKE WAS OVERWHELMED by the desire inside him, clawing to get out. He was used to being in charge, but something about Holly unleashed the beast in him, made him want to lose control.
He let go, let himself drown in the lust, because he needed the escape. He needed her.
He wished he hadn't suited up, because there was no way he could shuck his skates, shin pads and hockey pants, but he wanted inside her too much to resist the desire. He ran his hand up under her skirt, groaning when he found her most intimate place.
He brushed his knuckles against the damp swath of her panties. She gasped and buried her face against his neck, her arms tightening around him.
Luke was certain he'd never felt more turned on in his entire life while wearing so many clothes. There was something so amazingly sexy about the feel of her warm, smooth skin and the sounds of pleasure that escaped her throat, juxtaposed with the cool air and the familiar scent of ice and concrete that he loved so much. The heady scent of passion mixed with the comforting smell of the rink.
"Just so we're clear, this doesn't change anything," he panted. He pulled her underwear down her thighs. The first touch of his fingers on her clit made her stiffen. "I still hate that you interview my team like we're appearing in a teen magazine."
Slowly, he eased a finger inside her, and his gentle invasion was almost his undoing as he imagined himself sliding into her the same way. Her body, which had been tense, relaxed as he built her pleasure up. After a few strokes, he used two fingers to give her the friction she was craving so badly. His hips mimicked the thrust of his hand, increasing the pressure on her clit.
"Fair enough. And just so we're crystal clear," she breathed, arching toward him, unable to hold back any longer, "I'm still going to do it."