Playing Dirty Page 3

  It was an old habit, one he’d picked up on the playground back when teasing often escalated to getting knocked around. With a purposeful breath, Cooper unclenched his fingers.

  “A Black Widow?”

  “Yep.”

  “But isn’t that the spider that—”

  Cooper hid his grimace beneath disdain. “Yep.”

  The little punk howled with laughter. “That’s fuckin’ classic! She shut you down hard!”

  Annoyed, Cooper shoved the evidence of his earlier defeat aside with enough force to send some of the mud-colored goo oozing over the rim. He should have ignored his agent and ditched Brett, and just gone home after practice.

  He wasn’t in Portland to make friends, he reminded himself. He was here to make sure his hockey legacy included a championship ring, not just a bunch of tabloid stories.

  “You know what, Sillinger? Why don’t you...”

  He trailed off, immediately and viscerally aware that the instigator of this gong show was making her way toward his table, and while he was enjoying the way her wavy black hair flirted with the tops of her breasts, her determined stride and laser-eyes made it clear this was not going to be pleasant encounter. He braced for impact as she drew near.

  “Get out.”

  Anger surged, but before he could open his mouth, Sillinger was already beaking.

  “And the Ice Queen strikes again. Nice to see you too, sis.”

  Well, shit. He hadn’t seen that one coming.

  “I’m serious, Brett. Leave.”

  Cooper relaxed in his chair at the interesting turn of events.

  “C’mon, Elaine. Be cool. I’m here with my teammate.” He raised his eyebrows pleadingly.

  “I told you, I go by Lainey now,” she ground out. “And when you turn twenty-one, that reason will hold water. Now get out.”

  When her gaze remained steely, the rookie’s voice broke into a whine. “Other bars let me in. I’ve got ID.”

  Her mouth fell open as he pulled his license from his wallet and held it in her direction.

  Lainey reached across the table and snatched it from his fingers. “Did you honestly just show me a fake ID? What the hell is wrong with you?” She took a step to the left and Sillinger bolted out of his chair and did the same, maintaining the distance between them.

  “Dad used to let me hang out!”

  “I’m sure that will look great on his posthumous father-of-the-year trophy.” Lainey feinted left again, but dodged right. Brett didn’t fall for the fake out.

  “Honestly, Brett, I don’t have time for your bullshit. Now get your nineteen-year-old ass the hell out of my bar, before I make you.” Sillinger might have a couple inches and sixty-five pounds on her, but Coop’s money was on her if it came to blows.

  Brett heaved a put-upon sigh. “All you do is bitch about how desperate you are for customers, and when I bring you some, you kick us out?”

  “I’m kicking you out. Your teammate is welcome to stay.”

  “Funny, that’s not quite the impression I got earlier,” Coop interjected.

  She spared him a dismissive frown before turning her attention back to her brother. Brett’s glare deepened as they faced off from across the table. Lainey stayed cool, raising an eyebrow and crossing her arms. Cooper wasn’t surprised when the kid caved first.

  “Fine. You just lost our business. Hope you’re happy.”

  Brett’s voice cracked a little as he threw down the ultimatum, and despite the posturing, it was obvious the kid was desperately afraid Coop wouldn’t follow his lead.

  Truth be told, Cooper felt for him. It was an eternity ago now, but he’d been the same in his youth—cocky as hell, with more money than brains and a desperate need to be accepted by the team.

  Brett’s gaze turned imploring. “You coming?”

  The tough-guy ambivalence was ruined by the quaver in his voice.

  “Give me a minute. I’ll be right out.”

  The kid glanced over at Lainey, then back at Coop. His nod was resigned, and he turned to leave.

  “Rookie.” Cooper held out his hand.

  Brett frowned, but dug into the pocket of his jeans. “I bet you that you couldn’t pick up the girl of my choosing with a lame pickup line. You didn’t say I couldn’t know her,” he muttered, slapping the stack of fifties into Cooper’s hand before heading for the doors.

  He focused his attention back on the badass who surveyed him with stormy blue eyes.

  “So you’re Sillinger’s sister?”

  “Half sister,” she countered, hard and fast. “We’re not close.”

  Cooper smiled at the distinction. “Well, you’d be surprised how well he knows you, despite that fact.”

  She tipped her chin in the direction of the wad of cash in his hand. The fact that her stance relaxed and she uncrossed her arms was not lost on him.

  “You bet him you could pick me up with a bad line?”

  “He bet me I couldn’t pick you up with a bad line.”

  “Either way, you lost.”

  Coop stood. He thought for a second she was going to take a step back, but she held her ground. He was impressed. “There’s still time to make us both winners.”

  That startled a cynical laugh from her. “Anyone ever tell you how goddamn cocky you are?”

  His grin was wolfish. “A few people.”

  Lainey rolled her eyes, but all the disdain in the world couldn’t hide the slight flush that crept up her neck at her own word choice.

  He reached out and grabbed her wrist, turning her palm up. Her eyes widened as he stroked his thumb against the vertical surgical scar there. Her pulse fluttered beneath his thumb, and before she recovered enough to pull away, he placed the two-hundred and fifty bucks in her hand and let her go.

  “What’s this for?”

  Cooper shrugged as he grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair. “Consider it my way of making amends for being stupid enough to believe your brother when he told me he was twenty-one.”

  Then he thumbed toward the table by the window. “Besides, it might come in handy when they post all those photos they were snapping to social media, in case the liquor board sees you had an underage hockey player in your bar. Take care, gorgeous.”

  Cooper made a point of not looking back as he walked out.

  * * *

  “WHAT THE FUCK were you thinking?”

  Cooper winced at the volume of his agent’s outrage. He glanced over at the clock beside his king-size bed. One in the morning. Further proof that Golden didn’t give a shit about anyone but himself.

  “Did you forget how much Lone Wolf Brewery pays you to drink the bottled piss they are trying to pass off to the world as beer? Because let me assure you, the answer is ‘a lot,’ Mead.”

  “I know.”

  “Oh, you know? Then why the hell is the internet full of pictures of you, in a bar, holding a goddamn highball glass full of not–Lone Wolf beer?”

  Cooper pinched the bridge of his nose, reminding himself that Jared Golden had contributed a lot of zeroes to his bank account and that hanging up was not in his best interest. “I didn’t drink it.”

  “Oh, well, great. Then everything’s fine. I’ll just explain that to the guys at Lone Wolf. Don’t worry! Mead didn’t actually jeopardize his multimillion-dollar contract with you guys by flagrantly disregarding the exclusivity clause in his contract—he didn’t swallow!”

  Cooper ran a weary hand across his face. Jared Golden in full panic mode was a lot to take. “I get photographed in clubs all the time. Holding their beer. I’m living up to the deal.”

  “Jesus Christ, Coop! You used to get photographed in clubs all the time. Since you went to Portland, you’ve been MIA.”

  “I’ve
been a hockey player. We’re getting ready for a championship run here. I have responsibilities to the team.”

  “You have responsibilities to your corporate sponsors, too! Lone Wolf isn’t the only company we’re on thin ice with. I spent all day convincing PWR Athletics that you’re still the best brand ambassador their money can buy! But I need you on board, Mead. I need you to be seen out and about, and wearing their goddamn T-shirts! You’re already behind on media appearances for them, and don’t think they haven’t noticed. You’re on their radar now, and they’re going to nail you for every breach of protocol they can find so they can put you out to pasture.”

  “I’m thirty-two!” The words burst out before he could stop them. Cooper was well aware he was getting up there in the world of sports, but it still rankled. And he was good at hockey—great even. He made sure of it. Which was why he’d devoted more time to training and less time to the gossip blogs lately.

  “Exactly. You know the average retirement age for hockey players? Twenty-eight. We need to make money while you’re still a viable commodity! Before they dismiss you and start turning to the new generation. But you need to do your part.”

  “If you want viable, then I gotta get some sleep. I’ve got practice tomorrow.”

  “I’m serious, dude. You need to keep your eye on the prize.”

  “I’ll try not to let us down,” Cooper said drily.

  “Don’t be an asshole. You hired me to make you money. And so far, I’ve fulfilled my part of the bargain. But if you want me to convince another gravy train to pull into the station, you’re going to have to do your part. You’ve only got a few good years left.”

  Like he didn’t know it.

  Thirty minutes later, Cooper sat in his GranTurismo S in a deserted parking lot, questioning his sanity.

  After he’d hung up with Golden, he’d lain there on his king-size mattress, staring up at the twelve-foot ceilings of his new condo and feeling sorry for himself before he couldn’t take it anymore. He had to get out. But when he’d rolled out of bed and pulled on some jeans and a black T-shirt, he’d had no intention of winding up back here.

  Of course, when he’d pulled on his black leather jacket and double-checked his hair in the mirror before grabbing his keys, there’d been no doubt The Drunken Sportsman would be his destination.

  Now that he was actually there—and judging by the lack of cars, he was the only one—he was rethinking the entire trip. There were a lot of reasons to go back home, but only one to stay. A very compelling reason with long black hair, an intriguingly sharp tongue and an ass that wouldn’t quit.

  Mind made up, Cooper levered himself out of the matte black Maserati and headed for the door. His security system beeped as he armed it before stowing his keys in his pocket.

  Bells on the door jingled as he pushed into the old bar. It smelled like spilled beer and desperation, which he found oddly comforting tonight. Misery loved company, he supposed.

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  Lainey was standing in almost the same spot she’d been when they’d talked earlier, but this time she was hunched over the counter and there was a big textbook open almost to the midpoint on the counter in front of her and a yellow highlighter in her right hand.

  “You talk to all your customers that way?” he asked, gesturing to the deserted tables. “In other news, I think I figured out why your bar is empty.” Cooper shrugged out of his coat without breaking stride.

  She cocked an eyebrow as he approached, recapping the highlighter and stowing it in her apron. Obviously expecting a showdown, she braced her palms on the counter in front of her, on either side of the book. The stance, along with his height, gave him a tantalizing view of her cleavage.

  “Oh, you’re a customer, are you?”

  He slung his jacket on the barstool to his left and held up his hands in surrender. “I’m just here for the beer,” Cooper assured her, taking a seat. “Lone Wolf, if you’ve got it,” he said, out of habit. Then, just to shove it to Golden for being a prick, “Actually, give me something imported.”

  She said nothing as she reached down and grabbed a bottle from an unseen bar fridge. The snap and hiss as she twisted off the cap was the only sound in the cavernous room. For a second, Coop wasn’t sure she was going to give him the beer, but after a moment of contemplation, she set it in front of him.

  “How much?” he asked, shifting on the stool so he could grab his wallet out of his back pocket.

  To his surprise, she shook her head as she tossed the cap into a white bucket beside the sink. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “You sure?”

  She nodded, leaning against the counter behind her and crossing her arms over her white tank. “Yeah. Some raging megalomaniac came in earlier and I charged him fifty bucks for unsportsmanlike conduct, so you’re covered.”

  Cooper accepted the jibe, raising the bottle in a mocking toast. “To that guy,” he said, before taking a swig of cold, amber liquid.

  She bit back a smile, and he was buoyed by the small show of encouragement. “It’s Cooper, by the way. Not mega-whatever you said.”

  She tried to stop it, he could tell, but despite her efforts, there was a slight thaw in her demeanor. “Already forgot my name, huh?”

  He rubbed a hand over his stubbled jaw. “Ice Queen, isn’t it? Kudos to your mom and dad. It suits you.”

  Her smile was real this time. Really real, and it kind of made him wish they’d met this way—because of insomnia and liquor—instead of Brett’s stupid practical joke. It had been a mistake on Cooper’s part. He’d been playing hockey too long to not expect some vengeance from the rookie, especially since Brett had been pretty pissed off when Coach Taggert had given his spot in the starting lineup to Cooper.

  He took another sip of beer. “So, Lainey,” he said, oddly vindicated at the slight widening of her gray-blue eyes. He’d caught her off guard. “Whatcha reading?”

  “Advanced Principles of Marketing.” She gave a one-shouldered shrug, as if to say, “no big deal.”

  He nodded, popping old insecurities that bubbled to the surface. “Not bad. I preferred the sequel.”

  “Pickup artist and smart-ass, huh? You’re a man of many talents.”

  “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry about earlier. I’ve changed teams a few times in my career. I should have seen through this particular hazing ritual. I know Brett’s still pissed I got his spot in the starting lineup. I deserved what I got.”

  “Yeah, you did.” She leaned forward, and this time he knew the flash of cleavage was deliberate. Against his better judgment, the sight stirred his blood.

  “But,” she drawled, toying with shiny lock of her hair, “there is one way you could make it up to me.”

  Cooper’s mouth went dry. He hadn’t drunk enough beer to account for the buzz working its way through his system. It was all Lainey. “Name it.”

  She bit her lip as she smiled, a secret sort of smile, and it would have dropped him to his knees if he hadn’t been sitting on the scarred-up stool. She rounded the bar, and he watched greedily as she made her way to the door. Lainey reached into the black apron that swathed her hips, and the jingle of keys accompanied her journey to the door.

  She walked with purpose, fluidly, but controlled, giving the impression that she could handle herself. She had an athletic grace that was sexy as hell. Combined with that body of hers—tight, toned, strong...

  Cooper took a gulp of beer to drown his hormones.

  She locked the door, flipped the sign so that the closed side faced out. They were completely alone now; there was a weight to that that hadn’t been there a moment ago.

  Lainey tucked the keys in her back pocket as she approached him, and he was mesmerized by the sway of her hips, the bounce of her breasts. She removed the apron, and even that
seemed suggestive, especially when she reached over the bar to drop it on the lower counter and her tank top rode up, revealing a swath of smooth skin that Cooper ached to touch, to nibble, to lick.

  Fuck. He pushed the beer away. Maybe the alcohol was affecting him more than he’d realized.

  Then she grabbed his hand, tugged him off the stool and said, “Come with me,” in a way that made him happy to obey, even before she added, “I’ve got something for you.”

  Her hand felt small in his, warm and soft, and he was pleasurably contemplating all the places he’d like to let her fingers roam as he followed her.

  Then she took a sharp turn down a small hallway on their left. The bathrooms were on the right-hand side, but she pushed through a door on the left that was marked “Staff Only.”

  Lainey popped her head back out, and her smile was full of promise. “Just give me a minute?” she begged prettily, and disappeared inside. There was some muffled banging and shuffling behind the door.

  Cooper used the brief interlude to check out the mass of framed photos that lined the wall. They were pictures of the same man—and judging by the haircuts and fashion choices, they spanned at least three decades—smiling as he stood beside some of the biggest names in sports. Cooper was amazed as his eyes bounced from photo to photo—Michael Jordan, Jack Nicklaus, Peyton Manning, Wayne Gretzky.

  In fact, Coop was so blown away by the star power on the wall that it took him a moment to realize that he recognized the common denominator in the pictures, too.

  “Holy shit! Is this Marty Sillinger?”

  “Of course you recognize him.” Lainey’s words dripped with exasperation from behind the closed door.

  The pieces clicked together in Cooper’s brain with such ease that he couldn’t believe he hadn’t made the connection before. If the last name hadn’t given it away, the fact that Brett wore number 42, just like his old man, should have.

  “So you’re Martin Sillinger’s daughter?”

  After a moment of muffled banging and shuffling, she answered. “Yep. Lucky me.”

  “One of the best enforcers in the league until that back injury put him out of commission. Man, your dad used to go head-to-head with the best the league had to offer. What’s he been up to lately?”