Playing with Fire

One night. Two lines. Three lives changed forever.

I swore off hockey players after my ex-husband's betrayal. So, when I hooked up with a cocky stranger at a party, I had a few expectations: No strings. No repeats.

Because the guy I chose was Tucker Stag—Pittsburgh Fury enforcer and my ex's teammate.

Oh, and those condoms he endorses? They don't work.

Now I'm facing co-parenting with a man whose entire family smothers us, and I feel my hard-won independence slipping further away with every casserole and helpful suggestion.

Tucker fights hard on the ice and plays harder off it. He says he'll change and be a real father. He says he's nothing like my ex. He says a lot of things when his hands are on my body and his mouth is making promises against my skin.

But when my past collides with our present and threatens everything we're building, I have to decide: Can I trust the bad boy who's trying to be good? Or will I lose myself to another hockey player who puts the game above all else?

Playing with Fire is a hockey romance with a forbidden relationship, a surprise pregnancy, and a love story that will leave you breathless.

Sloane
I came to this pool party ready to start a new chapter. Or, as I just told my roommate, to cleanse my chakras.

“Test drive a new joystick. Snake my pipes?”

My roommate, Mel Ortega, sends me a sly grin. “Grease the wheels?” She adjusts her ponytail as she maneuvers her wheelchair away from the window of our shared first-floor guest room. “Find a locksmith who makes house calls?”

We’ve been roommates for three months—ever since I left my ex-husband. I’ve been hibernating that whole time, so today she forced me to drive her to a law school graduation party in some posh vacation house owned by one of her classmates. 

We decided it’s time for me to get back on the proverbial horse and then get right back off so I can focus on school again. 

“So, which of these guys do you recommend?” I adjust my bikini top and peek out the window at the party outside. “Nobody whose firm might have represented Josh.” I try to keep the bitterness from my voice. I never did get used to life in the spotlight as a hockey wife, and since I chose to be classy and keep our issues private, the press has decided I am a frigid witch.

Mel wheels over beside the bed where I’m sitting. She and I met during undergrad at Michigan in a program for students of color. We lost touch when I moved to Pittsburgh, but I’m so grateful she looked me up when she moved to the city for law school.

"Nobody here knows about that stuff," she says, squeezing my shoulder. "They're all too wrapped up in their own post-graduation anxiety."

"At least they have something to be anxious about," I reply. "They have plans, careers, futures. Meanwhile, I'm twenty-five with an unfinished degree, a divorce settlement I never wanted, and a dried-up vagina.”

"And a killer booty," Mel adds, trying to lighten the mood. "Don't forget your curves, chica."

I roll my eyes but smile. My body is the one thing I've maintained control over during this whole mess. In the months since I split from my marriage, I thickened up a bit, and it’s good to hear Mel’s reminder that my butt is banging. 

I try not to focus on the idea that the real way I’d love to gain weight—a pregnancy—is never going to happen for me. 

"Come on," Mel says, spinning her chair toward the door. "There's a gorgeous infinity pool with a lift and enough expensive alcohol to lube our spokes."

“Do spokes get lubed?” I frown at her wheelchair, suddenly very curious about her maintenance needs. Mel laughs and rolls down the hall without responding.

* * *

Two hours later, I'm floating in the pool, the water cool against my sun-warmed skin. Mel abandoned me to talk to some federal prosecutor, and I'm perfectly content to be alone with my thoughts and the spectacular mountain view. She gave me strict instructions to get my oil changed, but so far, I haven’t found the right mechanic. My third glass of rosé sits on the pool deck within arm's reach.

The buzz of conversation washes over me, all these brilliant legal minds discussing the upcoming bar exam, firms, and cases. I close my eyes against the setting sun, wondering where exactly my life took its detour. Was it when I met Josh? When I dropped out of Michigan to follow his hockey career? Or was it earlier, when my grandmother died my freshman year, leaving me unmoored from the only real family I'd known?

The low rumble of a luxury engine catches my attention as someone arrives up the long drive adjacent to the pool and patio. I hear our host’s exasperated voice greeting the newcomer, but I don't bother opening my eyes.

“Tucker, I begged you not to make a scene.” Our host—his name is Stellan Stag, a guy from Mel’s class—is clearly not happy with the newcomer. 

I crack open one eye to see a blond himbo drape an arm around the stern, newly minted attorney. “Chill, cuz,” he drawls. Mirrored aviator sunglasses flash above a blinding white grin. “I will save all these hot men for you and only schmooze with your lady guests. Deal?”

Stellan shoves the muscled arm from around his shoulders. “I hope everyone here sues you,” he mutters, stalking away as Mr. Good Times approaches the pool fence. I am fully alert now, keyed into the one person here who seems ready for a no-strings cardio workout.

Tucker. Something about him is familiar, but I can't place it. When he disappears inside, I find myself watching the door for his return. 

"That guy’s a hothead,” says a voice beside me. I turn to find Druj, one of Mel's classmates, sitting at the edge of the pool with his feet in the water. "According to Stellan, he's trouble.”

"Trouble how?" I ask, my interest piqued. I wait for Druj to tell me about all the ladies this guy has deflowered.

"Drives too fast, parties too hard, that whole rich playboy thing." Druj adjusts his glasses. I laugh at Druj’s assessment. And then it hits me. Tucker isn’t just some random rich boy. He plays hockey with my ex.

My insides swirl. I came here for just one thing, but casual sex with Tucker could bring me a very satisfying spite-gasm.

When Druj wanders off to refill his drink, I find myself watching for my mark. Sure enough, he emerges a few minutes later in board shorts and a fitted black T-shirt that clings to his muscled chest. He removes the cotton garment like he’s on stage in a club, and I drink my fill of the show. He slides into the pool some distance away, but I feel his presence like a current in the water.

In my previous life—my married life—I would have avoided him completely. I lived with a deeply disciplined man who believed perseverance and routine would deliver all we need in this world. And look where that got me. Something shifts inside me as I watch this beautiful stranger sip his beer and casually survey the party. Before I can talk myself out of it, I push off from the wall and glide through the water toward him.

"You're not a lawyer," I say, surprising myself with my directness. I can totally play this part.

His easy smile reveals charmingly misaligned teeth. "That obvious?"

"I'm Tucker," he says, eventually.

"Sloane," I reply, offering nothing more. The anonymity is freeing—he doesn't know who I am, about the divorce, about my messy, unfinished life.

I notice his eyes drop to the water lapping at my collarbone, then quickly return to my face. The appreciation in his gaze ignites something low in my belly. When was the last time I felt desired? When was the last time I allowed myself to want?

"And what do you do, Tucker-with-the-aviators, when you're not crashing law school parties?"

He grins and lifts his sunglasses, revealing startlingly blue eyes. "I sell socks and condoms," he deadpans.

The unexpected answer makes me laugh, a genuine burst of amusement I haven't felt in too long. "All right then."

My eyes drift to his chest, where black ink peeks above the water line. A tattoo of a leaping stag, the lines clean and bold against his tanned skin. It’s hot. He’s hot. And he plays hockey with my ex.

Stuck in a mire of emotions, I reach out and trace the outline of his ink with my finger. His skin is warm despite the cool water, and his firm muscles tense beneath my touch. 

I want him. 

I want filthy, unhinged sex with this man specifically, because he seems like a good time, and because I spent too long being cautious. If I bump uglies with this beautiful white guy, it could be the ultimate fuck-you to my ex, and I’m in the mood for some mischief.

I let my finger continue its path along his collarbone, enjoying the subtle shift in his breathing. Our eyes lock, and I see the surprise in his. He's used to being the pursuer, not the pursued, I think. Good. I need this—the power, the control, the simple pleasure of wanting and taking.

I spent five years making choices to support a man who deceived me and robbed me of the future I imagined. Surely that earns me an afternoon of debauchery? Of the pleasure I know Tucker Stag can dish out? 

He doesn’t know who I am, or else he’s more aloof than he seems. The hunger in his gaze gives me the final push I need. I back up to the wall and lift myself out of the pool, deliberately taking my time, feeling his eyes on me as water sluices off my body. I grab a towel, dab myself casually, and throw a glance over my shoulder before walking into the house.

My heart pounds as I make my way to the kitchen. Have I lost my mind? Am I really going to hook up with this stranger? Am I so petty that I’d fuck my ex’s colleague?

Yes. Yes, I am.

* * *

The kitchen is mercifully empty. Stellan hasn’t set out any snacks, so I open the refrigerator, suddenly aware I haven't eaten since lunch. Bending to examine the contents, I hear the sliding door open and close, followed by footsteps approaching the kitchen.

"Looking for something specific?" Tucker's voice is closer than I expected.

I straighten and turn, finding him leaning against the doorframe, a study in casual confidence. "I realized I'm starving."

"Liquid diet not cutting it?" He pushes off the frame and moves closer, opening a cabinet above my head. The proximity brings the clean scent of chlorine and something distinctly male. "Stellan’s mom is a chef. She’d be horrified that he’s not feeding us.”

Tucker reaches past me, his arm brushing mine, and pulls down a tin of expensive crackers and a jar of something that looks homemade.

"Fig spread," he explains, setting the snacks on the counter. He clearly spends time here, or else he just has good luck sniffing out food. “But watch out for the seeds. They’ll get stuck in your teeth and you’ll need help to fish them out.”

“I take it you don’t volunteer?” I ask as he locates a bowl and a knife. 

“I could be convinced.” He winks, dumps some of the crackers into the bowl, and twists open the jar of jam.

“Hm, I’ll have to see what persuades you.” I hop onto the counter, letting my legs dangle.

He spreads jam and some cheese onto a cracker, and I watch his hands move, admiring the tendons in his forearms and the veins on the backs of his hands. He glances up at me and offers a jam-covered cracker, one brow arched. "Try this."

I take a bite, the sweetness of the fig pairs perfectly with the tang of the goat cheese he’s pulled from the fridge. "That's amazing," I say after swallowing. “And my teeth are just fine.”

"Told you." He finishes preparing the morsel and pops it into his mouth. "So, what about you? What legal dynasty do you hail from?"

I laugh, the sound hollow even to my own ears. "No dynasty. Just me."

“Your parents don’t own a firm?”

"Mom's not in the picture. Took off in a grief spiral after my dad died in a car crash," I have no idea why I’m sharing this with him. The whole goal here was anonymous seduction. I grab another cracker to give my hands something to do. "My grandmother raised me, but she passed away a few years ago, too."

Tucker's expression softens, and I brace for the pity I've come to expect. Instead, he says, "Then we should make a toast to her," and pulls a fancy bourbon from a collection of bottles on the counter. He pours two fingers into tumblers and hands one to me.

"To your grandmother," he says, clinking his glass to mine.

"To Grandma Essie,” I echo, taking a sip. The liquor burns pleasantly down my throat.

Tucker leans against the counter across from me, close enough that my knees nearly brush his hips. "What was she like?"

"Tough. Kind. Worked two jobs most of her life to raise me." I smile at the memory. This connection is unexpected. He’s flirting, sure, but he’s attentive. And I just keep sharing truths like he’s my therapist or something. "She loved the Tigers—baseball was her thing. Took me to games whenever she could afford it."

"Tigers fan, huh? Dangerous revelation with a Pittsburgh guy."

"I think I like danger," I reply, meeting his gaze directly.

His eyes darken, and he puts his glass down. "Is that why you led me in here? Looking for danger?"

I take another sip of bourbon, letting the warmth spread through me. "Maybe I'm just tired of playing it safe."

Tucker moves closer, positioning himself between my knees, his hands resting lightly on the counter on either side of me. Not touching, but surrounding. "What's the safest thing you've ever done, Sloane?"

The question catches me off guard. "Stayed in a relationship that wasn't working," I answer honestly. "Because it was easier than starting over."

Something flickers in his eyes—recognition, maybe. Understanding. "And the most dangerous?"

I set my glass aside and place my hands on his chest, feeling his heart hammer beneath my palms. "Probably this."

His gaze drops to my lips. "Eating crackers? This isn't dangerous." He lifts a hand to tuck a stray curl behind my ear. "But it could be."

"Show me," I whisper.

Tucker's smile is slow and promising. He takes my hand and tugs me gently off the counter. "Remember those socks and condoms I mentioned? Want to see a prototype?"

I laugh, the sound bright and unfamiliar. "Is that what the kids are calling it these days?"

"I've been told my marketing needs work." He twines his fingers with mine, pale pink among tawny digits. "They're in my bag."

I should hesitate. I should consider the consequences. I should remember every lesson I learned from my failed marriage.

Instead, I squeeze his hand and say, "Lead the way."