Playing with Trouble

My teammate Rookie laid down three rules when I moved into his place: don't touch his stuff, don't touch his food, and don't touch his sister.

Two out of three should be easy enough.

In my defense, I didn't know the gorgeous woman at the airport was Ella. The last time I saw Rookie's kid sister, she wore braces and held a grudge against me for hogging the backseat of her parents' car. She's not a kid anymore.

She's a curvy, sharp-tongued nurse who just moved to town. Apparently, Rookie offered to let her stay with us, but he forgot to mention that we don't have a spare room.

Now she's sleeping in my bed because I offered to take the couch. At least I'm that much of a gentleman. She's saving lives and studying for some huge test while I try to remember how to be a professional hockey player instead of ogling the hottest woman in Pittsburgh.

Ella also asked me for a favor I can't stop thinking about. The kind of favor that would end my friendship with her brother and probably get me traded.

I should say no. I should keep my distance. I should focus on the season and stop noticing how she wears the heck out of those scrub pants. Or the sounds she makes when she eats her brother's leftovers. Or how my sheets smell like her hair.

Yeah. I'm in trouble.

I told myself I'd help her out and keep things casual. That I'd be the good guy, the fun roommate, the friend who keeps his hands to himself.

But Ella sees right through the party-boy act to the man beneath. And that man is falling so hard he can't see the ice anymore.

What am I even doing with my life? 

I’m a professional athlete living in my best friend Rookie’s condo, taking turns as designated driver on drinking holidays. I’m the sober one on New Year’s Day because I ate Rookie’s beef jerky and had to chauffeur him as punishment. And so…I’m on airport duty for his sister.

I honestly don’t know if he’d actually kick me out if I refused to get Baby Rookie from her flight, but I’m also too irritated to deal with finding a realtor, and I really don’t feel like living in a hotel. 

It’s bad enough living in a hotel on the road with the Pittsburgh Fury men’s hockey team.

I turn the volume down on the stereo in my G-Wagon and concentrate on merging on Pittsburgh’s weirdest bridge. I swear, I will never understand the Fort Pitt tunnel entrance as long as I live here. 

Which might not be much longer if I don’t get my shit together. But my hockey career is a problem for later. Right now, I have to move four lanes to my left without barfing when I check my blind spots, and then I have to find Ella Rujkowski—Baby Rookie—and bring her back to our place.

I didn’t mean to stay up all night. We started things off right, with a casual hang at the meatball joint, just me and my main buds. But then someone suggested a club a few blocks away and, well, here we are. I’m not hungover, but I’m groggy and dehydrated for sure.

At least it’s easy to find a parking spot at the airport on New Year’s Day. I grab a hat, smash my hair over my forehead, and adjust my sunglasses, ready to find Rookie’s kid sister at baggage claim. 

I should probably have gotten her cell or something. I doubt Rookie will respond to a text or answer a call. I’m not even sure what flight she’s on, but I guess there aren’t too many coming in from Minnesota this morning. 

I wedge myself into a seat near the baggage carousel, too tired to even mess around on my phone while I wait. I haven’t seen Ella in years. Not since Rookie and I went to college, when she stopped being a permanent fixture in the carpool for all our tournaments and practices.

The Rujkowskis invite me and my parents to hang with them in the summers, but I’m never really in the mood to see my parents, so here we are. 

How different could Ella look, though? I close my eyes and think back…imagining Rookie’s face on a girl with braids. She always wore glasses and seemed pissed off. I guess I would be pissed off if I had to tag along in a car full of hockey gear and hockey guys, and I didn’t play the sport. 

A few passengers appear on the escalator, but none look familiar. My phone buzzes in my lap, and I grab it quickly, but it’s just a message from my dad hoping I make a “statement” in the new year. I snooze the conversation, not wanting to see his flood of unsolicited advice based on his glory days as the league’s meanest enforcer. 

So far, nobody seems to recognize me, but I don’t see anyone who might be Ella either. I scrub a hand down my face and lean forward, scanning the terminal. 

Through the haze of my headache and dehydration, I notice a super hot chick bent over to tie her shoe. She’s thick in all the right places—someone who wouldn’t break with a guy my size on top of her. 

The barely-liquid blood in my veins surges directly to my pants as I let myself stare at this woman’s incredible backside. I want to knead my fingers in it and squeeze. I want to feel those plush thighs around my waist, bury my face between those tits, and feel every inch of this woman’s softness against my body.

Damn, she’s fine. Her dark jeans fit her perfectly, and she’s wearing bright pink sneakers with a purple sweater of some kind. It’s got a V-shaped neckline that has me wanting to go on a search-and-rescue mission down the front. I watch her bite a glossy, plump lip and glance around. She’s looking for someone. 

Someone gets to take her home. Lucky bastard. 

I’m all-out staring now, masked by my mirror sunglasses, watching her heft a giant bag off the belt. I should probably offer to help her. Be a hero. 

I’m about to stand up and do it, I swear, when she turns and looks directly at me, striding across the space like she’s on a mission. I glance around, and there is nobody else over here on this bank of seats. 

I grin and sit back, feeling the arms of the chair dig into my thighs. The world just isn’t built for guys who are six-three and weigh two-twenty, so I adjust myself and plant my grin back on my face before I notice that she is not amused. 

She grunts and drops the handle of her suitcase, which tips over with a clatter that squeezes my brain cells. I wince, and she scolds, “Seriously? He sent you?”

I clear my throat. “I’m sorry?”

She snaps her fingers in my face. “Hello? Bernard? Where is my brother?”

A horrifying realization begins to settle into my aching body. This sexy goddess is not a stranger at all. This is the girl who used to wipe peanut butter hands on my pants in the back seat of Jason Rujkowski’s parents’ Jeep while hockey sticks jabbed us both in the back of the head. 

This kid—who is in fact the sexiest woman I’ve ever seen—is Ella Rujkowski.

I’m sitting here half hard, ogling my roommate’s kid sister.