Page 6 of The Groupie

Zak

The first thing I see when I open the door to my condo and we step inside the entryway is my roommate’s jacket. It’s strewn on a chair in the great room. “Shit.” Fucking Nowicki came home early. That’s what I get for taking in an underpaid rookie for the season.

“What’s the matter?”

I turn my attention to Rylee. “Not a single blessed thing.” I hope to God my roommate is asleep. But as I lower my mouth to kiss her perpetual smartass smile, I hear the bang of a door from down the hall. Fuck.

She jumps before my lips touch hers.

“Hey,” Nowicki says, “I thought I heard someone come in.” He’s all too cheerful as he appears from the hallway striding into the great room.

I stifle a sigh and opt for polite and to the point. With any luck, Nowicki will find somewhere else to spend the night like he usually does.

“This is Rylee…” I don’t know her last name, and despite my questioning look, she doesn’t supply it. I smile, and my dream girl keeps getting better and better because there’s nothing simpler than first names only. “And that,” I gesture with my thumb, “is my clueless roommate Nowicki.”

“I’m not clueless. It’s always a pleasure to meet a gorgeous young lady.”

When did he turn into a forty-year-old man with manners? He moves in, presumably to shake Rylee’s hand, but I pull her in close to my side, and he wisely stops at a safe distance. Not that he was going to move in on her, but I want this interruption on my way to tasting how sweet she is to be as short as possible.

“Nice to meet you, Nowicki,” she says. “Do you have a first name?”

“Ted.”

Shit. Last thing I need is these two striking up a conversation. It won’t be long before she finds out who I am. My gaze darts to the coffee table in the corner of the great room behind her. And there it is. The Boston Magazine with me bare-chested, and the headline reading “Bachelor of the Year: how long will he last before he’s snapped up?”

I need to move that out of sight and fast. I definitely don’t want her getting the idea I’m interested in being snapped up. I’m stoked that she isn’t out to strike up a relationship with a ripe-for-the-plucking famous hockey player, that for all she knows, I could be a plumber, and we’re here for the pure enjoyment only. No complications.

I’m relieved I found her because, with the Bachelor of the Year target on my back since the magazine came out, I’ve been truly worried I’d be monking it for a while. The idea of catching a bachelor and curing him of his condition has all kinds of women chasing after me. They’re not like the groupies at The Tea Party, who are only out for fun. Those ladies are great. They’re into my two favorite things as much as I am. Hockey and sex. Maybe not as much as I am, but we have those things in common, and I like spending time with them and women like them.

But Rylee is perfect. She’s a total knockout, and she’s not a Brawlers fan, so she clearly doesn’t know I play hockey or who I am. I won’t lie; the anonymity gives me an extra rush of excitement with a small side of trepidation. Not an unwelcome feeling.

I go to the coffee table to dispose of the magazine, but I turn, and she’s there, following me into the room and looking around with curiosity, not in a hurry to get to my bedroom. She’s one of those women who is in charge of themselves, who has something going on and knows what she wants. Plus, she’s got a face and body that could stop traffic and an innate sexiness that surrounds her like a spider’s web.

Count me in as caught in that web.

“How about a drink?” Ted says, following us. She turns to him, and I motion behind her back, picking up the magazine and shaking my head no before tossing it under the couch.

“Sounds great. You got whiskey?” she asks.

Ted looks at me, confused.

“Only the best. Pappy Van Winkle,” I say, wrapping an arm around her as I guide her to the dining room, where we have a bar set up. Not that I want to give her whiskey, but I needed to get her out of the great room, away from the radioactive magazine.

“Look at this place.” She spreads her arms. “This table must be ten feet long.” She runs a hand along the shiny, smooth surface.

“It’s marble,” I tell her, enjoying that she’s impressed. “My designer would spear me through the heart with a hockey stick if she knew all we ever use it for is beer pong.”

A wicked smile stretches across her face like a sexy devil has taken over her soul. “My favorite game. How about if we play—except with whiskey.”

Nowicki lets out a whistle, staring at her like she’s an alien. Maybe she is because I don’t remember a woman ever volunteering to go up against me in beer pong. Of course, Rylee doesn’t know my reputation. She has no idea I’m the team champ—a fact that was covered in the Boston Magazine article. I exchange a shut-up, or you’re dead glance with Nowicki. My need to keep her in the dark about my hockey team status—or my beer-pong reputation—has ratcheted up substantially, along with my arousal.

“Are you sure?” I say. “I wouldn’t want you to over-indulge—”

“You saying I can’t hold my liquor, big guy?”

“I’m sure you can, but—”

“Besides, I only had half a beer and half a shot. I’m still thirsty. You’re way ahead of me. All liquored up.”