If You Want Me (The Toronto Terror Series)

I have regrets.

I regret not turning off the fucking kitty cams.

I regret telling Peggy she could use my spare room as her personal pleasure space.

I regret calling her when I caught her in my bed again.

I regret telling her to put on one of my hoodies because her nipples were two beacons I couldn’t stop staring at.

And I regret watching her disappear down the hall to the spare room as she hung up on me.

But most of all, I regret what I did after she hung up.

I vow to stay away from the kitty cams for the rest of our away series.

What I should do is turn them off. But I don’t, and the motion alerts are a special brand of torture. It’s a testament to my personal restraint that I don’t even hover over the kitty-cam folder with my cursor.

My text conversations with Peggy are short and to the point after the most recent incident. Formal almost. Based on the extended evening visits and the pics of the boys on the couch while the game plays on the TV, Peggy spends at least an hour at my place each day.

When I return home, the spare room is spotless. But the sheets have been changed. It’s what I asked of her, so I can’t be upset. But fuck, it makes my head spin and my imagination dive into places it shouldn’t.

She left my fob on the counter with a note that I’m running low on Postie’s favorite treats in her pretty, neat cursive. She also brought up my meals for the week from Rix, so the only times I see her in the week that follows are during the Pancake House traditional meal when we return, and twice when she has dinner with me and Roman. Until my injury last year, I only came along occasionally. Now it’s the only time I see her. When she and I are at the same table, she’s polite and friendly, but she barely makes eye contact. I fucking hate it, even though it’s for the best. Peggy needs to get it out of her head that there’s more between us than friendship. And so do I. Every time we talk lately, I find myself hoping she’ll push my buttons. Which is a fucking problem.

We’re currently seated at Roman’s dining room table in our usual spots, with Roman at the head and Peggy and me across from each other.

“What’s next weekend look like for you? Do you think you’ll have a lot of homework?” Roman asks.

“Just the usual stuff, taking care of Postie and Malone while you guys are away.” Her gaze shifts my way for a second before returning to Roman. “It should be low-key. Why? What’s up? Do you need me for something?”

“We’re playing Vancouver on Saturday, and Tristan mentioned flying Rix out for the game so she can see her best friend, Izzy.” He frowns. “Do I have her name wrong?”

“It’s Essie. Yeah, Rix mentioned that yesterday.” Peggy pokes at a carrot with her fork.

“Maybe you want to come along, too? You’ve been working so hard lately. It might be nice to have a weekend away—unless you already have plans, or a date, or something.” Roman is totally fishing.

“Oh, uh, I don’t have a date or plans.”

“What about that Jameson boy? He’s been messaging you a lot lately. Plus, he’s a normal guy. It could be good for you,” Roman presses.

That’s news to me. I don’t love the hot spike slicing down my spine. I hate the idea of her with anyone else, but what did I expect? Roman’s rules on his daughter dating hockey players are pretty clear.

“We have group projects together. What about Postie and Malone? Who will take care of them?” Her eyes flip to me.

“My niece could probably handle it,” I tell her. “She’d love a reason for a staycation at my place.” I have two sisters, one older, one younger. There’s quite the spread between us, and my older sister, Emilia, has a daughter close to Peggy’s age, while my younger sister has a preschooler. My older niece is in her first year of her undergrad and is pre-med, so all she does is study. She’s also an introvert, so her idea of a good time is watching a movie with a friend—or in this case, two cats.

“Maybe you should check first, to make sure?” Peggy pops a bite of pork tenderloin into her mouth.

“It’s fine. If you want to come to Vancouver, I’ll make sure the boys are covered.” I refuse to acknowledge that I’d rather have her close in Vancouver than home alone.

“Let me talk to the girls and see what the plan is,” Peggy says with a smile. “That would be a fun weekend.”

The following weekend, we kick Vancouver’s ass. It’s almost unfair. I score two goals, Madden scores another two, with Stiles earning two assists, and Hammerstein freezes them out. It’s one hell of a victory. Hemi brought Tally along for a girls’ weekend, so we’re celebrating at the hotel bar.

Everything is going great until a bunch of Essie’s friends show up, a group of young twenty-somethings. Tristan acts like Rix’s personal bodyguard while Roman and I hang with Ash, Flip, and Dallas. Shilpa couldn’t make the weekend work because she had a family function, and Flip is surprisingly low-key tonight.

We’re talking about the game and where we think Vancouver went wrong when I notice one of Essie’s friends talking to Peggy. At the game she was wearing a Toronto jersey and a pair of jeans. She’s traded the jersey for a fitted shirt that does a fantastic job of highlighting her athletic curves. Her chin-length hair frames her face, and she’s wearing gloss that draws attention to her perfect, pouty lips. I shouldn’t be noticing all these things about her. And I definitely shouldn’t be noticing how good her ass looks in those jeans.

What’s worse is that this friend of Essie’s is eating up her attention. He puts his hand on her back when someone squeezes by. He says something and her head falls back, eyes all lit up, her smile wide, her laughter warm. She’s smiling for him. Laughing for him. He’s touching her, and she’s letting him. In fact, she looks like she’s enjoying the attention. Which is exactly how it should be, except it’s pissing me off.

Maybe because all I’ve gotten since that one phone call during our last away series has been syrupy smiles and excessive politeness.

We don’t talk or text the way we used to. She can barely look at me these days, I make her so edgy. Logic says that’s good, but I can’t stand that I’ve hurt her. And I hate how much I miss her even though she’s right across the room, hate that I have thoughts I can’t control anymore. It eats at me that the way I see her has changed. She’s the one woman I can’t have.

I never should have opened a door I don’t know how to close. And that phrase—“if things were different”—has been rolling around in my head ever since I stupidly said it aloud.

If she was five years older, if she wasn’t still in university, if she wasn’t my best friend’s fucking daughter. If I wasn’t more than a decade older than her with enough relationship baggage to fill a dump truck. But all those things are true. Unfortunately, it doesn’t stop me from wanting to knock that kid’s teeth out for touching her, for making her smile and laugh. Any guy would be lucky to have her attention. But I don’t want it to be that kid—I want it to be me.

“Hollis, you okay, man?”

I drag my gaze back to the table.

“You all right?” Roman’s eyes drop to my hand, which is currently fisting a coaster.

I drop it to my lap, letting the coaster fall to the floor. “I’m good.”

Roman looks skeptical. “Maybe we should soak in the hot tub tomorrow before we fly out.”

Of course he thinks it’s pain related. Most of the time I do okay with the post-game aches. I spend a lot of time in the hot tub or the sauna and even more time stretching my knee. On top of all the workouts, training, and practice, I have at least two more hours a day of conditioning than anyone else on the team. But I’m back on the ice, so I’ll take the extra work. “Yeah. Probably a good idea.”

I look past Roman and watch as the guy tucks Peggy’s hair behind her ear. I need to get out of here before I do something I regret. Like break all his fingers. “I’m calling it a night. Text me when you’re up, yeah?” I knock back the rest of my drink and slide out of the booth.

“I’ll stick around a bit longer,” Roman says.

I pat him on the shoulder. “See you in the a.m.”

Hemi and Essie flank Tally as I pass the girls, which is good. She’s still seventeen, and they need to keep an eye on her. Peggy’s eyes move my way as I cross the bar. She doesn’t smile, doesn’t look at me the way she did that day I came out of the shower in nothing but a towel. She’d been shocked, yes, but she’d been other things, too. Things I shouldn’t want or like, but do.

Would everything still be the same if we hadn’t taken an earlier flight out that morning? I wouldn’t know what had happened in my bed while I was away. I wouldn’t have that image burned in my brain, and I sure as hell wouldn’t have offered my spare bedroom to her.

I make brief eye contact with the guy flirting with Peggy. His jaw drops, and he leans in to ask her something. She puts her hand on his arm and shakes her head.

I keep moving toward the elevators. I’m grateful when the doors slide open and no one else joins me. As soon as I get to my room, I strip out of my suit and change into joggers. I’m sweaty and agitated. Tomorrow we’ll be on a plane to Winnipeg, and Peggy will be heading home. I’ll have two more days before I see her again. It should be easier when we’re on home turf. When Essie’s friends aren’t flirting with her. At least that’s all that will happen tonight, I tell myself. Just some harmless flirting. She won’t date this guy. But eventually she’ll date someone. Fall in love. But it won’t be me.

I pace the room, head spinning. I can’t afford to feel this way. I can’t afford to feel any kind of way. It would be good if she dated someone her age, someone who goes to her university. It would be better for her and for me. If she has a boyfriend, I can put her back in the box labeled not for me.

I hear someone moving around next door. Roman and I typically share a room, but this time we have connected suites, and we left the adjoining door open before the game. Maybe I should hit the hotel hot tub now. It might make it easier to sleep. Although, with Peggy sleeping on the rollaway bed in the living room, it might still be a challenge.

I move toward the door, intent on closing it, but I hear something move. It’s Peggy. She’s shirtless. Her back is to the door as she unclasps her bra. I freeze, unable to move, to blink, to speak as it slides down her arms and she tosses it into her suitcase before reaching for a tank and pulling it over her head.

“Why didn’t you close the door?” I’m standing on the threshold, fingers curled around the frame.

She gasps, hands on the button of her jeans as she spins around. “Shit. I didn’t realize—” Her tongue drags across her lips as her gaze rakes over my chest.

I’m shirtless. Her tank says QUEEN OF DREAMS. The irony is not lost on me.

“You saw me get in the elevator.” I’m all accusation and frustration.

Until this past year I’ve been on the fringe of her life. She’s always been my best friend’s daughter. Even last year after I messed up my knee, the boundaries were still there. But then I saw her in the Terror front office and recognized her as the woman she’s become. That day sealed my fate. And the truth of it is messing with my head. I want things I shouldn’t. Things I should erase from my brain, but I don’t. I can’t. Won’t.

“Why didn’t you close the door?” Her voice is soft as she moves toward me. “You could have closed it.”

She’s right. I could have. So why the hell didn’t I? Why am I standing here with my heart hammering in my chest and a riot in my head? Because I want what I can’t have.

“Does Roman know you’re up here?”

“No, I snuck up while he wasn’t paying attention because I want to stay with the girls tonight. I was leaving him a note.”

“What about that kid you were talking to? Where’s he now?” I try to keep my gaze above her neck.

“I don’t know. He went to the bathroom, and I came up here.” Her tongue drags across her bottom lip. “And now I’m here and you’re here, and you look like you’re about to blow a gasket. Why are you so upset?” Her hand rises, as if to touch me.

Which is a colossally bad idea.

I don’t know what the hell I’m thinking when I grab both of her hands and step into her room. The electric hum between us is almost unbearable. Touching her when we’re both half-dressed is dangerous. So is spinning her around and caging her against the wall, but I do it anyway—release her hands and crowd her space. She’s all I see.

“Why do you keep pushing my buttons, Princess?” I should give her some space. Get some perspective. Her eyes drop to my chest. If Roman walked in, this would look beyond bad. And yet I don’t seem capable of making the smart, logical choice. Which would be to walk away.

I grit my teeth as her warm fingers skim my forearm. That gentle caress lights a fucking fire in my veins. I should stop her, but God help me, I don’t want to.

“What’s happening, Hollis?” Her throat bobs with a thick swallow. “I don’t know what’s happening anymore.” Her fingertips drift along my arm, up my biceps. “This doesn’t feel like nothing.” As she lifts her head, our noses brush.

“What does it feel like, Princess?” This is a stupid, dangerous game to play. Wanting her is entirely selfish. Her star is rising, and mine is on the way down. She deserves better than me.

“I ache.” Her fingers skim my collarbones. “You could make it go away.”

I could give her that. Give in to the temptation. Take something for myself. Just one taste. One kiss.

She exhales a tremulous breath as she tips her head up. And that’s when the smell of tequila hits me. She’s been drinking. She’s not thinking clearly. Tomorrow, when she’s sober, she’ll regret this. Be embarrassed. We’ll have another awkward conversation.

Logic and desire battle in my head. I move a frustrated palm against the wall, and Peggy startles. “Go to bed, little girl.”

I push away from the wall, my chest caving at the way her shoulders curl in. But I can’t give her what she wants. It’s one thing to have opened Pandora’s box; it’s another entirely to dive in headfirst. Especially when we’ve both been drinking.

I step around her and disappear into my room, locking the adjoining door behind me. That was close. Too close. I don’t like how easy it is for me to lose my head around her. And I don’t know how to fix it anymore.