Taryn Leigh Taylor - Playing Dirty

“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?”

“Nothing. He’s dead.”

Shit. Cooper squeezed his eyes shut at the conversational blunder. It explained a lot about Brett, though. And Lainey, for that matter.

“What happened?”

“Cancer.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

The door swung open with more force than necessary, and Lainey reappeared, stealing his full attention. The flirty smile was gone.

“The guy on that wall is pretty much a stranger to me. After he stopped playing hockey, he wasn’t the same. Between the pain meds and the alcohol and the mistress, I lost my dad a long time ago. So you can save your condolences for Brett. And take these.”

Cooper was too stunned not to accept two industrial-size rolls of toilet paper in one hand and the bucket containing a toilet brush, cleaner and rubber gloves in the other.

“You’re on stall duty.” She reached back in the room to grab a bucket of her own, also filled with cleaning supplies, and a pack of paper towels to refill the dispenser. “I’ll do the sinks.”

Cooper wanted to bail.

Hell, he should want to bail.

Why wasn’t he bailing?

He tried to list reasons that made sense: long black hair, shiny pink lips, enticingly perky breasts. The list sounded shallow, even to him, because while every single lust-inducing feature was true, deep down Cooper knew the real reason he hadn’t walked out.