Dirty Score, A Rough Riders Hockey Novel by Skye Jordan, Joan Swan Page A

she’d still been gone when he’d awoken at seven o’clock.
    Damn, he wished he could have made love to her one more time. He’d been more than ready when he’d stirred. The memory of rolling to reach for her and finding her gone still pinched his gut. He’d so badly wanted to love her slowly and sweetly, then lie with her in his arms until he absolutely had to get up for practice.
    And that was only one of the things he’d never wanted before but now craved with Mia. The woman was phenomenal in bed. She was spontaneous and sensual and erotic. She didn’t shy away from anything—no position too weird, no play too rough, no fears over letting him have control. Or taking control, for that matter. They’d been equals in bed, and he’d never known what a turn-on that could be. She also had a sexual appetite that matched Rafe’s.
    Put it all together and Mia had blown away every last fantasy-induced expectation. Add in their friendship and their affection for each other, and Rafe realized…
    He realized one night wasn’t enough.
    “I want us to fuck and forget…”
    He’d understood that going in. Now he couldn’t help but wonder if that was the way she’d felt this morning, walking away. God, he hoped not.
    Pulling on an old T-shirt, Rafe smiled at the memories of her cuddled up to him after sex. The way she never stopped touching him and kissing him. The way they’d laughed and played. They’d found the old Mia and Rafe again. Before all the complications of life and careers and boyfriends and brothers had pushed them apart.
    Yeah, Rafe could get used to the idea of having Mia loving up on him every night. They’d connected the way he’d secretly been dreaming of connecting with her for years. And after last night, it was clear there was no way they could stay away from each other. At least not while she was in town. Rafe was going to have a sit down with her at his first opportunity—probably tonight—to talk about this. New York was only an hour’s flight away.
    He sat, pushed his feet into tennis shoes, and tied the laces, knowing the distance was the least of the walls between them. Tate was a major problem. Tate and this team. And then there was Joe.
    Rafe just needed to tackle them one at a time. When Tate and Joe knew Mia was on board with this, that she wanted to be with Rafe as much as Rafe wanted to be with her…
    But, they hadn’t discussed that. In fact, he and Mia hadn’t discussed anything. They’d been too busy seeking out and delivering pleasure all night.
    A few of the guys wandered into the locker room, chatting.
    “There you are.” Beckett Cross, the team’s captain, stopped at his bench in a sweat-stained T-shirt, shorts, and running shoes. “Everyone’s been looking for you. Tremblay’s going to fine your ass.”
    “It’s only ten minutes.” Rafe looked up, finished with his laces, and pushed to his feet just as Tate came up behind Beckett and sidestepped their teammate. “I just oversle—”
    Rafe only had a split second to register the fury on Tate’s face before his friend threw a right cross. Tate’s knuckles cracked against Rafe’s eye socket, and the force behind the punch whipped Rafe’s head right. Shock dulled the initial pain for a couple of seconds, but by the time he stumbled backward, fire exploded all through Rafe’s face.
    “What the hell ?” Beckett yelled. “We’ve got a game tonight.”
    But Rafe wasn’t thinking about the game. He’d just come to the painful realization that Tate knew. Somehow, Tate knew . Which meant his best friend had just punched him based on—as far as Tate knew—a rumor.
    Tate shoved Beckett back and came at Rafe again. Still bent at the waist, Rafe rammed his shoulder into Tate’s chest and slammed him into a wall.
    “Knock it the fuck off,” Beckett bellowed before hauling Rafe back by the arm and stepping between them. “Put your petty shit aside. We’re in the fucking playoffs , you jackasses. We need both