Scoring Chance: A Second Chance Hockey Romance (Rules of the Game Book 1) Read online

  SCORING CHANCE

  RULES OF THE GAME BOOK ONE

  EMMA THARP

  Scoring Chance: A Second Chance Hockey Romance (Rules Of The Game Book One)

  By Emma Tharp

  Copyright © 2019 by Emma Tharp

  For more about this author, please visit www.emmatharp.com

  All characters and events in this Book, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  This Book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This Book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, then please return to amazon.com and purchase an additional copy.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator” at the address below.

  www.emmatharp.com

  Created with Vellum

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  ONE

  Cora

  A LITTLE SIZZLE of nerves untangles in my belly before I knock on the door of the hotel room, wondering if it can be heard over the men’s voices inside. This isn’t just any hotel; it’s The Preston, a five-star luxury hotel and one I don’t visit often.

  It’s nothing like it used to be three years ago. Then, every time before a job I’d nearly throw up beforehand. Now it’s not as difficult. Time and repetition tend to do that.

  But it still sucks.

  There are other places I’d rather be and other things I’d rather be doing, but none of them pay me as much money for such little effort.

  And so it begins. I smooth down my barely there white dress and adjust my Marilyn Monroe wig. It’s only an hour. I can do this.

  Three loud raps on the door and the male voices get quiet as someone’s footfalls get closer.

  A tall guy with a large frame and spiky ginger hair answers the door. His pale green eyes scan my face and make their way to my ample cleavage and small waist, and of course he doesn’t stop until he takes in my long lean legs. A slow smile builds across his lips and my cheeks heat up. “Marilyn, you made it. Right this way.”

  My knees go weak. The suite is full of tall, handsome men all in their mid-twenties to mid-thirties, some in suits, and others in dress slacks and shirts. There has to be at least twenty of them. I wonder what they do for a living; investment bankers, athletes, doctors, or lawyers. It’s hard to say. The smell of cologne surrounds me, masculine and spicy. You’d think so many men together would create a strong smell, but somehow it doesn’t. My mouth waters, an automatic response to the pheromones and testosterone thick around the room.

  The ginger points to a man lounging in a leather chair. He’s holding a glass with amber liquid and ice. He has thick dark hair and deep blue eyes, half-lidded with drink, no doubt the guest of honor. When his eyes land on me, he gets a devilish grin on his face. “Well, well. Who do we have here?”

  I saunter over to him, pull my speaker out of my bag, sync it with my phone, hit play on my playlist, and start singing the first lines of “Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend.”

  Catcalls and clapping from the other guys erupt around us.

  Kneeling in front of him, I run my finger up his leg and my hand lands on his thigh and I give it a squeeze before I turn around and bend over, giving him the perfect view of my white lace thong and bare ass. There’s more cheering from around the room. Still facing away from him, I shake my booty, bouncing it in time with the song.

  In my periphery, a handsome guy I hadn’t noticed yet has his intense gaze locked on me. He seems familiar, but I can’t place him. I wink at him and he smirks at me before I turn back in the direction of the guest of honor and straddle his lap, shimmying in his face I slide my dress up my thighs and he attempts to grab my hips. I give his hand a little whack and wave my finger in his face, giving him a warning that it’s not okay to touch me.

  When the song ends, the guy is in a daze worse than he was when I walked in. I play another song for him and dance, gyrate, and tease until I’m left in nothing but my bra and thong.

  The guys love me. I’ve been told that I look like a real live Barbie. I guess that’s a compliment, although it’d be nice to be appreciated for more than just my looks. Guess I’ll have to pick a different career. Maybe someday. But for now I need this money.

  I compartmentalize the irritation, annoyance, and sometimes anger I feel for the ogling men that think it’s somehow okay to grab my ass or cop a feel. It wasn’t easy at first, but now I consider myself an expert.

  I find the next willing participant—the ginger who opened the door for me—I turn the music up and do a lap dance for him.

  “Is this a bachelor party or someone’s birthday?” I ask him as I grasp his tie and put my leg on his lap.

  He grips the arms of the chair and inhales a sharp breath before he says, “Yeah, it’s Slick’s bachelor party.”

  Whipping my hair back, I jut my chest toward him and say, “How do you all know each other? Are you all college friends or co-workers?”

  “I didn’t mention it when I booked you, but we play for the Wolverines.”

  Holy shit. I should’ve guessed. Every single one of them has a tall, muscular, commanding presence. And here I am dancing for professional hockey players. I’ve always had a thing for jocks, even in high school, but I’m not dumb enough to fall for the likes of a professional athlete. Men who have women fawning over them and could have their pick anytime they’d like. No way. “That’s great. I’ve never been to a professional hockey game.”

  The smile on his face is like a little boy’s. It’s as wide as they come and he’s barely taken his eyes off my chest. “You should definitely come to a game. It’s a good time.”

  “Maybe I will,” I tell him before I shake my shoulders for him. Truth be told, I’d love to see a game, but I’ve never wanted to pay the money for a ticket.

  Another song starts and it’s my cue to dance for someone else. Ginger sticks a crisp one hundred dollar bill in the string of my thong. “I didn’t catch your name,” I say.

  “I’m Teddy. You’re very beautiful. Thank you for coming tonight,” he says with a shy smile on his face, so different from the one he had a moment ago when I was on his lap.

  “It was my pleasure to meet you, Teddy.”

  I do dance after dance for many of the team members; some are shy, some charming, and others you can tell deep down are assholes. Men get easier and easier to read as the years go by.

  Turning, I go to the next chair over and I’m face-to-face with the gorgeous man with dark eyes from earlier. His suit is charcoal and it fits his lean, muscular form perfectly, highlighting his strong chest and toned legs. I’m drawn to hi
m like a magnet. It’s his masculinity, his familiarity. The air between us prickles and gets thicker, making it hard to breathe.

  His gaze is intense. He’s assessing me, taking me in, but not like the other men here. It’s as if he can see through me. My pulse picks up and for a moment, I can’t move. It’s not like me. I’m never off my game at a gig.

  I lick my lips and ask, “What’s your name, handsome?”

  “I’m Derek,” he says, his eyes never leaving mine.

  It’s unnerving; the tone of his voice has an unmistakable rasp. I’ve heard it before. “Do we know each other, Derek?”

  With a cock of his brow, he says, “You don’t remember me?”

  In that expression, the haze lifts. No way. I can’t believe it. It’s Derek Parker from high school. I tutored him in tenth grade math when we were both sophomores. I don’t know how I didn’t recognize him sooner. Maybe I blocked him out, like those sparkly toys I would always ask for at Christmas but never got. It’s best to forget about them and move on.

  I take a step back and he leans forward, elbows resting on top of his knees.

  “You recognize me now, don’t you? I can see it in your eyes.”

  He’s changed since high school; he’s still gorgeous, but now he’s rugged with a sex appeal I’m sure no woman can resist. He’s always been a jock, ultra-popular, and the entire female student body wanted him. The shy bookworm I was back then never got more than a sidelong glance from him until he needed to pass math to get into prep school. I always looked forward to our tutoring sessions. He had an easy charm and even though it was stupid, I let myself feel things for him, developing a stupid teenage crush. I was so naïve. “It’s been a long time, Derek. How have you been?”

  “You’re right. How many years?”

  He was a junior when he transferred out of our public high school. It’s been ten years. I remember hearing that he got drafted to the NHL, but I didn’t think he lived around here. “Ten years. You back in town visiting friends?” Without wanting to get too far out of character, I rest my heeled foot on his thigh, causing him to sit back all the way. If I dance for him and move on, I can keep him at arm’s length. It’s just a gig, that’s all this is.

  If I was trying to unnerve him, I haven’t done a good job. An easy grin forms on his face as he scans my body on display for him. He glides a finger up the inside of my heel, never actually touching my skin, but it’s as if he did because I’m momentarily off balance. I do my best to cover and thrust my chest toward him. He blinks and licks his lips. “Got traded. I live here now.”

  Pushing up off of him to get away from his sinfully sexy-smelling cologne, I spin around and say over my shoulder. “No touching,” I warn. If his hands are on me for even a second, I don’t know what I’ll do. I can’t trust myself after the reaction he caused from the simple act of touching my shoe. “Are you happy to be back in town?” Swinging my hips back, I bounce my ass to the beat of the music.

  Derek leans to the side of the chair and he rests his arm on the armrest and props his cheek on his hand, giving him an air of nonchalance. Something deep inside me wants more of a reaction out of him. “Sure. Nashville is home.”

  Straddling his lap for the end of the song, I rake my fingers up the back of his hair. Our faces are mere inches from each other. His eyes burn through me and his stare is pure sex. I’ve had men look at me longingly daily, but not like this. This look sends a shiver up the back of my neck that nearly knocks me over. I have to blink.

  The song comes to an end. I’m happy and sad it’s over in equal measure. His nearness is turning me on and knocking me off-balance at the same time. It’s a dangerous combination. One I have to steer clear of. “It was nice to see you, Derek. Have yourself a good night.”

  Climbing off his lap, I stand and check the clock. I’m booked for another ten minutes. One more dance with one more man and I am out of here. I excuse myself to no one in particular and go down a hallway I’m assuming leads to a ladies’ room. The ceilings are high and the walls are stark white. It’s a large suite with two bedrooms and at the end of the hall is the bathroom.

  Once inside, I close the door behind me and lock it. Grasping the sides of the marble vanity I gaze at my reflection and can still feel the heat of Derek’s stare covering me, surrounding me. It’s how I always wanted him to look at me, but he never did. Now, he’s an NHL player and I’m a stripper. Perfect. He must think I’m lower than low. This isn’t how I saw my night going.

  Regroup, Cora. It’s just a gig. Get in. Get out.

  I shake my head and send a silent prayer to whoever is listening that I won’t see Derek again before I leave.

  Unlocking, the door, I go to take a step out and Derek is right there, taking up all the space in the doorway and sucking all the air out of the room.

  “Hi,” he says. “Everything okay?”

  “Sure. I’m fine.” But the breathiness in my tone belies the words.

  This man is pure, raw sexiness. From the tips of his dark hair all the way down to his expensive-looking designer leather shoes. Is my tongue hanging out? He’s seriously throwing me off.

  “Your cheeks are flushed.” His finger sweeps over the skin of my cheek, and I know he’s not exaggerating; my face is hot, like I’ve had it in an oven for the past hour.

  “You’re taller than I remember.” His presence is all-consuming. I’m sure he could seem menacing if he came up behind you in an alley. He has to be at least six-five. I’d hate to be on the ice against him. I’m sure he can crush people.

  The smirk that builds on his face is too damn sexy. “I grew up. And so did you.” His eyes scan the length of my body, setting it afire once again.

  “Not how you remember me?” I giggle but it sounds unnatural and fake.

  “Nope. I think you always had on khakis and a sweatshirt that was two sizes too big for you. And didn’t you wear glasses?”

  Nodding, I cross my arms over my chest. All of the sudden I feel too exposed. “Yes. Looking back at old pictures, I’m not sure how my mom let me walk around with them. They were also two sizes too big. Maybe three.”

  Derek tips my chin up. I didn’t even realize that my gaze had found its way to the floor. Leaning in, he says, “Why are you embarrassed? We aren’t in high school anymore.”

  Heat creeps up my neck and I bite on my bottom lip. The scent of his cologne is seductive: it’s cedar and bergamot and clouding my mind. My emotions are all over the map. There’s a part of me that wants to stand here with him all night and another that wants to run out of here like a scared rabbit.

  This isn’t how I was supposed to run into Derek Parker. It should’ve been on the street, me walking past him in my designer pencil skirt and blazer. Armani or Gucci, maybe. I’d be on my way from my office to go defend a client in court. He’d stop me and ask if I remember him. We’d hug and catch up for a minute. He’d be impressed by my accomplishments. Not like today. I’m sure all he has for me is pity. The smartest girl in high school takes her clothes off for money.

  “Nope, you’re right. We aren’t. But I better get back out there. Your friends must be waiting for me.” There’s an edge to my tone that sneaks out. I didn’t mean for it to sound so sharp and clipped. I turn on my heel but before I can take a step away, Derek grabs for my shoulder. His grip isn’t rough, but firm and holds me in place.

  “What the hell? Did I do something to piss you off?” His dark eyes narrow into slits and his eyebrows pinch together.

  “No. No, I’m sorry if I’m being short with you.” I conjure up what I can of a smile and take a deep breath. Derek isn’t the reason for my shitty experience in school; in fact, he was one of the few people I looked forward to seeing when I was there. “I don’t have great memories of high school and since I’m working, it’s probably best if we don’t talk about it now. And I’m sure you wouldn’t understand, but I need this job. Please excuse me.”

  He drops his hand from my shoulder. Walking away from him,
I feel his stare heat up my body from the inside. My stilettos click across the marble and I add more sway to my curved hips, giving Derek something to remember me by.

  TWO

  Cora

  “YES, Mom. The restaurant was crazy. That’s why I couldn’t come home early.” My throat always gets dry and scratchy like I’ve swallowed sandpaper when I lie to my sweet mother.

  “It’s good to have you home, sweetheart,” she says. Her blue nightgown blends in so well with the couch that she almost looks like she’s becoming a part of it.

  Leaning down, I press a kiss to her soft cheek. “Sit up,” I tell her. She does with some effort and I fluff the pillows behind her. “You didn’t look comfortable. Is this better? Do you need anything?”

  “I’m fine. Sit down and tell me about your day.” She smooths her light gold hair away from her face. She could use a trim. I make a mental note to call her hair stylist and see if she can stop by. One more thing to add to the list.

  Grasping the pillow next to me, I set it on my lap. “It was a zoo in there. I made great tips,” I lie, but I can’t tell her that I was stripping at a bachelor party. She’d die right here in front of me. The only job she thinks I have is at an Italian restaurant. If she knew about the real restaurant I work at, where I wear barely any clothes and dance on the bar for tips, she’d kill me. That is, if she still had enough strength to.

  “What about men? Did any handsome businessmen come in and sit in your section? Maybe give you their numbers?” Her lips quirk up in a half smile.