Rinkmates: A steamy Hockey Romance (The Mates series Book 1)

My jaw drops. I can’t believe Riley just called me baby.

Or, let’s say, I can’t believe what it did to me.

I never considered myself a baby kind of person, but I guess now I am, because the minute he says it—my heart does a somersault.

His eyes meet mine, a playful glint in them, and I can’t help but smile. The way he says it, so effortlessly, so naturally, makes me feel a familiar warmth pulsing between my legs. It’s like he’s peeling back another layer of the walls I’ve built even though I’m trying so hard to keep them.NôvelDrama.Org content.

He must have sensed I liked it, because his whiskey eyes narrow down on me and he grins that lopsided, charming grin that always gets to me. “I’m just glad you’re okay,” he adds in a serious tone before leaning in for what I think is a kiss. But at the last second, he hovers just above my lips and mutters, “Play along.”

And then it clicks. Riley, my boyfriend. And the plumber.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

I am terrible at spur-of-the-moment situations and I…awkwardly pat his shoulder.

He raises an eyebrow and stifles a laugh. “Did you just, pat me? Have you ever seen people who love each other do this?” His voice is soft, only for me to hear.

“Did you just call me baby?” It’s still all I can think about.

“Yeah. You got a problem with that?”

“What if I say yes?”

He tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “You’re out of luck then. Because I kind of like saying it.” He takes my hand, and his lips brush against the back of it. His gaze then falls on the delicate tattoo etched beneath my wrist—a fading reminder of two dates that caused me unimaginable happiness and pain. I had them permanently marked on my skin, a cathartic release from my heartache. May 28 and May 30.

I take my hand back, ignoring the questions on his face. “Please don’t ask.”

He winces slightly, kisses my cheek, and turns back to the plumber, asking with a straight face, “So what’s the damage?”

Why is he’s so damn good at this? I’ve never seen anyone flirt like him, and it’s all fake. How must it be if he’s really interested in a girl? He smiles, and my knees already turn to jelly.

I make my way to the living room and sink down on the plush couch, my mind reeling. Living with him is such a mess. He called me his girlfriend so easily, even though the very idea of seeing me naked seemed to disgust him. Why else would he swan dive out of the way to avoid glimpsing me in just a towel?

My stomach twists as I replay the scene—the flash of horror in his eyes, the way he couldn’t get away from me fast enough. He clearly hated the thought of me that way. But it’s okay. We’re business partners anyway. He doesn’t need to be attracted to me just because I am attracted to him. For whatever reason.

I text Priya.

Liora: I totally destroyed Riley’s bathroom. A pipe burst while I was showering. I’m MORTIFIED.

Her reply dings a moment later.

Priya: Don’t even worry about it, girl. That smoking hot jerk treats you like crap anyway. Serves him right! Burst anything you can!

I frown at the screen. The thing is, Riley doesn’t treat me badly, not really. He’s not a jerk. He just…doesn’t seem to like me very much. And in return, I don’t particularly like him either. I mean, what was there to like? His smoldering eyes? That crooked, knee-weakening smile? The way his hair always looked effortlessly tousled, like he’d just skated off the ice? That huge bookshelf I wanted to live in once I saw it? His stupidly good humor that I secretly adore but pretend to hate? The stupidly good curry? Yeah. I hate Riley Huntington.

And I refuse to be one of his vapid, puck bunnies.

My phone buzzes again.

Priya: But how do you break a shower?

Sighing, I text back.

Liora: The plumber said it wasn’t my fault. Old pipes or something.

Priya: You know what this means, right?

Liora: No?

Priya: There’s only one bathroom. GIRL. I’m dying!

My stomach drops. Shit.

Just then, I hear Riley’s footsteps approaching, and I brace myself.

He swaggers toward me, a frown creasing his face, clearly stressed out by the situation. He halts in front of me, concern flickering in his eyes. “You okay?” he asks.

I force a smile. He’s worried about me? He should be worrying about his apartment. “All good, just having the worst guilty conscience.”

He sits down beside me, closer than necessary, and I can feel the heat radiating from his body. “I’ll say it one last time. We’ll get it sorted. Don’t worry. We just have to”—I watch his Adam’s apple work down a swallow, as if he, too, notices our thighs are touching by now—“share a bathroom for some time. Easy as that.”

I nod. Yeah. Just a room. We can share it. “You’re away anyway…right?”

“That’s the thing. I’m not.”

A knot tightens in my chest. He’s…not?

What the heck does he mean he’s not going away? He needs to!

He must see the panic in my eyes because he quickly adds, “We made it to the play-offs and have a little time off now.”

“Oh.” That’s all I can say. “Congrats?”

I have to share a bathroom with him?

Is God making fun of me?

We nearly throttled each other last week, even though we only saw each other for two days. I can’t imagine living with him for a whole week. One of us isn’t going to make it out alive.

“Yep,” he says, and then he draws a long breath. “And there’s more.”

“More?”

“We need to make it official. Nina reminded me it’s time we make a hard launch. On social media, I mean.”

I arch an eyebrow. “A post? Now?” I’m not sure I’m ready for this. I’ve already gotten so many texts and calls from magazines asking if it’s true that we’re a thing.

He shrugs. “It’s the next step. The rumors are out there already, but we need to sell this relationship, make it believable.”

I can’t argue with that. “Fine, let’s post a pic. Perfect timing since I’m wearing your jersey.”

He winces like something pains him. “Exactly.”

“What if we take a quick selfie? One of those sickeningly sweet ones where we gaze at each other and write something about twin flames finding each other?”

Riley snorts. “You mean like those perfect couples on Instagram who probably fight like cats and dogs behind closed doors? Yeah, that sounds like us.”

“Yep.”

He considers it for a moment, then nods. “All right, but you’d need to touch me for it.” He raises an eyebrow mockingly.

“I don’t have a problem touching you.”

“No? Every time we do, you look like you want to vomit.”

“Maybe I do, but that doesn’t mean I can’t push through and touch you.” I smile like it’s my war paint and place a hand on his chest, pretending it doesn’t make my stomach flip. “See?”

“Yeah, and if you keep touching me like that, people will think I’m your brother.”

“Ew.” I make a face. “How do you want it then, genius?”

He yanks me closer, his hands firmly on my waist, and I crash into his chest with a squeaky, unplanned yelp. For a second, I swear he leans in and— Wait, did he just sniff my hair?

Is he sniffing me? What the—

“Do you like how I smell?” I ask, half joking, half creeped out.

“Hmm, you smell like daddy issues,” he replies, looking way too pleased with himself, like he just solved a riddle only he cares about.

Jerk. “Yeah, well, that’s because I used your shower gel.”

I pull away, just enough to catch a glimpse of his face—grinning like he’s the first guy to ever tell a joke.

“Come on,” he teases, “I was just trying to loosen you up a bit. Now, quit frowning and look at me like I’m the center of your universe.”

I roll my eyes. Where on earth is he coming up with these lines? I frown at him, barely stifling a scoff.

“More like a solar eclipse. Briefly interesting, but mostly blinding and probably bad for my health,” I say.

“Oh yeah, I feel that love. It’s burning hot.”

I sigh and he positions his phone in front of us, the camera showing him grinning and me giving him a death glare. He snaps a photo. “We should post this. It reflects our personalities. Me, Prince Charming, and you, the dragon I need to fight.”

I smack him, and he takes another photo.

We spend the next half hour attempting to pose like a head-over-heels couple for a selfie while the plumber works his magic in the bathroom. To say the least, it’s not going well. Either Riley is the worst photographer there is or neither of us can pretend we’re a couple. As if the idea of us having romantic feelings for each other is some kind of cosmic impossibility.

“Come on, just act like you like me,” he says when another pic looks crap. “It looks forced.”

“Because it is?” I roll my eyes. “You’re not making it easy, Mr. Hockey Star. You’re all stiff when you touch me.”

“Well, if you would lean in a little, it wouldn’t be so hard.”

I look up at him, ready to fire back a retort but he’s faster.

“Okay, this won’t lead us anywhere. How about we try a kiss on the cheek?”

Huh. That might be a good idea. Perhaps if we avoid direct eye contact with the camera, it will turn out better. “That’s actually a great idea.”

He grins, and my traitorous heart skips another beat. “See? I’m not just a pretty face.”

“Okay, hotshot, let’s try it your way.”

Riley adjusts his grip, his fingers brushing against the small of my back. “Ready?”

Nope, but I nod anyway, trying to steady my breath. It’s just a peck. Relax, girl.

He pulls me closer, and I lean into him, planting a soft kiss on his cheek. His scent—clean soap with a hint of something uniquely Riley—makes my hair stand on end.

“Perfect, just like that,” he murmurs, snapping away. “Attack that cheek, baby.”

I let out a guttural growl and sink my teeth into his cheek instead. He chuckles, and I can’t help but giggle too. And then his hand moves, sliding down my back, dangerously close to my butt. His touch sends a jolt through me, igniting a fire I didn’t know existed, and somehow—from one second to the other—it’s not a tease anymore.

I falter and reach my hand out only to accidentally grab onto his muscular thigh, my fingers way too close to his…dick.

I freeze, mortified. His face is only inches away from mine.

He raises an eyebrow, trying to suppress a grin. “Wrong target there or can I get excited?”

I jerk my hand back like I’ve been burned. “Sorry! I was aiming for stability, not your…um…”

There’s amusement dancing in his eyes. “Sure. Next time, just aim a little higher or lower, depending on your intentions.”

“I swear, I didn’t mean to grab you like that. I would never—”

“Let’s blame it on gravity. But you know,” he murmurs, his voice husky, “I think we’re getting pretty good at this.” His hand still burns on my hip.

“I don’t know. Maybe we should practice more,” my voice drops to a whisper, too, barely recognizing the flirty tone in my own voice.

His gaze flicks down to my lips. “Maybe we should.”

Time seems to stand still as we lock eyes, and it’s bizarre because I know it’s not normal to stare like this, yet I can’t seem to look away.

“This one would be a great pic,” he says, his whiskey eyes gleaming in this light.

I lick my lips and notice his grip getting lower even. “Then take it.”

His nose brushes mine softly, tentative and sweet.

My heart skips a beat, and then another, and he takes the picture.

“Maybe we…” he starts. “Maybe we should try an actual kiss, just in case we need to—”

“Kiss?” My heart races up to my temple, and I feel so dizzy. “But the contract. We said—”

He pulls me in, and my breast touches his chest. “We agreed practice kisses are fine. We need to kiss when you visit my game next week. We can’t mess it up.”

I wrap my hands around his neck. “We can’t.”

“As long as we both agree, we’re not breaching the contract, right?”

“Right…”

Our eyes burn into each other for another intense second, and then he looks at my mouth like it’s the only thing that could keep him alive. I can’t hold back any longer and lean in toward him. His lips crash against mine with a fierce intensity I never experienced before, and I can’t help but think that practice kisses might be the only kind I ever want again.

His lips move urgently, like he can’t get enough of me, and I press myself fully against him. His hand grabs my butt possessively, and I know this is just to show me how it can be, but just when I gasp, he deepens the kiss, sliding his tongue slowly inside my mouth. It’s sweet and minty and I can’t help but grip his shirt in response, pulling him closer until I don’t know where his space starts and mine ends.

He sighs softly into the kiss, as if we’ve found home after a long search, hungry for each other’s touches and tastes. His tongue moves fast, so slick and hot. I can’t believe it, but I think this is the best kiss I’ve ever had and it’s a fake one. I don’t want to stop.

I slide my hands up his chest, feeling the hard muscles rippling beneath the fabric of his hoodie, and damn, he feels so good. I squeeze and a sigh escapes me. In return, his tongue slides against mine and my skin tingles from head to toe. Riley cups my face tenderly for better access to explore my mouth even further with his tongue, and my treacherous mind explodes with desire as my body moves on its own accord.

I can’t take it anymore and practically jump onto his lap, straddling him as if he’s my ship and I’m the pirate ready to plunder it. Unable to resist the intoxicating scent of him, I basically attack his mouth. This is too good. Why the hell is it this good? It’s just a kiss and then—no—it’s not.

“Fuck,” he moans into my mouth, and it’s like he’s ignited a fire within me. I’m suddenly ravenous, craving more. This is nowhere near enough.

His fingers hungrily roam beneath my shirt. The intensity of his touch has me on the brink of surrender, not caring about the consequences. That is, until the unmistakable sound of a smartphone camera snapping a photo pierces the air—and we both just stop.

I open my eyes to see Riley’s shocked face.

At first, I’m stunned by what just happened, by how that fucking kiss felt—my heart stumbles as if I actually…as if I like him, even though I’m not supposed to feel anything at all. And then the crushing realization hits: someone photographed us.

Riley’s hands are tucked under the seam of my—his—boxers, so there’s no way he could take a picture. We scramble apart as if our bodies are suddenly toxic, only to find the plumber sneaking photos of us. He curses, calling himself an idiot for leaving the sound on, and dashes away.

“Fucking asshole,” Riley grunts and dashes after him. I struggle to keep up and sprint to the door. When I reach the scene, Riley’s cursing and pounding against the closing elevator doors.

“Shit!” he yells, looking at me and probably realizing at the same time that the clip is out in the world already because there’s no way we can get to the plumber in time now. That’s the downside of living in a high-story penthouse. It takes forever to take the stairs.

There’s a cough and we turn to see Riley’s neighbor—a middle-aged man who looks like a Chadwick Bumpleton in a polo shirt—stepped out to investigate.

When his eyes land on me, on my naked thighs, Riley’s jaw tics.

He turns to me, his gaze icy.

“Get. In,” he commands.

I hesitate for a moment. It’s clear he’s angry, but beneath that, I see a flicker of something else—a protectiveness that surprises me.

That single grunt is all it takes for the neighbor to quickly shut the door and for me to get in. I hurriedly retreat to where I came from while Riley tries to beat the odds and runs down the stairs.