Page 4 of Playing for Keeps

“Hey,” I say, hands in my pockets. “You were amazing.”

Her face shifts in surprise. She wasn’t expecting anyone to approach her, I don’t think, and she glances around. I know I’m a big guy. I don’t want to intimidate her. “I’m Gunnar,” I tell her, holding out a hand, hoping I managed to get the stink of my hockey gloves scrubbed off. “Can I buy you a drink?”

CHAPTER 3

EMERSON

The massive whiteguy approaching me right now is broad, thick, and tall enough that I have to crane my neck to see him. The rest of the room fades away until he’s all I can see. It can’t be healthy for one person to be this attractive. It’s indecent, the way he looks in this suit.

I’ve seen a lot of men in suits.

The way this material clings to his shoulders, his watch twinkles at his cuff…the way everything tucks in at his waist and those pants curve around a perfectly round backside…it’s utterly inappropriate.

I take a breath to center myself. I can hear some patrons talking about the men he arrived with. Over his shoulder, I see some approaching them with phones out. I hear the words “hockey players” and realize this trio are professional athletes.

I have less than zero desire to be in the background of someone’s social media swoon over this guy, but actually, he doesn’t appear to notice the buzz.

No, he’s looking at me like I am the celebrity.

“You were amazing,” he says, hands in his pockets awkwardly, like I’m someone to be shy around. My eyes widen in surprise as I drink him in. He is objectively a perfect specimenof the human form. Even his neck has muscles. I guess all our necks have muscles, but his arevisible.

“I’m Gunnar,” he informs me after an awkward silence where I just drink water and stare at him. “Can I buy you a drink?”

I close my eyes and swallow the water. My set is technically done. As soon as the manager pays me, I am free as a bird. Refined conservatory girls do not go out for drinks with famous athletes in Las Vegas.

But I came here to escape all those rules, didn’t I?

I’m about to nod yes to the hockey guy when the club manager approaches, fluttering his hands around a turban, the light glinting off the bangle at his wrist. “Emerson?”

I watch Gunnar learn my name and tuck it away with a smirk. I clear my throat and set down the water bottle. “Yep. I’m all set when you are.”

The manager hands out a wad of cash, which should seem insulting but feels right considering the day I’ve had. “You were a real lifesaver for the dinner rush. Can we get your info for our sub list? I’d love to have you in our rotation. That was some really cool stuff you did. I never heard anyone play that sort of music on a cello.”

I thank him, only briefly taking my eyes off Gunnar as he stands by, eavesdropping on this interaction. I settle up with the manager, give him my number, and finally turn to this handsome stranger. “You know what? I’d love a drink. Let me get my cello packed up. We’ll have to bring her with me…”

“Her?” Gunnar follows me onto the stage, watching as I tuck the instrument into my case, securing the bow in the lid and ensuring all my other little parts and pieces are strapped tight.

I run a hand down the curve of the body. “Yeah, her. Look at that shape. No man looks like that.”

He holds out a hand, and I’m not sure if he’s helping me down the stage steps or trying to carry my cello. I slip the strapacross my back and descend on my own, smiling. “Where should we go?”

Gunnar finds another bar not too far down the massive halls of the casino resort. This one has cheap well drinks, and I find myself agreeing to do a shot with him before we settle in with what he calls “sipping whiskey.” I wouldn’t know. I have very little experience with alcohol apart from the rare glass of wine at a function, for politeness.

“I loved how you moved with the music while you played,” he tells me. “I felt like I knew what mood was coming based on whether you closed your eyes.”

With his ice blue eyes boring into mine, this man is exploding my ideas of what a hockey player knows about music. The fact that he noticed the emotion and feel of my piece has me tingling everywhere. Nobody else in my universe has ever even commented when I’ve tried an original composition before.

“Thank you for noticing.” I lean forward, elbows on the table, and clink my glass against his. “Not many people do.”

He recoils in surprise. “That can’t be right. Maybe you’re just picking the wrong venues.”

I bark out a laugh. “You have no idea how right you are about that.” I take a bigger sip of the whiskey, feeling its warm spice of it all through my veins. “So why are you here with me and not at some strip club with your team?’

He arches a brow. “How do you know I have a team?”

I wince. Real smooth, Emerson. “I overheard everyone freaking out when you and those other guys came into the bar. You’re hot stuff.”

He sets his drink down and picks up his napkin, dabbing at the corner of his very full lips. I wonder why they’re not scarred.I guess in my mind, hockey players are mauled-up franken-humans. Another pleasant misconception…

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