Cross-Checked by Lily Harlem Page A

behind dense gloves. I looked at his groin, the shape of a cup could just be made out. I licked my lips and swallowed. I knew what lay beneath that cup. I knew what his cock looked like, tasted like. I knew about the silver ring through the end. The ring that he loved to have tickled and tugged, sucked and swallowed down my throat.
    A breath shivered through my chest at the delicious memory.
    No one else in the arena knew about the ring. Well, apart from his teammates if he showered with them in the locker room. But Brick’s cock and I were on more than glancing terms, we were intimate, and hopefully after the ball on Friday, we’d get considerably more intimate. I was so looking forward to it.
    The camera swung around a couple of the other players—Ramrod, Wolf, Phoenix—and then panned up to the press booth and across to the players’ wives, kids and girlfriends.
    Suddenly my world stopped.
    I felt as though I’d been punched in the stomach. My breathing froze and a wrench of nausea fisted my guts.
    Mae French.
    What the hell was she doing there, looking all glamorous in a soft pink hat and a pristine cream coat? Her bee-stung lips smiled at something Phoenix’s wife said and her false lashes fluttered toward the camera.
    I stood and paced to the window. Rubbed the heels of my hands into my eyes, which stung with the image I’d just seen. That should be me up there with the other players’ wives and girlfriends.
    Not her.
    I’d only been out of touch for a couple of days and she’d walked back into his life. How the hell had she done it? I thought they were over, finito.
    The sick feeling doubled.
    Had my plan backfired? Had I left him wanting a woman, any woman, and he’d reached out for her? Maybe she was still in love with him and jumped at the chance to satisfy the need I’d planted. Deliberately left him with.
    Oh god, no.
    A gaping hole of hopelessness tore through me as the starter whistle shrilled from the screen. I reached for my mobile and brought up his number. I had to speak to him. Ask him about Mae. I needed to know.
    Suddenly I realized how stupid I was being. Of course he wouldn’t answer it, he was on the ice, playing. I grabbed my wine and knocked back the whole glass in one go. I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. Instead I kicked the sofa and created a big dent in the cream leather. What had I done? How could I not have anticipated this? How could I have anticipated this? I’d thought, hell, everyone thought, Brick’s affair with the chart-topping country singer was over.
    I grabbed the remote. I couldn’t watch the game. Not with her there. Not when there was a possibility she’d put her hands and her mouth on that ring since I had. The feeling of possessiveness was overwhelming, as was the anger. I couldn’t think straight, the image of them in bed together filled my mind and pushed away all coherent thoughts.
    My vision blurred and red rage seeped into the periphery. She was no doubt smiling because she knew she was going to get alone time with Brick’s cock when the game was over. Back at his place, with a bottle of champagne and candles flickering as they sprawled on a four-poster bed.
    “And it was always going to get personal,” shouted the commentator, startling me out of my inner raging. “The Diggers just have a way of winding their opponents up.”
    My finger hovered over the off switch.
    “And it looks like Phoenix has had enough of being hooked.” There was a roar from the crowd. The camera zoomed in on a huddle of players. The Diggers were in black and gold, the Vipers in red and white. The scuffle going on was a mix of all four colors whirling and rolling, blending and bouncing. Phoenix was at the center. “And gloves are off,” shouted the commentator. Though he didn’t need to. Gloves and sticks were hitting the Plexiglas and ice, so were helmets.
    The ref’s whistle rang out but no one took any notice. Still the fight continued. More players whizzed up and