“There was no ring inside that case.”
Her nostrils flare slightly. I’d find it cute if she wasn’t so pissed off at me for no reason.
“I distinctly remember putting it in the Roger Maris baseball case a few weeks ago. It’s not valuable. I mean, it’s not monetarily valuable, but it holds a lot of sentimental value for me. It was my grandma’s, and it’s all I have left of her.” Tears shine in her eyes. “Can I please have it back?”
“I’d give it to you if I had it, but I don’t.”
“I know it was in there.”
I shake my head. “I already took the ball out of the case it was in and put it in a new one. There was nothing but the ball in that case.”
“That’s impossible! The case has a latch, so there’s no way it opened and fell out on accident.”
I shrug.
“Look, you must make good money, so what’s a little sapphire ring to you?”
“Listen—what’s your name?”
“Indie Garrison.”
“Listen, Indie Garrison—I don’t have it, okay?”
She buries her face in her hands, and the picture tugs on my heartstrings because it looks like she’s crying, but it only lasts a nanosecond. Because when she lifts her face to look at me, the only expression I see is complete and utter fury.
“I’m willing to buy it,” she says in a level tone.
This chick is about half crazy. She’s right—why would I give a shit about someone’s sapphire ring? I wouldn’t care if it was a giant diamond ring. If it wasn’t mine, I’d return it.
If I had it.
“I can’t sell you something I don’t have.”
“So what, it just disappeared into thin air?”
“I have no idea. I paid for the ball and picked it up yesterday, then took it out of the case and put it in my display case. You’re welcome to have the original case back, but it’s empty.”
“Okay…” Shawn tactfully clears his throat and gives me an apologetic look. “You asked me to see Mr. Morgan and you’ve done that, so…”
Indie gives him a withering glare. She may be small, but damn, this woman has some fire. Shawn opens his mouth to say something else, but quickly closes it.
“Fine,” she says, looking back at me. “But if you change your mind, I work at a coffee shop just off the Strip called Just Brew It. I’m begging you to return the ring, no questions asked.”
I give her a tight smile. “If it appears out of thin air, I’ll be sure and do that.”
“This isn’t a joke!”
“I need to get back to practice, Indie Garrison. I hope you find your grandma’s ring. You probably left it somewhere and forgot about it.”
“Don’t pat me on the head and give me that smarmy grin!”
I force myself not to smile, even a little bit.
“I’m going back to practice now.”
Shawn gives me another apologetic look and then starts leading Indie toward the rink entrance they came through. She turns to leave, then whips back around to face me.
“You are a pus-filled sore on the asshole of humanity, do you know that?” she yells. “Eat shit, Pike Morgan!”
I look away and shake my head, not responding to the snickers from my teammates who have been watching this whole thing go down. Fuckers.
I’m not used to having my ass chewed. That was ridiculous. What a waste of an otherwise very hot woman.
When I skate past a bunch of teammates, they predictably start chirping at me.
“Pike, you’re just a sore on the ass of humanity, not a pus-filled one,” someone says.
“You do look exactly like a pus-filled sore I got on my chest once. That shit was nasty.”
I flip the bird in the direction of the entire group. It’s bullshit that the exotic little spitfire who just dressed me down in front of my team thinks I stole her grandma’s ring. I’m pretty sure I couldn’t convince that chick the sky is blue, though.
Women. Can’t live with ’em, can’t reason with ’em.
My teammate, Kingston Bryant, defenseman for the Saints, tips his chin at me and skates over as I’m grabbing my gear from the bench.
“Hey, man,” he says. “What the hell was that?”
“Just a woman being irrational. Shocker.”
“Do you know her?”
I shake my head. “First time I’ve ever met her.”
He laughs. “You make quite the impression, dude.”
“I guess.”
“I can’t wait to see you try to get her in bed.”
I give him a look that says, Are you fucking kidding me?
He puts his hands up in mock surrender. “Hey, I’m not the one who ran my mouth about being able to get any woman in bed. That was you. And she appears to be a woman, so work your magic, Houdini.”
Kingston and I have had a running bet for the past few months about whether I can get any woman I want to sleep with me. I wasn’t being arrogant when I told him I could. I’d just had too much to drink.
Okay, maybe it was a little arrogant. But it’s also true. Women who want to be fucked by a man who means it are drawn to me like flies to shit. They see the tats, piercings, and pro athlete body, and their panties drop.
Don’t get me wrong. Am I the kind of guy a woman wants to bring home to meet her parents? Or take shopping hand in hand like a pet and its owner? Fuck no. But for a toe-curling night in the sack, I’m ideal.
“I’m willing to try,” I say, though I have no idea how I’ll be able to seduce the woman who just called me a pus-filled sore on the asshole of humanity. “But if I do it, it’s gonna cost you a lot more than a steak dinner.”
Kingston laughs. “Name your price. And your timeline.”
I consider that this may be the biggest challenge, outside of hockey, I’ve ever faced. If I manage to succeed, I want Kingston to feel the pain of defeat.
“You have to clean my house once a week for…three months,” I say. “I’ll keep paying my housekeeper, but it’ll be like a paid vacation. I’m talking scrubbing my toilets and folding my underwear—all of it.”
Kingston hesitates for just a second before saying, “I’ll accept that bet as long as you do the same for me if you lose.”
Shit. I hate cleaning. And even I’ll admit the odds aren’t in my favor with Indie Garrison. I’m too proud to back down, though.
“I want six months,” I say, extending my hand. “Six months from today to get her to sleep with me.”
Kingston grins and shakes my hand. “Done. I can’t wait to see you scrubbing my toilets with your toothbrush.”
He skates away for a practice drill, leaving me staring at the spot where Indie was standing just a few minutes ago.
If I get stuck cleaning Kingston’s house for three months, I’ll never live it down. But if I win this bet, I’ll get my own house cleaned and, possibly even better, I’ll get to turn Indie’s scowl of disdain into an “O” of pleasure.
She sure as fuck looks like she needs it.
Chapter Five
Indie