Perfect Sense (Perfect Series Book 1) (2 page)

Cash flicks his wavy hair out of his eyes, making my stomach do this weird fluttery thing inside. His hair is a wild mess, and his eyes are so blue that they don’t even look real, framed by his long dark lashes. The bone structure on his face is like a Roman god with high cheeks bones a tight strong jaw and a thick muscular neck.

I can’t stop myself from staring at him. He is mesmerizing and it is physically impossible to pull myself away from gaping at him. Especially when my eyes find their way to his lips, perfectly sculpted with the right amount of pout. I scold myself again, shaking away my attraction to a man who clearly doesn’t need another sex-starved fan.

While Cash is escorted by two of the three referees toward the penalty box, he grins and waves at the crowd like he’s enjoying himself. The chick behind us screams and frantically waves her red pompoms at him.

His head jerks in our direction, and his stare moves away from the crazy chick and collides with my gaze. My face flushes and my skin heats when I realize he’s caught me staring. His smile grows wider, his dimples pulling deeper into his cheeks. He skates by, studying me with a cocky grin.

I’m frozen, and not from the cold. The girl still screaming behind me leans over and waves her sparkly pompoms in front if my face, blocking my view. Thank God.

Lyndsey yanks the pompoms right out the girl’s fingers. She shoves them back at her with a scowl. “Fuck off, will you?”

The girl flips Lyndsey off.

When I look up, he is gone from the ice, but I feel those dangerous baby blues burning into me from the side. Turning my head slowly left, I find his gaze on me, that sexy grin of his curving the corners of his lips. He tilts his head to the side, raises an eyebrow and winks at me.

Why’s he focused on me and not one of the other women surrounding the penalty box, with their bodies pressed against the glass?

Their chants and hymns of praise don’t even faze him with his eyes glued to mine. I want to look away, but I can’t. The way he lets out a chuckle as he watches me struggle for air, tells me he sees exactly the way his intent, intrusive gaze affects me.

I look down and pretend to admire my leather knee-high boots and dark-wash jeans, glad my long brown curls shield my heated cheeks.

“Omigod! He’s looking at you!” Lyndsey screams. “He’s fucking you with his eyes! Cash Brooks is seriously fucking you with his eyes!”

My entire body stiffens as I shake my head at my loudmouth sister. My face feels like it’s on fire. I turn my head slowly, sure she’s exaggerating.

He’s standing up on the other side of the glass. He is gigantic and it is obvious by the way his equipment hugs his body, what lies underneath is nothing short of solid muscle. I eye his large, strong hands. My eyes travel upward—jersey spattered with blood, a hard jawline, a raw twisted smile, and finally that pair of hot, blue eyes.

I inhale another sharp breath, when he points his finger at me, calling me closer with a crooked smile. I shake my head, wishing I could curl up under my seat and hide. What does he want with me? With only one seat separating us, occupied by my horny sister, the glass between us doesn’t offer much protection from his stare. I wish I had a few less curves and was wearing a looser sweater and jeans. I glance over at him. He’s still smiling. Seriously, I’ve never been so overdressed and felt so naked. No guy has ever made me feel like this.

Again, I quickly look away, until I hear his fist pound against the glass, rumbling the entire penalty box. I gulp at how large his fist looks pressed against the glass. His hand pounds once again, until everyone in our section’s eyes avert to Cash, then over to me.

“Hey, you! Mittens! What’s your name?” he shouts, his gaze fixed on me.

I look down at my hands, covered in wool and glare back at him.
What a dick.

“None of your business, hot shot,” I shoot back. He may be downright sexy, but who does this guy think he is?

The crowd around us grows quiet as his nostrils flare and his jaw grits. His chest rises and falls, his blue eyes penetrating and probing. I focus on the game happening on the opposite end of the rink, ignoring him completely. When his fist slams against the glass a third time, my pulse picks up pace.

What a hotheaded lunatic.

“Holy shit!” Lyndsey screams in my ear.

I crank my head in her direction to tell her to stop shouting, when I see two hands gripping onto the top of the glass of the penalty box. Cash is pulling up his entire body until he's high enough to rest his chest along the glass ridge separating him from the crowd. Women are screaming and attempting to touch him, forcing themselves onto their tippy toes and extending their fingers. Some are even successful at reaching high enough to graze his jersey.

“Hey! I asked you something,” he says, his deep, dark voice sending a tingle of awareness up my spine. “What’s your name?”

“It’s Quinn!” My stupid sister shouts, looking up at him and batting her eyes. “We’re sisters.”

“Last name?” he commands, pointing a long finger at me.

I shoot Lyndsey a warning look, which I’m sure she’s about to ignore, but I’m saved when the buzzer sounds, releasing him from the penalty box. His stare burns into me while I stand there speechless, hearing nothing but the hectic pounding on my heart. Opening the gate, he never takes his eyes off mine.

He gives me a dangerous heart-thudding smile and shouts, “Next goal I get—it’s for you, Mittens.”

He tosses on his helmet, and in an instant, he is unleashed like a bat out of hell, flying across the ice. The cheers of his fans pick up and ricochet into the rafters, piercing my ears with chants of “Brooks! Brooks! Brooks!”

“Holy shit!” Lyndsey grips my arm. “Did that just happen? Did Cash Brooks just practically climb over the penalty box and ask you your name? Like really? Next goal is for you? Are you kidding me? I hate you!” She pushes me, and I fall back into my seat.

“Excuse me? I hate
you.
” I rise to my feet. “Why on earth did you tell him my name?”

“Have you lost your mind? When Cash Brooks, the absolute hottest guy on the planet, asks you who you are, you tell him.”

“That man is a jackass, and
all
you girls are out of your minds,” I mumble.

Lyndsey folds her arms on her chest. The look on her face tells me she doesn’t believe me for a second. “Yeah, right. Sex on legs said his next goal is for you, and you don’t even care.”

“He is a raging lunatic and clearly full of himself.”

“I have been coming to every game, making Dad drag me to every team event for the past few months trying to get Cash to notice me. Then you show up, dressed like a walking
Banana Republic
ad,
and
he asks you your name
and
he says he is going to score a goal for you
and
you don’t even care?” She glares at me with her big brown eyes and lets out an exasperated sigh. “Unbelievable.”

The sirens go off and the crowd goes wild, bringing our attention back to the action of the game. My eyes find Cash at the opposite end of the ice, getting smothered by a group of his teammates. His gorgeous smile illuminates the entire rink when he fists pumps the air bringing his stick above his head. The Jumbotron hanging from the rafters’ replays Cash’s spectacular goal. A well-earned top corner shot that blindsided the goalie, reigniting the cheers of the Bexley Bruisers fans.

“He did not just score that goal!” Lyndsey shrieks, jumping up and down, yanking on my arm. “What did it take, like thirty seconds? That’s what I call making good on a promise.”

Cash’s powerful legs slice across the ice in his black skates toward our section. The closer he gets, the more the yelling and the movement of the crowd escalates to a feverish pace. He slows down, his eyes tauntingly hot, his grin enticing. He lowers his victory fist from the air, thumping it once, twice against his chest, then points his finger right at me. With a wink, he skates away, leaving me in a hot mess as the sirens blow, ending the first period.

Shuffling footsteps and the buzz of excited chatter fills the arena, mingling with the techno beats blaring from the speakers. I watch tensely from my seat, as the Bexley Bruisers and their opposing team the Jersey Heat, are escorted by their coaches toward their respective dressing rooms. But something about the way Cash lingers behind, his stare fixed in my direction from across the rink, makes my knees weaken.

“Somebody looks a little hot and bothered.” Lyndsey arches a perfectly waxed brow at me. “He’s hot, right? Admit it.”

“Shut up, Lynds.” I grab my purse and sling it over my shoulder.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“I’m changing seats. There must be some horny girl stuck in the nosebleeds dying to be harassed by Cash Brooks during the second period. I’m going to find her and trade spots.” I shuffle my way down the cramped row to the aisle.

“Come on, don’t be like that,” Lyndsey says, following me. “I don’t want to sit next to some puck bunny.”

“Then you can change seats too,” I say, marching up the concrete steps.

“Seriously?” Lyndsey whines.

“Seriously.”

I dodge every drunk and jersey-wearing fan double fisting sky-high beers. Lyndsey’s heels click behind me as I push upward through the crowds. I’m tempted to head for the exit instead of the nosebleeds.

I have never ever been so sexually rattled. Beads of sweat pop up on my brow and trickle between my cleavage, an uncomfortable side effect from being mind-fucked by Cash Brooks. I tell myself leaving our prime seats has nothing to do with the butterflies he gave me. I just need a better view of the sponsorships on the boards. Finding a seat in the nosebleeds and far away from the penalty box will help give me a full view of the arena.

Thanks to Cash Brooks, I’ll find an internship in no time.

Chapter 2

The next morning, Lyndsey and I take her bratty little Pekingese for a walk in the off leash dog park, a few blocks west of her condo. Moving along the gravel path, under the tall leafy birch trees, I carry both our hot coffees, while Lyndsey’s eyes are glued to her iPhone, researching Cash Brooks via a Google search.

I act with indifferent disinterest, by rolling my eyes and groaning every time she highlights one of his many his athletic accomplishments. But the truth is I can’t stop hanging on to every word rolling off her tongue about this bad boy hockey star.

Amazing.

Is the only word running through my mind while Lyndsey continues to ramble off his entire hockey career history. His stats are beyond impressive. He must have bookcases full of trophies and awards he’s won. And he’s only 23? Great. He’s gorgeous and talented. How does someone of that caliber even get sent down to the American Hockey League?

“And get this…” Lyndsey smirks, wiggling her brows. “He was ranked #1 Sexiest Male Athlete by
Cosmopolitan
last year. And he was listed by
Business Insider
as the #3 Most Eligible Bachelors in Sports.”

“Why are you telling me this? I already told you I don’t care,” I lie.

“Because it is obvious after last night’s spectacle that he wants your ass. He came out during the second period and body checked some rookie to get thrown back into the penalty box. Then when he saw you weren’t in your seat, he went a little crazy, shouting at the girls who took our spot, asking them where the hell you moved to. I’ve been to a lot of games Quinn, and I have never seen him do anything like that.”

“It’s all an act,” I say, even though part of me wants to believe my nosy little sister is right and what he did wasn’t some macho act to get cheers from his fans.

“Don’t get me wrong, Cash is known for his womanizing, but last night was something else. He was like a man possessed, all cave-man like, picking you out in the crowd.” Lyndsey chuckles, not even looking up from her phone. “Any other vagina would be thanking her lucky stars. That includes me.”

“Alright. Enough. Put the phone away.” I grab for her phone.

“Omigod!” Lyndsey shrieks, blocking me with her shoulder. “A video of Cash leaning over the penalty box last night was posted on the Bexley Bruisers Facebook page.”

“What?”

“There are over a thousand comments on the post.” Her eyes are glued to the screen.

“Let me see that,” I demand.

“Hold on!” she says, swatting me away with the back of her hand. “I’m not done reading. The video is called
Who is Cash’s Cinderella?
Almost every single comment is from a woman asking who’s the mystery girl in mittens! You better watch out, Quinny, his crazy-assed female fans want your blood.”

“You can see me?” I ask in a panic.

“Hardly. The video’s really pixilated, so your face is blurred out. But with your white wool mittens and blue sweater, it isn’t hard to pick you out. Everyone else has bare hands and is wearing red jerseys.” She chuckles, flashing me the video on her phone.

The second my eyes lock on the screen to see his wavy hair and strong athletic build hanging over the penalty box, my heart starts pumping faster than I’d like. I honestly do not want to be attracted to him, or any other guy for that matter. Right now, I’ve got more important things to worry about—like securing another decent internship to enhance my chances of an acceptance into Harvard.

When Lyndsey’s phone starts ringing, it cuts off the video. She glares down at her screen and groans. “Why’s Dad calling me so early in the morning on a Saturday?”

“Do you think he saw the video?” The horrible thought makes me nearly drop my coffee. Our dad has made his position on hockey players very clear to us over the years:

Stay away. They are nothing but trouble.

Lyndsey has never taken his warning seriously. Since our early teens she’s dated a streamline of hockey jocks. She’s the rule breaking rebel. I on the other hand, would never disobey him.

“Omigod, Quinn, relax. It’s not a sex tape.”

I hear Lyndsey give our father a warm greeting. Unlike my little sister, who can get away with murder when it comes to our father, I can’t seem to catch a break from his constant demands. Ever since we were kids, I was the one he pushed and she was the one he coddled. While I was expected to attend one of the top undergrad business programs in the country, maintaining a 4.0, Lyndsey went to a local college in Bexley, with an undeclared major, slutting it up around campus and frivolously spending her trust fund.