Knock Me for a Loop Read Free

fingers and her toes and hope to heaven the enchantment of the ancient spinning wheel held true and worked its wonderful magic once again.

Row 1
    The spray of hot water from the hotel’s fixed-mount shower head hit Zack Hoolihan between the shoulder blades, soothing stiff muscles as it rolled the rest of the way down his body.
    He shouldn’t be this damn sore after a couple hours on the ice for charity. It wasn’t like he’d been out there giving it his all in a grudge match. But that hadn’t made their opponents launch the puck in his direction with any less force or hit the ice any less hard when he’d smacked into it time and again.
    This wasn’t a good sign, though. He was only thirty-six…too damn young to be feeling this damn old, and nowhere near ready to be skating toward retirement. If his body didn’t cut out the stiff-and-sore bullshit and get with the program, though, pretty soon he’d be out there trying to block goals with a walker.
    With a sigh, he turned around and let the water pelt his face and chest, then reached for the soap and started lathering up.
    The guys had mentioned going out for pizza and beer later, but Zack knew from past experience that plans for a simple dinner with the rest of the team often turned into an all-night tour of every bar and strip club in whatever city they happened to be visiting. He wasn’t much up for that tonight.
    Instead he figured he’d stay in, maybe order some room service or see if his friend Dylan, who was currently traveling with the Rockets as a team reporter, wanted to grab a bite at one of the hotel’s on-site restaurants.
    Rinsing off, Zack turned off the water and pulled back the shower curtain, reaching for a towel from the rack on the wall as he stepped out of the tub. He dried off quickly, then used the towel to wipe the steam from the wide mirror above the sink and countertop before wrapping the strip of terry cloth around his waist and knotting it over his right hipbone.
    With a sigh, he rested his palms on either side of the sink basin and leaned forward to study his reflection. Yeah, he was a good-lookin’ guy. It was no surprise women swarmed all over him.
    Of course, ninety percent of those women were puck bunnies, which meant he could have had three eyes and an ass where his mouth was supposed to be, and they still would have thrown themselves at him.
    Too bad he felt like shit. It wasn’t the aches from exerting himself on the ice or the bruises that would cover him like graffiti by morning from stopping three-inch disks of vulcanized rubber flying at eighty miles per hour with his body.
    No, the lack of sparkle in his eyes and enthusiasm in his spirit came from the fact that he hated being on the road. What used to be the best part of his job as star goalie for the Cleveland Rockets, he now considered nothing more than a hassle. Whether playing an away game or doing the off-season practice and good-will charity stuff like now, he would have much preferred to be back home and closer to Grace.
    Going on the road. Hanging out with the guys. Partying until all hours and getting more tail than any man had a right to. Reasons one, two, and three—aside from a genuine love of the game—that he’d decided to play hockey professionally in the first place.
    Then he’d met Grace, and “the road” turned into nothing more than a long, lonely highway dotted with indistinguishable hotel rooms and games he barely remembered by the time he got home. Hanging out with the guys paled in comparison to spending a quiet night on the couch, watching old movies with Grace wrapped in his arms.
    And forget about other women—blond, brunette, redhead; tall or short; built like a supermodel or the girl next door…not a one of them had the power to turn his head anymore. Not when he was engaged to the funniest, smartest, sassiest, most beautiful woman in the world.
    He wished she were here now. He’d walk into the other room, drop the towel, and show her