Consider Me (Playing For Keeps Book 1)

CARTER

“FUCK.”

Rolling onto my back, I inhale sharply and throw a hand over my head. I’m fucking spent, so I take a moment to catch my breath before I toss my legs over the edge of the bed and sit up, pulling the condom off my quickly deflating cock. My tongue swipes at a bead of sweat that clings to my top lip, and I plow my fingers through my hair.

“No,” Laura whines, sticking her bottom lip out. She nearly launches herself across the bed, reaching for me when I stand. “Don’t get up yet, Carter.”

I hold up the condom. That should be explanation enough, no? “Just throwing out the condom, Laura.”

Her light brows knit together. “Lacey.”

I stifle a laugh. Oops. “Right. Sorry. Lacey.”

“We could go again,” Lacey calls while I toss the condom in the bathroom trash can.

I lean my forearm on the wall as I take a leak in the toilet. We could go again. I like sex. I love sex. Even better when it’s with girls like Laura.

Fuck. Lacey.

Lacey the blonde bombshell from the cover of Maxim in August of last year. I remember that much because she told me thirteen times at the bar tonight. I started counting when that M-word left her mouth the third time.

We could absolutely go again, but I have an itch to watch her leave. An itch for some well-deserved privacy. Contrary to popular belief, I actually value my alone time, even if it could be better spent with body parts buried in girls who had been mostly naked on the cover of a magazine at one point in their lives.

Don’t get me wrong; Lacey’s the kind of girl you don’t think twice about getting into bed with when you just wanna have some fun. That’s why we fucked like rabbits for the last thirty minutes without pause, after I got her off in the elevator on the way up here.

Maybe I’d been feeling generous, or maybe I was in the mood, but the truth is I just wanted to shut her up. I mean, I got it the first twelve times—she was on the cover of a magazine.

I thought thirteen was supposed to be a lucky number, not a bad omen.

“Can’t,” I finally answer, washing my hands while checking myself out in the mirror. I’ve got a nasty split down the center of my swollen lower lip. I got off easy tonight; the other guy didn’t. “Got an early flight.”

Our flight isn’t until noon; I simply don’t want her to stay.

Crossing my arms over my bare chest, I lean against the door frame and watch her snuggle beneath the blankets. Yeah, definitely not happening.

“You should probably head out.”

Scooping her dress off the floor, I hold it up in front of me so she can’t see the face I’m making. I have undershirts bigger than this. Don’t get me wrong—it looked great on her. I had an eyeful of tits and ass the second she strode by our table and gave me the fuck me eyes.

I toss it toward her. That’s all she has. No bra, no panties.

Fuck, that should’ve been my warning, shouldn’t it have?

I yank my boxer briefs back up my legs and plant my hands on my hips, watching her. Waiting. She’s not doing a damn thing, just staring up at me with wide, blue eyes. She seems to be under the impression the larger she makes those things, the easier I’ll sway. I can’t even begin to tell her how wrong she is.

I scratch my scalp. Rocking back on my heels, I clap my fist into my palm a couple times, click a beat out with my tongue, and wait for her to fucking do something.

This is so fucking awkward.

“Can I stay here tonight?” her quiet voice finally squeaks.

This question again. I get it every time. I don’t know why. Is it because they genuinely want to stay, or because each woman I mess around with is secretly holding out hope they’ll be the one to change Carter Beckett’s ways, to make him want to settle down? Sometimes I think there’s a pool going with a prize for whoever the winning girl is.

Oh, wait; there is. The prize is the captain of the Vancouver Vipers’ eight-figure salary.

My answer is the same every time. “I don’t do sleepovers.”

“But I…” Her chin quivers, watery gaze trembling. For fuck’s sake. I can’t with the tears. We met all of two hours ago; what’s she crying over? “I thought we got along well. I thought maybe…I thought you liked me.”

“I liked hanging out with you tonight,” I manage, running a hand over my nape. The sex was a solid seven out of ten. “You were lots of fun.”

The past tense is meant to emphasize that this is over, this is where we part ways and likely never see each other ever again, but instead, it has the opposite effect.

A broad, bright beam spreads across her face. “Maybe we could go on a date.”

Oh for the love of—

I resist the urge to slap a palm to my face. Actually, I don’t. I drag that shit down my face in slow motion before scrubbing it back up, all while suppressing a groan. Points for that.

“We live in different countries.” Shit, we’re not even on the same coast. We literally couldn’t be farther apart. She’s in Florida, I’m in Vancouver.

“Well, maybe I could…come to Van—”

“No.” Irritation prickles the back of my neck, my jaw tightening as I turn away and find the slacks I discarded by the hotel room door the second we came barreling in here. I pull out my phone and open the Uber app. “I don’t date. I’m sorry. I’m not looking for anything serious right now.”

I honestly don’t understand how this is a conversation I still need to have. I’m not shy about my personal life.

No, that’s bullshit. Nobody knows shit about my personal life, except my teammates and family. But those hours in between games and passing out alone in my bed? I’m not shy about those hours. I’m photographed with different women every weekend. Girls know what they’re getting into with me. There’s even forums. Ones where they bitch about me treating them like a one-night stand all while hoping for a second ride on my stick.

But that’s what they are, all of them. One-night stands. They know that going into it yet consistently leave disappointed when that’s exactly how it plays out.

I stuff my phone in my pocket, returning my focus to the woman on my temporary bed. She’s fingering the silky red fabric in her hands, eyes on me.

“I ordered you an Uber,” I tell her. “He’ll be downstairs in five.”

Her jaw hangs, with surprise or the urge to argue, I’m not sure. All I know is I need her to get dressed so I can get her the hell out of here and have some peace and quiet before my head explodes.

“Look, Lauren—”

“Lacey.”

“Lacey, right, sorry. Look, Lacey, I had a great time with you tonight, but it’s over now. I travel way too much to maintain anything serious.”

“Is that the only reason, then?” She slips her hand in mine, letting me tug her from the bed. My gaze dips down her body because I’m not blind—she’s a fucking rocket, all long, bronzed limbs, a killer rack, and a tight little stomach. “Because you don’t have time with your hockey schedule?”

“Yes,” I lie. “I don’t have time.” I could make time, I suppose. If I was interested. But I’m not. I’m never interested.

“Oh.” At the very least, it seems to appease her. Maybe it makes her feel less self-conscious. I don’t know, and don’t particularly care. The only women I care about are my mom and sister. And Cara, I guess. “Well, can I get your number?”

Fuck no. “I don’t give out my number.”

Before she can reply, the door to my suite beeps twice and swings open.

“You still up, Beckett? Wanna grab a quick game before—aw, for fuck’s sake.” My teammate and best bud Emmett Brodie pauses at the edge of the bedroom, eyes bouncing between me and Laaa…Lacey. He holds a hand up, shielding himself from her. I guess he thinks Cara might castrate him if he even looks at another woman. In all fairness, she might. She’s one fierce chick. “This is why I room with Lockwood.”

Yeah, he’s been doing that for about a year now. Emmett and I used to room all the time before he met Cara. Occasionally, I convince him to do it again. But he and Lockwood are both in serious relationships, so I guess they don’t like to chance having random naked girls in their room while we’re on the road. I get that. I think. I mean, I don’t know a thing about relationships, serious or otherwise.

“She’s leaving,” I tell Emmett, peeking around his hand shield to look at Lacey. She’s still naked. She also doesn’t seem to give a shit Emmett is standing here. In fact, her gaze drags down his body and then back up.

That’s the thing. Girls—regular girls and girls who’ve been on the cover of Maxim—don’t give a shit who it is they sleep with so long as he’s on the roster and making millions. That’s why they’re called puck bunnies; they hop from one player to the next.

“Your ride’s here,” I say to Lacey. “Might wanna get dressed, sweetheart.”

“Well, I—”

“He’s got a girlfriend and I’m not interested.” Annoyance slices my tone and makes my jaw tick. I wanna play COD with my friend and pass out face-first in my pillow. She needs to go.

Lacey blinks up at me. Finally, she tugs her dress over her head, red silk draping perfectly over her narrow hips. Fuck, she’s hot. I may not remember her name when she walks out this door, but I will remember that.

“Can I give you my number? That way you can call next time you’re in town, or if you change your mind and want me to fly—”

“Sure,” I clip out, cutting her off, because please don’t finish that sentence. I gesture to the pad of hotel paper and pen sitting on the bedside table, because I’m sure as shit not letting her touch my phone. The last thing I need is a stage five clinger messaging me or my number floating around the internet. I don’t give it out to girls, ever. “Write it down.”

Emmett’s eyes widen, the corner of his mouth curving with a smirk as he moves past me, heading into the bathroom.

Lacey follows me to the door and I heave it open. She pauses there, looking up at me like a lost puppy. She can pout all she wants; I’m not fucking taking her home with me.

“Well, thanks…for tonight. Hopefully I’ll see you again.”

“Hopefully.” Unlikely.

Her smile is so bright I almost feel bad. But then she leans in to kiss me on the lips and I turn my head at the last moment. She gets my jaw.

“Bye, Lauren.” I flip the lock when the door slams.

“Lacey!” she screams out from the hallway.

Emmett strolls in, shaking with laughter. “You’re such an asshole, Carter.”

I follow him to the couch while he queues up the Xbox, sinking down on the opposite end as I adjust my junk. “They don’t get it. I’m not looking for a relationship.” I snag the half-empty box of Oreos off the coffee table and twist one apart, licking at the icing. “Why does every girl think they’re gonna find a boyfriend through a one-night stand?”

“So you’re shitting on their hopes and dreams at a happy life with a man who loves them?”

Hopes and dreams? What the fuck? “Cara’s turning you into a marshmallow. They can hope and dream all they want, just not with me.”

“Because you’ll never settle down?”

I lift a shoulder and let it fall. “I donno. Maybe, maybe not. Not any time soon.”

He chuckles, shaking his head as he tosses a controller into my lap. “One day, some girl is gonna walk into your life and flip your whole world upside down and you’re not gonna know what the fuck to do with yourself except drop to your knees and beg her to never leave.”

My head bobs as I throw another cookie in my mouth. “And that’ll be the day I settle down.”