Gauging the Player: A One-Night-Stand Sports Romance (The Playmakers Series Hockey Romance Book 3)

else. Where’s your girlfriend tonight?”
Hunter shrugged. “She couldn’t make it.” He shamelessly eyeballed a trio of women hovering at the edge of the dance floor and smiled wolfishly. “But don’t worry about me.”
Dick.
A familiar, haunting strain began, jerking Gage’s attention back to the band. Beside a violinist, the guitarist adjusted his guitar strap. Nice Strat. Hope he knows how to play that thing. What Gage wouldn’t give to be home right now, working over the strings on his own guitar.
He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping it would stave off the carnage about to befall his ears.
A voice, sultry and soulful, resonated through the speakers. He lifted one eyelid, disbelieving what he was hearing. Words declaring that her lonely days were over seemed to pour from deep within the woman’s diminutive form. Where she kept that voice, he had no idea. He opened the other lid and searched for a sound engineer or some proof she waslip-syncing but found nothing.
He darted another look at the stage. The singer lowered herself into a semi-crouch, her eyes shuttered. Bringing her voice with her, she rose, unfurling as though the song worked its way up from her toes to her throat, emphatically belting out that she’d found a dream and a thrill. The lyrics, delivered with so much heart, sent a thrill through him.
Transfixed, Gage fastened his gaze on the singer laying her soul bare and locked out the rest of the crowd, a silent apology rolling around in his head. Totally underestimated the power of her vocals. But how can such a small person sing like she’s got the lungs of a walrus?
The song came to an end, people clapped, and Gage reentered his body. Beside him, Hunter’s shrill whistle pierced his eardrums. Thiswas followed by a guttural growl. “Fuck me, I want a piece of that!”
Gage flinched. Ah, to have a T-shirt that boldly stated “I’m NOT with Stupid” would have been priceless in that moment. The guy was twenty-five—same as Gage—with all the maturity of a twelve-year-old.
The keyboardist began a soft tune, and the singer warmed up her vocal chords on the next song, Christina Aguilera’s “Beautiful.” She seemed to feel every word, every note, to the depths of her being.
More songs followed, and his curiosity was so piqued that when Blair surprised him with a hug from behind, he was totally caught off guard. Rather than flee, he gave in and accompanied her to the dance floor to get a closer look.
Mere feet away, the singer belted out another Etta tune, “I Just Want to Make Love to You.” Gage roamed his eyes over her, taking in light eyes—Blue? Green?—and long curls that floated around her heart-shaped face in a golden froth, skimming ivory shoulders bare of anything but the straps of her red dress. The dress hugged her curvy figure. If her voice hadn’t sent chills zipping along the race track that was his spine, her body alone might’ve done it.
Shapely calves narrowed to shapely ankles and feet encased in sky-high heels, emphasizing strong, lean legs. His mind vaulted to wondering if those legs were insured, like Tina Turner’s. They should’ve been because they were lethal. Then his mind took another herky-jerky detour, like Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride, and an image of those legs wrapped around his neck bounced through his brain. He quickly wrestled it under a virtual mat labeled “Neglected Need.”
Blair chose that moment to snake her arms around his waist and pull him into a grinding hug. Though his virtual mat was a lumpy, bumpy mess for all the Neglected Need stuffed under it, he disencumbered himself from her hold, saying he needed to hit the head. He hated like hell to lie, but he loped in that direction nonetheless and stepped outside. His gaze caught on Beckett Miller, the best man, who sported an empty pink baby carrier on his chest—and rocked a pink baby in his arms.
Miller’s eyebrows inched up his forehead when Gage stepped up beside him and said, “I’m being chased by an octopus. Can I hang out with you two for a while?”
Miller chuckled. “Sure.”
Babies were a mystery to Gage—he had zero experience—and he bent down to get a closer look, hovering his finger by her cheek. She latched on to it, wiggling frantically as she tried to draw it into her gooey mouth. “What’s her name?”
“Elayne, after my mom. We call her Layne, though.”
“She’s got quite a grip.”
“Yeah, she’ll make a good golfer, won’t you, sweet pea?” Beckett cooed to the baby.
The singer walked out, startling when her eyes landed on them. “Oh. I didn’t realize anyone was out here.”
Gage straightened in a flash.
“I was keeping my daughter away from the noise,” Miller said.
“Not that your singing is noise,” Gage interjected, side-eyeing Miller, who smirked.
Eyes fixed on Layne, the singer came closer, a beautiful smile lighting her face. “How old is she?” Despite the four-inch heels, she was small. Gage wasn’t big like Beckett—guy had a few inches on him—but beside her, he felt like a giant.
“Seven months and ten days.” Beckett spewed a litany of facts, and Gage suppressed an amused eye-roll. Proud papa.
During a lull in the exchange, Gage stuck out his hand. “I’m Gage Nelson, and this,” he tilted his head toward Beckett, “is Beckett Miller.”
Curious eyes bounced between them. “Are you hockey players too?” No fangirling in her tone. Nor had she offered up her name.
“Yep,” Beckett said. “Gage plays for the Blizzard, and I’m with Arizona. And if you’ll excuse me, I think it’s time for a diaper change.” He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and made a stink face.
After he left, Gage turned to the woman. “Do you watch hockey?”
She shook her head, and her curls sprang like silk coils. “I don’t have time to follow sports. So are you a friend of the bride or the groom?”
He chuckled. “Both.”
Tipping her head at him, she arched one blond eyebrow. “Sounds like there’s a story behind that smile.”
“There is.” Gage already