The Slot: A Rochester Riot Sports Romance by Colleen Charles Page A

He wasn’t given to nervousness around women, far from it. His old teammates on the Bruins would piss themselves laughing if they saw him now, scrubbed and polished up to impress a lady when they knew he could fuck anything in a skirt whenever he wanted to.
    But man, this chick was a knockout. Her road-hugging curves had him salivating even more than a carton of the powdered doughnuts they both craved. That silky hair cascading over her shoulders put him in mind of a Greek goddess, and he’d love to see her in a gauzy toga with her tits bared to complete the fantasy. And then he’d yank her hair, bend her head back, and kiss her senseless.
    However, she was planets apart from his usual type. She wouldn’t simply fall at his skate-clad feet in a heap of feminine promiscuity. He wondered about Ryder’s choice of words in describing her – chiller unit, Frosty the snow-cunt. He winced at that last one. Tasteless and crude. He’d thought better of Ryder before he said that. The man’s stock had plummeted in Cole’s eyes because his feisty Italian mother had raised him to respect the fairer sex.
    He and Ryder had known each other in their early days in minor hockey, both of them bright-eyed and hopeful in making it to the bigs someday. He knew being passed over by the system, and the scouts had made Ryder bitter, but not to the point of being a misogynistic asshole. And his insinuation that he’d already sampled Eloise’s goods rankled him more than he wanted to admit. Cole still held old-fashioned values, and he didn’t consider women that had been around the block too many times for anything serious.
    Cole did accede that Eloise oozed confidence and clearly had achieved massive success in her career; the ice-queen act could certainly have helped her get there. But it could all be just that – an act. He could spot a workaholic and knew it was typically a substitute for something missing in that person’s life. Somewhere in history, Cole felt something had gone horribly wrong that men had stopped caring and providing for women, stopped worshipping them and respecting them in a way he felt they should. Perhaps it was his studies in philosophy, or perhaps just the fact he had a good example at home, but he felt strongly that women should be celebrated and revered, like his own mother had been. No one commanded more respect and adoration than a beautiful and staunchly Catholic Italian woman, he chuckled to himself. And her Spaghetti Bolognese kicked serious ass.
    In fact, his mother would kick his own ass from here to Sicily if she knew the extent of her son’s biblical knowledge of the opposite sex. He had no particular axe to grind with the Catholic religion in which he’d been raised, but the celibacy thing until marriage was not a concept he supported. He had no problem with promiscuity, and with his lifestyle, it could hardly be avoided. Constantly on the road and being entertained by host teams and their management, the stream of parties, booze, and broads seemed never-ending. Funny thing though, he still wanted his own ideal woman to be above reproach.
    You hypocritical douche, Fiorino.
    He took another sip of his scotch and suddenly choked, sputtering and gasping for breath, eyes watering. Eloise strode toward him, coat on her arm, wearing a gorgeous black cocktail dress that accentuated her hourglass figure. Her shapely legs rocked a pair of killer stiletto pumps. Black with tiny gold buckles.
    God, he wanted to slide his hand up her inner thigh. Would she be wet and slick? The image of black lacy panties flittered across his mind. The kind that were easy to take off. With his teeth. He shook his head to clear his lust and the last of the scotch, waved and got up from his seat as she approached. His baser instincts wouldn’t get him anywhere with this classy woman.
    “Hi,” he said, pulling out a chair for her. “Our table should be ready soon. Care for a drink?”
    “I’ll wait, thanks,” she said,