"5 CHERRIES: Ms. Ramagos writes a compelling, yet fun novella. I couldn't put this story down. The connections to pop culture and the hockey angle made the story resonate with me. And who wouldn't want to meet a sex god, rock idol? I liked that Ms. Ramagos didn't make the heroine, Melody out to be a groupie. She gave the character her own strong identity, but also added dimensions to her that made her soft and relatable...And the sex scenes! Very hot! I felt like I was really right there with them! If you want a great, sexy story tinged with sports, rock and roll and a lot of heart, then you want Sports Beats, Rock Hard Seduction. You won't be disappointed!"--Tiger Lily, Whipped Cream Reviews

"4.5 STARS: Sports Beats by Tonya Ramagos is an electrifying dance into the sweet side of seduction. Ms. Ramagos has created another contemporary romance that defies the typical mold and delivers an amazing love story with plenty of fresh excitement and heart tugging moments. Ms. Ramagos proves yet again that contemporary romance does not have to follow the same old tired formula to be an astounding success. Congratulations on another fine masterpiece."--eCata Romance

Chapter 1

Anticipation, adrenaline and hope had Melody Forbes holding her breath. Her heart pounded against her rib cage, her pulse hammering in her ears like a fierce heavy metal drum beat. Come on, come on, you can do it, guys. You can do it. Though her lips moved with each word, her chant was silent, pleading. They had to do it. They just had to. They needed the win, and with the time on the clock quickly counting down, if they didn't start to turn the game around now all hope would be lost.

On the ice, the action seemed to be happening in slow motion. The Philadelphia Flames had the puck, the players guarding it with expert skill as they moved down the rink and prepared for the shot. Then it happened. In one swift, powerful stroke, the Philadelphia Flames center player sent the puck sailing across the ice and straight into the net for the score.

Melody exhaled a whoosh of air. She leaped from her seat, colliding elbows with the man at her side as the crowd around her erupted into a deafening roar of party horns, whoops, hollers and applause. Inside the hockey rink, the players of the Philadelphia Flames exchanged high-fives and congratulatory pats on the back. But no one in the capacity-packed Wachovia Center was more elated than she. That was her brother down there strutting his stuff across the ice, her brother who had just made the shot that tied the team with the Carolina Hurricanes. Way to go, Brock!

Her pulse slowly returned to normal, even as her heart swelled with pride. She couldn't explain the feelings that came over her when she watched her brother on the ice. It had been too long, far too long, since she had reveled in the experience of a live hockey game. The exhilaration, the rush of adrenaline, nearly made her forget that, at this very moment, she should've been at home.

Was her father okay? Surely she would sense it if he wasn't. Wouldn't she?

It wasn't as though she had left him alone. He was under the supervision of a trusted family friend and next-door neighbor. Still, it had been months since she had left her father with anyone except Brock, and the knowledge of that made her uneasy. If not for the relentless coaxing by her brother, her father and their neighbor-friend, Stanley, she never would have left tonight. But as the crowd settled around her and the game continued on the ice, she silently admitted that she had needed the break, and what better way to set aside one's troubles than to watch a kick-ass hockey game?

One more shot. If Brock or one of his teammates could only make one more shot, the Flames would win the game, effectively ending the losing streak that had overcome them shortly after the season began. With the end of the third period drawing near, there was still time; but it would be a close one.

Putting every ounce of confidence she possessed in the players of her favorite hockey team, Melody slowly lowered herself into her seat. Moments like that which just passed made her long for her camera. In her mind's eye, she could see just how the picture would look: Brock would have an intense expression on his face as he sent the puck flying past the Carolina Hurricanes' goalie and straight into the net. She would see that picture, she was sure. It would appear in a magazine or newspaper somewhere in the coming week, probably even flashed across television screens on tomorrow's news broadcasts. But it would be a picture taken by someone else's camera, some member of the press that she could see standing around in the press box a mere few feet away. A member of the press that was here tonight only because it came to them as an assignment--here tonight for the story and not for the love of the game or even perhaps their job.

"Now that's hockey." A male voice broke into Melody's reverie. "It's about damn time Forbes woke up and started playing the game."

Melody instantly bristled. Several retorts came to mind as she turned to look at the man. But he hadn't been speaking to her. Instead, his head was turned toward a woman on his other side. Because the man was sitting on the edge of his seat while his companion sat comfortably back in hers, Melody could see the woman quite well. She was breathtaking, supermodel material, a glistening beauty with long, straight scarlet red hair and gleaming ivory skin. She wore an olive green blouse that fit loose but not so loose to hide her delicate curves. The blouse was accented by what appeared to be a matching broom skirt, probably fitted at the hips and flaring out as it continued down to her ankles. Melody could just see a navy blue sash printed with stars and moons tied around the woman's trim waist. Corresponding silver stars and moons dangled from her earlobes, tangling with her hair.

The woman looked at the man, amusement lighting her expression. Her eyes were a dazzling shade of green with an outline of blue, and Melody felt a sense of what she could only describe as power drift through the air. It made her shiver. This was definitely a woman of confidence, full of energy and light, in possession of the power to have any man she wanted wrapped around her finger.

Melody shifted her attention to the man just as he turned his gaze back to the rink affording her with a clear, side profile. Unable to resist, she took him in with a slow appraising glare. Slim, lanky, with just the right amount of muscles to show that he cared about his body, but not so much that he nearly lived at the gym. His hair was a dark brown, the back short, the sides and front long and hanging haphazardly in his eyes. A thin dark beard lined his crescent-shaped jaw and chin, inching upward around his mouth to meet a thin mustache above his upper lip. He wore a Philadelphia Flames jersey and a pair of black pants. He wasn't drop-dead gorgeous by any stretch of the term but good-looking nevertheless. She had always thought so. There was simply something about the man that made her senses jump to attention and take notice every time she looked at him.

They had never been officially introduced, but she knew the man was Reese Torrin. She knew he was a friend of Brock's and the drummer for the popular heavy metal band, Facade. Though she often preferred dance or techno music as opposed to heavy metal, Brock was a fan. She'd heard Facade's music at his house and had seen photos of Reese Torrin on the CD cover and in metal magazines her brother had scattered about.

Deciding it best to bite back the retorts still bouncing around in her brain, Melody looked back at the rink. On the ice, the puck had landed in Brock's control once again. He swayed across the ice with the grace of an Olympic figure skater, keeping the puck hugged by the end of the stick as he made his way closer to the goal. The crowd around her began to chant "Go, go, go, go" as he positioned himself for the shot. Suddenly, the puck sailed like a bullet shot from a high-powered rifle across the ice toward the net...and was quickly blocked by the Carolina Hurricanes goalie. The chant of the crowd immediately changed to a disappointed collective "Aw."

"Shit! Forbes should have had that shot," Melody heard Reese say. His arm flew out in an aggravated gesture toward the rink then fell back to rest on his thigh. "What the hell is he doing out there?"

"Playing the fucking game," Melody spat before she could stop herself. So much for biting back retorts. Too much of her life spent around strong-willed men had made her just as fast on the punch and foul-mouthed as the next guy. She tried to control it--her temper, her often knee-jerk reactions that had her speaking without first thinking and usually included a curse word or two--but more times than not she failed miserably. "What? You think you could do better?" She purposely raked her gaze over him as if in disgust or challenge. "Get out there and prove it."

The thought would have been comical if she hadn't been so angry. The man was a musician, a drummer for crying out loud. He wasn't an athlete. And to play better than Brock...ha! Brock was one of the best players on the team. Hell, he was one of the best players in the NHL. But even the best could be expected to screw up a time or two. He was only human.

For Pete's sake, look at all her brother had gone through in the last few months. Their father had been diagnosed with Alzheimer's. Though in retrospect the doctors believed he had been suffering from the disease for quite some time, the diagnosis had come only a few short months ago. Both Melody and Brock had seen the signs, the occasional loss of memory, the repetitive asking of the same question, the subtle changes in his personality, but both had dismissed them as simply signs of getting older. He was in his early seventies after all.

Their father's diagnosis had caused devastating repercussions in both of their lives. Though he was physically able to continue life as a normal adult male, mentally he required the supervision of a young child. Melody and Brock had tossed around their options of making sure their father was cared for, and in the end, it had been Melody who had given up her apartment in New York and moved back home. It had been a sacrifice, but necessary and one easier for her to make than Brock. Being a freelance photographer gave her the flexibility to work from anywhere she chose, whereas Brock's place on the hockey team required constant practice and travel.

Still, though Brock's professional career hadn't changed, everything else about him had. He spent every available moment that he could squeeze returning home to give Melody a bit of relief. He was carrying the weight of worry and concern on his shoulders, but on the ice he couldn't allow it to show. There was no room for one's personal problems to interfere on the ice. The principle rule in hockey was that of continuous action and play. So what if a player is having personal difficulties? So what if a player has suffered a minor injury or needs a moment to rest? So what if a player has broken his hockey stick? The game still went on. With twelve tough and beefy men, six on each team, skating around on the ice all with the undying need to win, a player couldn't afford to lose his focus even for the shortest of seconds.

So there he was, Brock on the ice doing what he did best, or at least trying to.

Melody glared at the man beside her, a man who was supposed to be her brother's friend, and felt like slapping him for his lack of compassion. Heaven knew the asshole deserved it.

Reese returned the woman's wide-eyed glare, stunned that she had spoken to him at all much less in the way in which she had spoken. They had bumped elbows several times during the course of the hockey game but he hadn't paid the least bit of attention to her. His mind had been focused on the game...until now.

She was angry. No. She was pissed. At him. Oops. Sports fans were notorious for becoming so involved in a game that their every emotion heightened to dramatic proportions. His did. Whether live or on television, he became so entranced with the action that he probably sounded like a want-to-be coach rather than a spectator. And anger topped the chart of emotions that showed through the most often in nearly every fan. He'd watched fights break out in the stands because of an argument that had erupted between fans. Although...

His gaze traveled over her and he felt his insides stir. Rolling around in the stands with this woman could prove to be more fun than the game. She was incredible. Her blondish brown hair looked to be about shoulder length, though he couldn't tell for certain, as she had it pulled into a high tight pony tail on the back of her head. Her skin was a sun-kissed tan and he couldn't help but wonder if that tan spanned her every inch. Her eyes were big and round and a deep shade of green that could make a man melt, or squirm if those eyes held the level of anger they did at this moment, as she glared at him. She wore no make-up, save for the light pink gloss that moistened shapely lips currently set in a grim thin line. Lips that he found himself longing to feel against his, to feel as they planted wet kisses down his neck and torso, to see as they wrapped around his...

Like most of the people around them, she wore a Philadelphia Flames hockey jersey and blue jeans. Because she was currently sitting down, he couldn't tell how well those jeans formed to her lower body, and it was probably a good thing because he'd felt his blood pressure rise high enough for him to orbit the moon the moment he looked at her. She reminded him of a tomboy version of Kate Beckinsale, and damn if she wasn't fine.

Unfortunately, right now, this so-fine woman was glaring at him with a set jaw and icy daggers shooting from her eyes.

"He should've known he wouldn't make that shot," Reese countered with a gesture of his arm toward the ice rink.

"It was an open shot," the Kate look-alike argued back. "There was no reason to think he couldn't make it. The Carolina goalie was simply fast on his feet this time."

"Oh, what do you know?" Reese grumbled and returned his attention to the game.

"Apparently more than you," he heard her mutter.

In his peripheral vision, he saw her shift in her seat as if trying to move further away from him. The game sold-out, packing The Wachovia Center to capacity. There was nowhere for her to go unless she left entirely. She'd stopped paying attention to him but now that he'd noticed her, really noticed her; it was hard for him to concentrate on anything else. Damn, she was hot. Forget that she'd looked at and spoken to him in a way that held the equivalency of the frozen ice the hockey players skated on. She may be an ice bitch on the inside but the outside was sexy as hell.

"Way to go, Reese," Diana said on the other side of him, her voice low enough only he could hear her. "What a way to meet a beautiful woman."

Reese shot her a glance and scowled. She was right, of course. As was the Kate look-alike, he silently admitted. The Carolina goalie had simply been quick on his feet. It had actually been an amazing save on Carolina's part.

So why had he nearly bit the head off the most attractive woman he had met in years? Who the hell knew? It had been a knee-jerk reaction to her obvious fury against him. She was a woman, after all, and there weren't many that really knew what the hell they were talking about when it came to hockey. Still, this woman apparently did, and if he'd had any brains at all he would have agreed with her, struck up a conversation, asked her out for a drink, taken her back to his place and started a game all their own that would've put this hockey match to shame.

Maybe he could turn this thing around. If he apologized, pulled out his charm card--he knew he had it in his pocket somewhere--maybe, just maybe, he could get this woman right where he wanted her. He started to turn, opened his mouth to speak, but she leaped out of her seat. So did everyone else around them. He stood, too, to see what was happening on the ice. Eric Amonte, the Philadelphia Flames left defenseman, had control of the puck and skated backwards toward the goal. With less than thirty seconds left on the clock, he whirled, simultaneously shooting the puck and sending it sailing straight into the net securing a three-to-two win for the Flames over the Hurricanes. And when he looked back at the woman again, he saw only the back of her as she headed down the aisle away from him.

She should've gone home, Melody thought as she closed and locked the bathroom door. After the game, she should've insisted Brock take her back to the house before following the rest of the team to the victory party. Instead, it had been her brother who'd done the insisting. Their father was well taken care of. Stanley was with him and prepared to stay the night. She had no reason to return to the house immediately.

Still, the guilt threatened to eat at her insides like a family of termites feasting on a tree. Her father was sick and here she was about to attend a party. Clarence Forbes would've never left his sick daughter to party with a bunch of celebrating hockey players, even if hockey was his all time favorite sport, even if the hockey players in question were part of his all time favorite team. He'd proven exactly that years ago when Melody had been thrown from a motorcycle and sustained serious internal injuries. She'd been in the hospital for weeks and her father had refused to leave her side. Now he needed her, but instead of being there for him she was at a fucking party.

With a heavy, saddened sigh, Melody took her time changing from the comfortable hockey jersey and blue jeans she'd worn to the game into a two-piece bathing suit for the victory pool party. She'd only attended a half dozen victory parties in Brock's three years with the team, but it had taken only two before she learned appropriate attire was an absolute must.

Oh, she could walk into the pool area wearing jeans and a shirt, and in less than ten minutes she would be soaked to the bone in ruined clothes. Then she would have no choice but to change. So after her second dunking by the team members and the second set of ruined clothing, she'd learned her lesson and now beat the guys to the punch. They would still dunk her, she knew. After all, they had to get their kicks, and giving a team member's sibling hell was such fun.

She shook her head and sighed. At least this way the dunk wouldn't cost her a fortune.

As with nearly every victory party that happened when the team was home in Philadelphia, tonight's was being held on Eric Amonte's million-dollar estate. It was the largest one owned by a team member, and the only one with an indoor pool. With December temperatures outside in the bone-chilling numbers, a pool party would've been nonexistent had it not been for Eric's lavish home.

Though Melody wasn't often impressed with wealth, she had to admit Eric's place was awesome, to say the least. Three stories decked out with the best money could buy. He used the top two floors as the main living area while he'd set aside the entire bottom floor for play. There was a small kitchen and bathroom for convenience, but all the other rooms were complete with every toy a grown man could love. Arcade games, pool and foosball tables occupied one room, another larger room housed a small practice skating rink, and down a long hall that led to the back of the house sat an indoor swimming pool, sauna and Jacuzzi.

Yes, Eric Amonte was a rich boy--a very rich boy that loved to flaunt his wealth. It wasn't hockey that had given him his money, though his position with the Philadelphia Flames did top the mountain in his already hefty bank account. Surprisingly enough, the tall, robust, sandy-haired jock was also a businessman, and if his possessions were any indication, he was no doubt a dammed good one.

That wasn't the only thing Eric Amonte was good at, Melody mused and attempted to push all guilt over her father to the bottom of her thought files. Memories of hot, sweaty, dominant sex assailed her as she stepped out of the lavish first floor bathroom. They had been lovers for a short time two years back. Their split had been mutual, each choosing to revoke their lover status and return their relationship to that of platonic friends.

Eric Amonte was a wild man, in bed and out, and while Melody liked more excitement between the sheets than most, Eric had offered her more than she could handle. Thank God no one knew they had once been lovers. Not even Brock. They'd been very discrete and neither of them were the type to brag.

Naturally, Eric was the first man she encountered when she began walking down the long hall that led to the pool area.

"Be still my heart," he said dramatically, his hand flying to the center of his broad bare chest. His eyes, authoritative and dark, made a slow slide from the roots of her hair down to her toes and back up again, awakening a fire inside her that made her want to squirm. "Woman, you're trying to kill me."

"Oh stuff it, Eric." Melody rolled her eyes and kept walking. It angered her the way her body still reacted to his gazes. It angered her even more to know that he knew the effect he could still have on her. His looks weren't a rock-my-world turn-on, but damnit they could still make her wet and he knew it.

He caught her by the arm and spun her around. Her body collided hard and flat against his. "I would love to stuff it, baby," he said in a heated, seductive whisper. "Right inside that sweet, tight ass of yours." His hand traveled down to squeeze her left butt cheek and she felt the evidence to back up his words pressing against her stomach.

The thought of his dick, so thick and hard, invading her most secret hole made her pussy throb with need. It was something he had always wanted to do to her when they'd been lovers and the one thing she had denied him. She'd never had sex that way. Though the fantasy excited her, the thought of making it a reality scared her half to death.

It had been far too long since she'd had sex. That was why her body reacted so viscerally to Eric now, because Heaven knew she didn't want to go down that road again. She needed to get laid, but Eric Amonte was certainly not the man for the job. Reese Torrin, on the other hand...

Where in the hell had that come from? Getting laid by Reese Torrin! Had she lost her mind? The man was Brock's friend. That in itself made him a no-no in her book. She'd only deviated from her personal rule, to never get involved with her brother's friends, once in her life with Eric Amonte and look at how that had turned out.

Besides, Reese Torrin was a total jerk who obviously saw women as the inferior species, stupid when it came to such manly things as sports. Oh, what do you know? That comment had held such a chauvinistic ring that, even though it hadn't been followed by you're just a woman, the words had been clearly implied. And to top it all off, the man was a bigger player than Eric Amonte. She knew that for a fact. Brock had told her stories, and even if he hadn't, the mere fact that Reese was the drummer for a heavy metal band was enough to cement the man's player status in stone.

Not that she was looking for a long-term relationship, or anything of the sort. She simply wanted someone to spend time with, to share nights of good, steaming sex with no strings, no emotional bonds, no promises of forever, because she couldn't offer forever. Forever demanded things she couldn't promise a man.

"Don't be so vulgar." She punched Eric's arm. Her knuckles screamed in pain when they contacted with the hard wall of muscle, but she didn't allow herself as much as a wince. Instead, she tried to step back, to free herself from his embrace, but his grip on her waist only tightened.

"You're not getting away from me that easily, sweet cheeks," he drawled, a wicked, boyish grin spreading across his lips. "You're not wet yet."

Oh yes I am, she wanted to say, but despite the double entendre of his words, she knew what he meant. "I haven't even made it to the pool area yet," she said instead, her teeth clenched as she continued to struggle in his arms.

"Then let me help you with that." He scooped her into his arms before she could utter a word in protest and began walking down the hall.

"Put me down, you big ape." she ordered even though she knew she was wasting her breath. He would put her down all right, right in the deep end of the pool. Oh well, at least she'd have her dunk for the night over with early.

By the time Reese had driven across town to drop Diana at her hotel, then reversed direction and made his way to the ritziest part of the city where Eric Amonte's mansion was located, the Philadelphia Flames victory party was already in full swing. One thing about it, the bastard had one hell of an amazing house, he mused as Eric's place came into view. He'd wanted Diana to see it, knew she would appreciate its turn-of-the-century architecture. She got off on stuff like that. But try as he might, she'd repeatedly declined his invitation to join him. "What if the hot Kate Beckinsale look-alike shows up at the party?" she'd asked him.

Yeah, like his luck could be so good. On second thought, that wouldn't be good luck at all. A woman like her spelled danger with a capital D. No way could a man keep things on a purely sexual level with her. One night between the sheets and walk away the next morning? Yeah, right. More like crawl away the next morning with his tail tucked between his legs and his heart in a zillion pieces because he would've instantly fallen in love.

Whoa! Back up there, buddy. Fallen in love? What the hell was he thinking? Love didn't exist. But lust? A lust like what would be acquired from spending a night with a woman like that could leave a man in pieces.

What if the hot Kate Beckinsale look-alike shows up at the party? Reese had simply rolled his eyes and told Diana she'd lost her mind. Still, she'd insisted he go to the party alone. Victory parties with a bunch of jocks weren't really her thing, and besides, a man never knew when the love of his life would suddenly appear before his eyes, she'd told him. And if said man was with another woman when said love of his life walked in, well, wouldn't that create one hell of a problem?

The love of his life... Ha! Reese snorted as he found a place to parallel park across the street from the house. There was no love of his life. He didn't believe in love. L-O-V-E was simply another meaningless four-letter word. People tossed it around like a sheet of paper in the wind, as if it held no more substance than the word poop or even shit or damn. People swore their eternal love to another one day, only to decide they'd been wrong, and find a different recipient the next. He could easily think of much better four-letter words. Such as the particular favorite of his understood in its context in every corner of the world that had more uses than could be counted on one hand and, best of all, it didn't matter how often the recipient changed.

For instance, just a few short months ago Reese had thought Diana would be a good recipient. He couldn't deny the woman was drop-dead gorgeous. But instead of falling into bed with Diana Thompson he'd fallen into a friendship. His friendship with her was one he hadn't thought possible to have with a woman. No way was he going to fuck that up by fucking her.

And as for the Kate look-alike he'd seen at the game tonight, okay, honesty time. He'd gladly fall to pieces for a chance to fuck her. She was the stuff fantasy fucks were made of.

Too bad she would only be in his fantasies.

Reese slid out of the car and walked across the street wondering absently if Diana had some sort of spell in one of her many books that would bring his Kate look-alike to his bed. Yeah, right, even if his favorite witch could pull off something like that, he probably wouldn't know what to do with the prize when it was received. A woman like his Kate look-alike would require, no, she would rightfully deserve more than a wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am type of fuck. She would...

He was reaching for the doorknob when the front door of the house swung open and a woman stormed out, cutting off his train of thought and nearly knocking him on his ass.

"Sorry," she muttered without as much as a pause in her flight.

Stunned, Reese stared after the woman. She couldn't have been more than five-foot-one, he determined, with frizzy bleach blond curls that looked as though she'd stuck her finger in a light socket. Or maybe it was her temper fuse that had done that to her hair, because if the fury he'd spotted in her expression and sensed in her tone was any indication, her fuse had blown.

"Baby, wait." A man called out in a drunken slur as he stumbled out the door after her. It was a chilly twenty-eight degrees outside and the dip-shit was dressed in nothing more than a pair of dripping wet swim trunks and a pout.

Reese took a step to the side, crossed his arms over his chest and watched the scene unfold.

"Eat shit, Cody," Light Socket spat back over her shoulder.

Cody Stillman. Reese shook his head, laughing to himself. It was Cody's first season with the team. Reese had been watching him play. He was good, a man who'd seemingly been born to play defense for the Flames. And it was no wonder, Reese mused. It looked as though Cody was accustomed to playing defense on and off the ice.

"Come on, honey," the hockey player whined, shuffling a crooked path after the woman. "We were only messing around."

"Feeling up another woman's tits in front of me is more messing around than I can handle," Light Socket fumed.

"I'm sorry, baby. It won't happen again. You shouldn't take things so seriously. You know you're the one I love."

Reese couldn't help but roll his eyes. He'd known it was coming and wouldn't leave disappointed. A figure appeared in his peripheral vision and he turned slightly to find another woman, this one with jet-black hair and clad in a blood red bikini. Her skin was so pale she could've passed for a vampire, but it was the impressive set of knockers spilling over the bikini top that beckoned his attention.

So Cody had copped a feel with this woman. Hell, Reese couldn't blame the man. Tits like that practically demanded to be touched. They were probably fake, he decided. They were too perky, too firm and stable not to be. But fake or not, they were damned sure enticing.

"She's pissed again," the vampire with the luscious breasts muttered in a low voice only Reese could hear.

In the yard, Light Socket whirled around to face Cody. Angry tears streamed down her puffy cheeks. "You should've thought about all of that before you started feeling her up." Her hand flew out, index finger extended, pointing at the woman standing at Reese's side.

Ms. Vampire stepped away then and sauntered down the walkway to Cody. "Come back to the party, darling," Reese heard her say. "You're going to catch pneumonia standing out here in you swim trunks. She'll be over it by morning. Then the two of you can make up and everything will be hunky dory again."

"I don't give a rat's ass if she gets over it or not," Cody shouted, his pout now replaced with a snarl. "I didn't do anything wrong." Hooking his arm around Vampire's waist, he began walking back to the house, steadily defending himself with each faltering step. He addressed Reese with a quick nod as they passed and disappeared from sight.

Reese glanced back at the street where Light Socket had hopped in a car and was now speeding away. With another shake of his head and a laugh, he turned. That little episode had been a prime example of the meaningless L-O-V-E.

"Better Cody than me," he muttered and entered the house.

Though he immediately began searching for Brock in the small crowd scattered about, it was Brock who found him. "Reese, my man. Glad you could make it," the hockey player greeted. He slapped Reese on the back and shoved a beer bottle in his hand. "What took you so long? I was beginning to think you weren't going to show."

Reese took a long pull from the beer before answering. "I had to take Diana back to her hotel."

"That is one hot woman." Brock whistled in appreciation. "You're a better man than me, keeping your relationship with her on the friendly level. Drink fast. You have a lot of catching up to do."

Reese guzzled down the rest of the beer without taking a breath and then grabbed another from a nearby ice cooler. "You played a good game tonight," he said as they started to make their way to the back of the house. Though he'd been there before, he was no less amazed by the lavish home than he'd been to on his first visit last hockey season.

"My shots were off--too slow," Brock disagreed. "But I've got one hell of a team. Tonight's win was theirs. I'll make it up to them at next week's game."

"Hey, Forbes, Amonte's captured your sister and is headed for the deep end," Dave Peca called out with a wide grin brightening his Canadian features.

"Poor Mel," Brock chuckled and pushed his way through the crowded pool area. "You guys are always giving her hell. You still haven't met Melody, have you?" he asked Reese as he stepped up beside him.

Reese shook his head and scanned the room. Dozens of half-plastered men and woman cluttered the enormous swimming pool and the concrete that surrounded it. The scene reminded him of a few of the after-show parties he and the other guys in Facade had thrown through the years, minus the pool of course.

"The purple bikini in Amonte's arms," Brock said and pointed to the far end of the pool. "Look quick because he's about to toss her in."

Reese followed Brock's finger until he spotted Eric Amonte and the woman in the purple bikini squirming wildly in his arms. Though her face was turned away from him, something about the woman registered. Blondish brown hair tied into a high ponytail, sun kissed skin, shapely body...

He caught a glimpse of her face just as Amonte dropped her into the water and his heart stilled. No way. No fucking way!

He saw the purple glint through the water as she sank to the bottom and then slowly swam her way back up. She broke the surface facing him. It was kind of stupid really, the way everything suddenly seemed to happen in slow motion. Matrix style, he mused as he watched wide-eyed. Her hands came up to brush the hair from her face as her head broke the water. Sprinkles seemed to hang suspended in the air around her. Her breasts floated just below the surface, the water invading the deep tantalizing valley between them. He could've sworn he heard Diana's mischievous laughter ringing in his ears as he stared, mouth gaping, at the vision. It was her! His Kate Beckinsale look-alike ice bitch was none other than Melody Forbes.

"Well, I'll be a son of a bitch."