Claire
Just another work day.
Just another pregame snack run.
Or so I tell myself.
I roll my shoulders, trying to ease the ache in my loaded-down arms as I hurry down the hall toward the Breakers locker room. As I brace because I know what I’m about to see.
Who I’m about to see.
Hockey players shouldn’t make my heart race.
Not after all this time.
Not after being all but adopted as the team’s little sister.
But Jackson does.
They also shouldn’t make my blood boil.
I work with these guys on a day-to-day basis. We banter. We tease each other and spend loads of time together during the season. I’m friendly to actual friends with most of them.
Just…not Jackson.
Sighing, I focus on the task at hand—delivering pregame snacks so I can get back to my real duties as assistant to the General Manager of the Breakers hockey team—and shove any thoughts of Jackson down—boiling blood or heart racing or otherwise. I turn into the locker room. I need to be a professional, need to be focused on the job at hand. I need to be…
Not be swooning after a certain hockey player…who I love or hate, depending on the day.
I need to not be—
I screech to a halt in the open doorway, mouth falling open, bag of snacks and Aiden’s hot dog nearly slipping from my grasp.
Biting back a gasp, I dash out of the room and turn and press my forehead against the cool wall, eyes slamming closed, cheeks scorching hot, heart racing all over again.
Because holy mother of all the pucks on the ice, I can’t see these things.
Can’t see Jackson Hunter with those chocolate brown eyes and wavy dark hair, the perfect amount of stubble on his face and that body built for sin…
Wearing a pair of tiny, skintight boxer briefs.
Wearing only a pair of tiny boxer briefs.
Showing off a body that’s…
Well, it’s provided sexy fodder for my dreams many a night.
And it likely will again tonight.
If only he didn’t hate me.
My fantasies would be so much better.
“Enough,” I whisper, pushing away from the wall and shoving down all of those pesky emotions that Jackson invokes. I have a job to do—I need to check in with Luc and then I have some paperwork to take care of and meetings to schedule and team bonding events to brainstorm.
And most importantly, the guys need their pregame snacks.
The gas station hot dog wrapped in foil paper for Aiden is growing cold in my hand, and I’ve almost dropped the bag of roasted but unsalted almonds for Marcel at least three times. Plus, Raph needs his chocolate muffin, and Walker his lemon-lime Gatorade, and—
Jackson needs his peanut butter and strawberry jelly sandwich on boring old white bread.
Eaten exactly forty-two minutes before game time.
And it’s forty-five minutes before puck drop.
I’m not going to be the reason he has a bad game.
Hockey players and their superstitions.
It’s too much.
Or maybe I’m grumpy about it because my heart’s racing and my legs are like that jelly, and I know I’m going to be dreaming about Jackson tonight.
Again.
“Focus, woman,” I order myself.
If silly foods and rituals are what it takes for the guys to have a good game, then that’s what it takes for them to have a good game.
Who am I to judge?
Not to mention, I can make a mean PB & J. And I’m a pro at buying random gas station hot dogs—as barf-inducing as that life skill is. I can keep specific brands of almonds at the ready and eat chocolate muffins alongside Raph—because I always buy one myself from Dommie’s bakery…or, okay, fine, I buy myself a couple if I’m feeling really peckish.
(And I’m always feeling peckish).
My job is to help the Breakers be successful, and I take it seriously.
Even if Jackson Hunter makes me want to both run away and lick him like a lollipop.
At the same time.
“Stop delaying,” I whisper and straighten my shoulders.
Right. Let’s do this.
I step into the locker room—
And nearly swallow my tongue for the second time.
The room isn’t empty like my nighttime fantasies—the ones where Jackson orders me to turn around and settle my hands on the bench, the ones where he takes his time tugging off my pants or lifting my skirt. Where he kicks my legs apart, settles his cock at my entrance, and—
My knees wobble.
Thankfully, that snaps me out of my sex haze, and I wrench my gaze away from Jackson in those truly tiny boxer briefs, the material straining against his muscular thighs, lovingly caressing his pert, biteable ass, the waistband hanging low enough to expose those indents at the top of his hips that I’m desperate to trace my tongue along.
Food. Drinks. Pregame rituals.
That’s what I’m here for.
Not a snack of a man.
Not—
“Clairey girl!” Smitty calls from across the room, making me jump and nearly lose the hot dog a second time—something that Aiden notices if him hurrying toward me and snagging it from my hand is any indication.
“Thanks,” he murmurs softly, tugging at a lock of my hair.
“Of course,” I tell him, tossing a smile in his direction that’s fake as hell before hurrying to the table I set up on the far side of the room earlier.
“You good?” Smitty booms—because the big defenseman never just talks, he booms, his voice echoing across the room, filling up all available space…except with his woman.
She’s the opposite of him—soft-spoken and shy—and Smitty is different with her.
A big teddy bear.
Almost quiet.
Definitely gentle.
I can’t lie. I’m jealous of that gentle he gives Kailey.
My life hasn’t—
No.
“I’m good!” I call back, clinging to the make-believe that I’m fine, that I’m completely unaffected by the man who pleasures me in my dreams and glares at me in real life. “Just working my way through my mental check list as usual,” I say lightly, tossing Smitty his pregame snack of choice—a pack of Sour Patch Kids—then tapping my temple with now free hand. “It’s quite long today.”
He smiles at me—the warm, Smitty smile that won me over years ago now, that made me trust, that helped me open my heart enough to trust him and the others.
I would do anything for him.
Anything for all of them.
Which is why Jackson can’t stand me.
“Always a million miles ahead, aren’t you?”
Unbidden, my gaze swivels to Jackson, who’s come close enough that my stomach flutters, my body wants to sway forward, to feel all the strength of him against the softness of me.
“No,” I say quietly, “but I try.”
That makes him scowl, to unleash the familiar glare in my direction.
“Here’s your sandwich,” I tell him, shoving it at him and forcing a smile as I turn to the table and start unloading my bag and the rest of the goodies, double-checking that everyone has what they need to play the best hockey they can play.
“You coming on the next road trip?” Smitty asks.
Now my smile is genuine. “I wouldn’t miss New York for anything.”
The bright lights, the bustling city. Central Park. Food that makes my mouth water just thinking about it. Bakeries and Broadway shows.
So full of life when mine…
Isn’t.
Or wasn’t.
Things are different now.
I’m not alone. I have friends and—
Jackson snorts and I clench my back teeth together, ignore the bolt of pain cascading through my jaw, then turn for the door.
“Wait,” he mutters, reaching out as though to take my arm.
I skitter back.
He clenches his hand into a fist, and he drops it to his side.
There might be regret on his face, might be a thousand other emotions trailing through his deep brown eyes.
But I don’t get the chance to see them.
Because just as quickly as he started to stop me…
He’s turning away.
Only…why do I get the sense that he’s running away?