Jackson
I eat my sandwich late, but for once, it doesn’t affect my game play.
Probably because I’m already fixated on lithe curves, floral-scented shampoo, and a woman who tastes of sweet innocence and dangerous temptation.
I shouldn’t be the one to corrupt her.
But I’m going to do it anyway.
I have to.
It’s less want than obsession and—
I’m not good. I’m done pretending to be, trying to be, desperate to be.
I’m going to take what I want and keep taking it until she sends me away.
I scoop up the puck, even though it’s bouncing and not all that great of a pass, corralling it on the blade of my stick, and sprinting up the ice. I’m skating harder, moving faster and with more confidence than normal.
And I know it’s because Claire is watching.
Because the ego in me wants to impress her—needs to impress her.
I can still feel those curves against my front, still taste her on my tongue, still hear her soft moans in my ears.
A sharp slash across my hands focuses me. I lose the puck for a second and have to scramble to regain control as I sprint through the neutral zone and try to make my way into the net. It’s not easy and I spend what feels like an eternity just holding on to the puck and looking for an option.
Drive to the net?
Thread a pass through the center.
Back to my point?
The corner and behind the net?
Nothing is great at the moment, so I dance around the other team, dish the puck to myself with a pass off the boards, and try to be patience and creative and…effective.
Effective ends up being bringing the puck to the boards, holding it there, waiting for Aiden to come bail me out.
Grunting, keeping my feet under me by pure dint, grinding my teeth together when I get a crosscheck to the back but not rising to the bait they’re trying to create, I slap a lid on my temper, hold fast and—
“Boxie.”
As in jack-in-the-box, as in the nickname the team has christened me with, as in—
Aiden sweeping in to help me.
I clock in his reflection in the glass and…
Kick the puck to the side.
My teammate’s the shit. He’s good. Great really. And that means he’s ready for the puck, even though my kick pass is blind and not completely accurate.
He sweeps it up, makes a nice deke, and whips it back to Smitty, who’s cutting hard to the net.
I lean against the fucker who was slamming his stick into my back, delaying him long enough to make it tough to get to Smitty but not enough to get the interference penalty. Then I’m pushing off the boards, hustling my ass to the goal, creating chaos and trying to not get hit in the ass by Smitty’s hard-as-fuck shot.
The crack of the stick.
The crunch of my skates on the ice.
The roar of the crowd.
He gets the shot off, and it whizzes uncomfortably close behind my unpadded back. Thank fuck, though, I’m out of the way and then I’m crashing the net, locking my stick with one of the fucker’s on the other team, digging at the rebound that bounces out, trying to shove it in behind the goalie.
The whistle comes before I can get it that far.
Fuck.
There’s pushing and shoving, curse words and crosschecks, and then the refs are in the scrum, pushing us apart, shoving us toward our respective benches—and making sure we go instead of drawing each other into fights that’ll land us five minutes in the penalty box.
I drop down onto the metal plank next to Aiden and Walker, my other linemate, and we take a few seconds to catch our breath, drink some water, and then we’re game-planning for our next shift, eyes glued to the game, watching for any breakdowns we can exploit or openings we can take advantage of.
And the game goes on.
Back and forth, shift by shift, grinding out each and every play until—fucking finally—we get a couple of goals.
And keep that lead all the way to the final buzzer.
I drop my bottle into the holder and push up from the bench, my legs heavy and tired as I fist bump my teammates and then head down the hallway for the locker room.
I’m almost there before I feel it.
Feel her.
Pulse stuttering, I glance over and see her coming down the hall. She’s changed into her usual game day outfit of jeans and a nice blouse, topped with a blazer that has the Breakers logo emblazoned above the breast pocket.
Fuck, she’s beautiful.
I peel off from the line, nearly running Smitty over in the process. But I ignore my pain in the ass teammate, ignore what’s no doubt going to be a smirk on his face, ignore that he’ll likely give me shit for this later and get his gossip jollies on in the meantime.
I just close the distance between Claire and me.
Her throat works as I stop with barely a foot between us, not wanting to get my sweat all over her, cognizant of the fact that her flats are no protection against my skates.
But I do slip my hand from my glove, lift it, and gently tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear.
“Hey,” I say inanely.
“Hey,” she says back, cheeks going pink.
I open my mouth to ask for her room number, knowing that we’re not relocating tonight because we’ll be playing the other New York team the night after next, but I stop.
Because—
I just wanted to go on a real date…
I can talk my way into her room, maybe even into her pants, but—
A real date.
She deserves that and so much more, deserves the fucking world.
And that’s not going to happen if I have her room number.
It can happen if I’m smart, if I take care of her, if I make sure to give her all she deserves before she wises up and kicks my ass to the curb.
“Meet me in the morning for breakfast?” I ask softly, mind already spinning. We’re in New York City—if there’s ever a place to give someone the world, it’s here.
“Breakfast?” she whispers.
“Yeah,” I whisper back, my mouth hitching up in the corners.
She blinks, a flurry of emotions cascading across her expression, too fast for me to tease out.
But then her chin is coming up, her shoulders are straightening, and she nods.
“I’ll meet you in the lobby at ten.”