Fuck, maybe hedidneed therapy. Had he finally reached his breaking point?
Jett
Oh god, it was Harrison fucking Killinger, in the flesh.
It was no different than spotting an extinct animal or a mythological beast.
Harrison Killinger was so much cooler than Bigfoot, even if he currently looked too much like one.
He had to stay cool. It wasn’t like he would return to the woods before Jett could get photographic evidence.
At least he hoped so.
He tried to extricate himself from the crowd of hockey fans, but his friend, Mike, seemed to be pulling more of them off the street as the minutes ticked by. He knew Windsor loved their hockey, but he hadn’t expected this.
Sometimes, being who he was felt unreal. The fact that he did what he loved for a living, and not only did he get paid to do so, but people knew his name, blew his mind. People cheered for him, wrote about him in newspapers, talked about him on Sportscenter and—
Okay apparently, he was signing breasts now. Jesus, how did anyone adjust to this?
The crowd wasn’t thinning, and Jett tried to keep smiling. So much for meeting a couple of Mike’s teammates on the off-season while they got together for a pick-up game.
He wanted to believe this would be the last time he did Mike a favour, but who was he kidding? People asked him to do things, and he did them. That’s why he was modelling and throwing himself into every sponsorship gig. His agent asked, and he said yes.
Never saying no was going to get him in shit one day.
Hell, it was right now.
Normally, when he offered to sign and interact with fans, there was security to keep people from pushing and grabbing him. But he was on hisown, which meant he had to find an escape route or he would be standing all day in the sun, listening to Mike show off for the entire town.
He had to remind himself to breathe. All he had to do was take selfies with people, sign some posters, and act like the cocky young rookie he was—maybe give them a soundbite for Twitter.
He could see Harrison over the crowd, and his stats—and Jett’s memory—hadn’t been lying because the man was gigantic. He was six foot four, well-built even after being off the ice for five years, and handsome as hell with the best hockey butt Jett had seen.
Ten out of ten: a total stud.
He was arguing with a young man who looked like him, a brother maybe? The guy had been one of the first ones there with Mike’s teammates.
“Oh my god!” A shrill voice took his attention, and he turned to see a trio of teen girls squealing over him like he was a basket of puppies. Or a 10-ounce steak. Their voices went up another octave as they thrust their magazines at him with Sharpies in hand, and he realized with embarrassment that it was his Calvin Klein underwear shoot.
“You are like—the hottest guy ever!”
“I told my boyfriend he has to grow his hair like yours. He has brown hair, but like—it kind of looks the same—”
One was just sobbing hysterically, as if so overwhelmed that she couldn’t form words.
Jett awkwardly tried to reassure her as he took a selfie with the three of them, cringing when they tried to pull up his t-shirt to glimpse his abs. They couldn’t have been more than seventeen.
He met with a few kids next, which helped to cheer him up after dealing with the hysterical girls. He knelt on their level to ask them questions, signing everything they handed him. One girl, who couldn’t have been more than seven, brought a whole bag of stuff for him to sign, including a trading card and a ball cap. He waved off her parents’ embarrassment and signed it all, asking her about her budding hockey career when she mentioned it.
When he straightened up again, Jett saw Harrison heading back to his fancy car, and a brilliant thought occurred to him. He shot a glance back atMike, but his friend was boasting loudly to a group of people about their high school days, and all the time they spent together—which was a lot.
Sighing, Jett took a chance and slipped between the people until he was next to the Mustang, just as Harrison plopped into the driver’s seat.
Opening the passenger door, Jett waved at the crowd and said in the most cheerful voice he could muster, “Thank you, Windsor! This was a blast!”
He threw himself into the passenger seat and quickly closed the door, locking it for good measure. When he turned away from the window, his gaze slammed into crisp, ice-blue eyes framed by dark lashes and dark furrowed brows.
“Drive, Killinger!” Jett yelled, yanking his seatbelt over his chest and clicking it into place. He thought Killinger might argue with him, but then he revved the engine, and the crowd parted.
