Soft laughter drifts through the open locker room door and…
Yeah, more importantly.
We’re going to win.
Because Kylie is watching tonight.
Kylie Connors, little sister of Damon Connors, general manager of the Sierra and the man who can make my life miserable here on the Sierra.
By all accounts, she should be off-limits.
But her laughter…fuck.
The first time I heard it, swear to God, it felt like phantom fingers wrapped themselves around my heart and squeezed hard.
And haven’t let go since.
Every time her pretty blue eyes come to mine my pulse speeds. Every smile she gives me is like fucking poetry and sunshine, a gift I shouldn’t accept but can’t turn down. And don’t get me started on actually being responsible for her laughter.
If her smile is poetry, her laughter is…
Beauty personified.
She’s not shy—at least not around anyone aside from me. Something I can’t decide if I love or hate. Is she scared of me?
The man who raped her was her brother’s teammate.
Damon might not be playing any longer but, for all intents and purposes, I occupy the same position as that monster.
So if that reserve was because she was scared of me…well, I would fucking hate that.
But maybe, my mind whispers, my soul hopes, maybe she’s shy with me because of something else.
Maybe it’s the same something that’s drawn me to her.
A connection, a thread of hyperawareness, a need prodding at me to seek out her attention, her smiles and laughter, her…touch.
That I would love.
Unfortunately, months into trying to ferret out the answer to the question of Kylie’s feelings about me, and I’m no closer to the answer.
Or her touch.
Something that has me wanting to get to my feet and go out into the hall, to trail the soft threads of her laughter through the winding corridors, to draw her close and taste the lush curves of her mouth…
And likely put me and my future career into the crosshairs of her big brother.
Yeah.
I don’t want to die today.
I need more time to puzzle out the mystery that’s Kylie Connors.
So, I keep my ass firmly on the bench as I finish getting ready for the game—tying my skates with precise movements (finger-tight on the tops of my feet, snug through the bottoms of my ankle, loose on the last eyelet for maximum speed and flexibility). And I stay there as I redo the tape on my stick, as the starting lineup is announced, as I pull on my shoulder pads, strap on my elbow pads, tug on my jersey.
I’m just about to slap my helmet on my head when my cell buzzes.
I reach up, snag my phone.
