My eyes move along her shapely body, taking in her ample chest that stretches the fabric of her bright-pink dress shirt that is tucked into a pair of wide-legged black slacks. The pants are tight around her waist and hips, showing off all kinds of curves that are begging to be held on to. The fabric strains against her thighs in the most mouthwatering way. I wonder what it’d feel like to be between them, her thighs squeezing my ears and then my hips.
Whoa.
Ears, absolutely, suffocate me. But hips…that’s a new thought.
But I can’t help it, she’s a walking dessert.
She looks me up and down just as greedily. Her pupils dilate as her lips part just a bit. When her tongue peeks out, wetting her already glossed lips, I’m a fucking goner. I preen under her gorgeous gaze. I have to have seen her before. She has to be my age, maybe a bit younger. She has to go here because I see her Bullies’ badge. So I know her, right? Surely I’ve talked to her because a goddess like that needs to be worshipped. But where? I know those eyes. Don’t I? Or…fuck… She’s got me all fucking fumbling!
“Who is that?” I gasp, to which Louis laughs beside me.
“Damn, I’ve never seen you with that look,” Louis teases, and I smack his chest guard in answer. “Hell, even I need to meet the chick that’s figuratively knocked Dawson on his ass.”
Dad pulls his brows together, meeting my gaze before shaking his head. “I don’t know that look, but I know your record. Stay away from her.”
With that, he starts out of the bench. I stand, reaching to stop him. “What? For real?”
Dad looks back at where Mom is greeting her before meeting my gaze again. “Remember Rowe Mercer?”
“Yeah,” I answer automatically.
Rowe was my mentor at Rink & Riffs. He didn’t come to the camp often, but when he did, he was a good time. He played in the NHL for a long time and retired well into his forties. He was named one of the best teammates in the league, and everyone loved playing with him. Great dude, but he passed away a while back from a heart attack. He and my dad were good friends when they played together, and after, Dad was the reason that Rowe volunteered his time at Rink & Riffs. “What does he have to do with her?”
“That’s his daughter,” Dad says, giving me a narrow-eyed look, much to my surprise.
I hadn’t known he had a daughter; he never spoke of her. Not that we ever spoke of anything other than hockey.
Dad sets me with a no-nonsense look. “Stay away from her. She’s going places and knows what she wants.”
I feign hurt. “Wow, am I not going anywhere?”
“Not if you don’t make a choice.”
Yeah, I walked right into that one, and he isn’t wrong.
“You don’t need the distraction, and neither does she.”
Again, he isn’t wrong, but as my gaze moves to her once more, I find I don’t care about any of that.
I might not know what I want for the future, but right now, I know I want to know her name.
CHAPTER
FIVE
Ambrosia
Anyone and everyone who is involved in the hockey world, especially the Bellevue Bullies’ world, knows the Sinclair name.
I have seen all of them play. I have cheered for them while eating my nachos and drinking my beer. I scream “Shoot the puck!” at Louis Sinclair more than I care to admit because the dude loves to wait for his moment to shoot. Yes, he scores, and yes, he is amazing, but damn, waiting for him to shoot has had my asshole tight in anticipation.
I have volunteered at Rink & Riffs plenty of times, and when my dad passed, Baylor and Jayden came to bring us food and offer their condolences.
In the last six years, my path has crossed with all the Sinclairs—except for him.
Dawson Sinclair.
When I was at his uncle’s camp, he wasn’t. While I’ve watched him play hockey plenty of times, his focus is on the ice and only on the ice. We haven’t had classes together, nor do we run in the same circles. While we did find ourselves at a party together freshman year, it was a one-time thing and hasn’thappened since. We’ve always been like two passing trains, him going one way, me going the other, and not once have we been at the station at the same time.
