"Dinner in twenty,"his text reads."You may want to keep Pirelli away from your sock drawer. Reesie may have spilled the beans about your color-coding system for your ginch."
I just roll my eyes.Hockey players.
When I finally open the door, Jamie's sprawled across his bed, scrolling on his phone. His t-shirt has ridden up, exposing a strip of skin above his waistband. I do not notice this.
"Mission successful?"His eyes dance with amusement."Have you come up with a solid plan for how to reorganize the ice machine for better efficiency?"
Heat creeps up my neck."You're hilarious. Team dinner in twenty minutes."
"Plenty of time to color-code my socks then."He shoots me a cheeky grin.
I busy myself putttering around, rearranging shit that doesn't need it while refusing to rise to his bait."We're meeting in the lobby."
"I'll try not to be fashionably late."He stretches, and that damn t-shirt rides up higher."Though you should probably give me a detailed schedule. Preferably laminated."
I roll my eyes again.Seriously. Hockey players."I'll meet you downstairs."I grab my wallet, needing to escape."Don't be late."
The Italian restaurant is walking distance from the hotel. Thank god, because I need the air. Jamie falls into step beside me as we trail behind the others.
"So."His voice is pitched low, just for me."Do you alphabetize your protein bars too?"
"Only on game days,"I deadpan before I can stop myself.
His startled laugh hits me squarely in the chest.
The restaurant is noisy, warm, and smells amazing. Charlie immediately starts giving us a lecture about proper pasta-to-sauce ratios while Louis chirps him about British food. I end up wedged between Austin and Jamie at our long table, hyperaware of how close Jamie's thigh is to mine.
"Wine list?"Jamie asks the server in perfect Italian becauseof coursehe speaks Italian. His accent makes something flutter in my stomach.
Through dinner, Jamie charms everyone, drawing out shy Olivier with questions about Quebec and trading chirps with Louis about goalie superstitions.
I should be relieved that he's fitting in so well with the guys. Instead, I'm distracted by the way his mouth moves when he speaks, the way his fingers tap against his water glass, the way he keeps finding excuses to lean into my space to grab the salt or reach for bread.
"Earth to Rylan."Louis's voice next to my ear snaps me back."You gonna finish that?"
I realize I've been pushing the same piece of chicken around my plate for ten minutes.
"Just tired,"I mutter. But when I look up, Louis is giving me a strange look.
The walk back to the hotel seems both too short and too fast. Jamie's chatting away beside me about some British murder mystery Charlie recommended, but my mind's stuck on what happens next. We're going back to that room. Our room. Where I'll be trapped watching his bedtime routine. Earlier on the plane he wouldn't shut up about his fancy silk sleepwear, and now Ican't stop my brain from wandering. Does he actually wear those bougie pajamas? Maybe he sleeps in just his boxers.
Or maybe... fuck, I need to stop this train of thought right-fucking-now before—
"You okay there, Cap?"Jamie's voice is closer than I expected."You seem tense."
I am so fucking screwed.
Chapter 8
JAMIE
The light from my phone screen is too bright in the dark hotel room. It's after midnight, but sleep isn't coming. The unfamiliar bed isn't helping, but mostly it's the hyperawareness of Rylan Collings lying only a few feet away. I can tell from his breathing he's not asleep either.
"Can't sleep before a game either?"I finally ask, keeping my voice soft.
His sheets rustle."Not usually,"he admits after a pause.
"Let me guess – too busy reviewing plays in your head?"
