He shrugs, but there’s a grin twitching at the corners of his mouth. “Just ready to work.”
Bullshit.
He’s amped aboutsomething, and it sure as hell isn’t drills. He’s not this lively on a good day—definitely not when paired with me.
But today? He’slocked in. Dialed up to eleven. Not looking at me too much, but not avoiding me either. There’s a rhythm in the way we pass the puck back and forth that’s almost too smooth.
Too easy.
And I hate how much I notice it. How much I noticehim.
The way sweat clings to the back of his neck under his hoodie. The way he keeps licking his bottom lip like it’s dry—like he’snervousabout something but trying to play it cool.
I toss the puck back to him. “You’re gonna burn a hole in the ice if you keep skating like that.”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “Then get out of the way.”
Cocky bastard. God help me, I love when he’s like this.
Still, something about him is off today, even beneath the swagger. There’s a buzz under his skin, like he’s counting down to something.
Whatever it is…It’s got him amped. And it’s gotmewatching him more than I should.
Especially when he leans down to adjust his laces, the back of his hoodie riding up just enough to flash a sliver of skin. A trail of muscle. And suddenly I’m picturing my mystery guy bent over the same way, begging for more.
Fuck.
I skate away before I get caught staring.
“Hey, you good?” he calls after me.
I throw him a smirk over my shoulder. “Good as ever, Shaw.”
But I’m already counting down the hours until tonight when I can hopefully get him out of my head. At least for a few hours.
The knock comes at exactly10:02.
Not that I was watching the clock like a psychopath or anything.
I stay still for a second, phone in hand, pretending I’m not already halfway hard just from anticipation. The last few nights of messaging had been…intense. The guy on the other end—NoNamesNeeded—might’ve started off all “quick and discreet,” but once I got him talking, he’d unraveled like a gift-wrapped fantasy. Shy. Curious. A little mouthy, but mostly eager.
Exactly the kind of guy who needed someone to take control.
Exactly the kind of guy I love wrecking.
I glance toward the door, but I don’t move. Not yet. I like the tension, the pause. I let him knock again—short, clipped, almost nervous—and then I finally drag myself off the couch.
Two steps to the door.
One deep breath.
I check the peephole…and everything in me stutters.
No. Fucking. Way.
Todd.
Star player. Captain. Guy I’ve been fantasizing about for years, even when I told myself I didn’t want him.
