“You know the pink panties Phoebe brought you?”
“Uh-huh.” He sucks a sensitive spot beneath my ear and my breath catches. It’s hard to think when he’s doing that.
“When you, um. What did you—” My hips tilt, pressing my aching center to his erection, and we both make a desperate noise. “You had them for a while.”
He pauses, pulling back to look at me with a little smile on his mouth. “How do you know that?”
“They were hanging out of your drawer when I babysat Bea.” My face is going warm. I hope he doesn’t think I snooped. “I saw them when I walked by your room.” I make a self-conscious face. “I was looking to see if you had a TV.”
He’s smiling more now, like he’s not embarrassed. It’s all so easy and fun with him. “Okay. I had them for a while before giving them back.”
There’s a fluttery, light feeling in my chest and I tilt my hips against him once more, scattering sparks through my body. His eyelids dip and he grips my hips.
“What did you do with them?” I ask.
He arches an eyebrow, something hot but playful in his eyes. “You want me to show you?”
I bite my lip and nod, and in an instant, I’m yelping with surprised laughter as he flips me over onto my back and starts to undress.
CHAPTER 73
TATE
The next morning,Jordan, Volkov, Miller, and I watch from the bench as the guys scrimmage on the ice.
The guys are all mixed up, the line between pro and farm teams blurred, and there’s a spike of pride and satisfaction in my chest.
Jordan was right. Changing the lines is how we’re going to come back from this.
She slept in my bed last night, too. She came on my hand and again on my mouth and I came all over those gorgeous breasts of hers. We fell asleep and I slept like the dead. The urge to tell her everything, how I’m in love with her and want her to be a part of our family, sits at the edge of my thoughts every waking moment, but I hold back.
She still needs time.
At the sidelines, Darcy sits with her laptop, making notes about what she’s seeing. From his office at the top of the arena, Ross watches.
The guys play for a bit and our attention catches on one player.
I blow the whistle. “Hallstrom,” I call, waving him over. He used to play center back in Sweden before he came to the minors.
Rasmus Hallstrom skates to the bench, breathing hard. He’s young, maybe early twenties. Light brown hair, medium build, and from what I saw at the bar last night, quiet and serious.
I gesture at Jordan, giving her the floor.
“You want to play center again?” she asks.
“Yes.” He holds her gaze, then mine. “I’m too good to play in the minors.”
Jordan lets out a light laugh. At my side, Alexei crosses his arms, glaring at him.
I smile. “Well, let’s see what you can do.”
He skates away for another face off and Jordan gives me a sidelong look, like she just figured something out. Like she knows she’s right.
“Play him with the third line,” she says.
“As you wish.”
With Hallstrom in as center with the third-line pro wingers, the game restarts. We’re supposed to be watching all the guys, observing how they interact and play together, how the dynamic shifts as the lines change, but all of us focus on Hallstrom. He weaves and darts, skating harder than any other player on the ice. He passes between the wingers with ease, like they’ve been playing together for years.
