Heat floods her cheeks. “I actually like where this is going.”
“Tomorrow night after the game. Don’t make plans.” I lean in close enough to smell myself on her skin. “You’re going to lie on that bed and spread your legs and show me everything.”
She closes her eyes, biting on her bottom lip.
“And you’re not going to come until I tell you to.” I drag my knuckles down her cheek.
“You’re evil.”
“Mmm. Maybe a little.”
Her eyes are dark, and her breathing is ragged. I can tell she’s already imagining it, already picturing herself spread open on that bed while I sit in a chair, giving her nothing but commands. The thought makes my cock twitch even though I came five minutes ago.
“I can’t wait,” she whispers.
“That’s my girl.” I push off the wall and step back, then move close enough to raise her chin, forcing her to look into my eyes. “Can’t wait to see you again.”
“That’s not what you tell someone you hate,” she says with a sparkle in her eyes.
“Ah, right. Fuck you, Ken Doll.”
“I’m counting on it,” she says as I head toward the connecting door.
I pause with my hand on the frame. “I’m having fun.”
“Me too. And that’s what scares me the most.”
I flash her a grin. “We won’t survive this.”
“That’s a problem for future us to deal with,” Kendall says, flicking the door closed in my face.
I chuckle, shaking my head. She’s sassy to a T, and, fuck, I can’t get enough. It’s like she’s cast a spell on me.
I fall into bed and stare at the ceiling for hours, unable to sleep, unable to think about anything except the woman sleeping on the other side of the wall.
Game day isgray and cold, and I show up to morning skate with a cockiness that makes everyone give me the side-eye.
“Someone’s chipper this morning,” Callan says.
“It’s game day,” I tell him, my good mood spreading. “And I have a feeling we’re going to win.”
“Whoa,” Hunter says. “Did you get laid last night?”
I roll my eyes. Even Coach gives me a look during practice, that narrowed gaze that says he knows something’s different but can’t place it.
If he only knew.
I spot Kendall in the stands during our afternoon skate, her camera pressed to her face as she captures us warming up on the ice. I thrust, opening my hip flexors, knowing she’s staring at me. Today, she’s wearing jeans and an Angels hoodie with her hair pulled back into a ponytail, looking professional and put together. It’s almost like she didn’t get fucked up against a hotel window for the entire city to see.
Our eyes eventually meet across the ice, and I lower my stretch slowly. Even from this distance, I can see the tensionrolling off her. She shifts her weight and crosses her legs before licking her lips.
I give her the hint of a smirk, and she bites her lip.
Philadelphia comes out swinging, and we spend the first period on our heels, scrambling to keep up with their speed. They’re a good team.
In the first five minutes, I take a hit that rattles my teeth, and I spend the next ten trying to shake off the ringing in my ears. By the time we get to the first intermission, we’re down by one, and Coach is screaming at us in the locker room with his face red and veins bulging from his neck. One thing Coach doesn’t tolerate is losing.
“This is not the team I’ve coached all season,” he sneers. “This is sloppy, lazy, undisciplined hockey, and I will not fucking tolerate it. Do you want to be losers? No, you don’t. So, get your heads out of your asses and play like you’re going to the damn playoffs. I’ve coached teenagers better than this.”
