"You did this on purpose," I accuse, my voice rising. "Youknew exactly what you were doing, showing up here, talking about 'our place' and dinner. You wanted to piss him off!"
"So is that a no for the dinner waiting for you or...?" Ramsey asks, completely ignoring my accusation, his head tilted to the side in that infuriating way that makes me want to scream.
"Are you fucking kidding me right now?" I throw my gym bag onto the ground and start digging through it, yanking out a SCU hoodie. "My boyfriend just left me in a parking lot because of you, and all you care about is whether I'm coming home for your stupid dinner?"
"It's not stupid, it's chicken alfredo," he corrects, like that's the important part of what I just said. "With the little broccoli bits you like."
I shove my arms into the hoodie with more force than necessary, muttering curses under my breath. "You are such an asshole sometimes, you know that?"
"So I've been told," he agrees, not sounding the least bit bothered by the accusation.
"Fine. Whatever. Feed me. But I'm still mad at you. Are you getting on the bike or what?" I snap, tapping my foot impatiently as I secure the helmet under my chin.
"Well, I guess dinner is on then," he says, finally climbing onto the bike.
I slide on behind him, wrapping my arms around his waist tighter than necessary. Part of me hopes it makes him uncomfortable, but another part—a part of me kind of hopes he gets a little turned on.
And if that’s not fucked up, I don’t know what is.
Chapter 9
Reese
Ican't take my eyes off him.
The way Ramsey moves on the ice is fucking hypnotic. Even through his bulky pads and helmet, I can trace the exact lines of his shoulders, the flex of his thighs as he pivots and slams another player into the boards. My stomach does this weird fluttery thing when he glances up at the stands, and I immediately look away like I wasn't just mentally tracing everything about him.
"Where the hell is Hennessy?" I mutter to myself, bouncing my leg and checking my phone. I’ve been anxious since dinner last night and I need someone not related to me to freaking talk to. The gift bag next to me crinkles with every fidget.
I scan the entrance again, trying not to be too obvious about stealing glances at Ramsey as he barks something at his teammate. The way his mouth forms around what's definitely a "fuck you" makes my thighsclench involuntarily. Jesus, I need to do physical labor if I'm getting turned on by hockey practice and my best friend's trash talk.
Finally, I spot Hennessy's unmistakable silhouette at the entrance, moving with the determined waddle of a woman who's carrying what must be a future goalie. I wave frantically until she sees me.
"Sorry I'm late," she huffs, lowering herself next to me with a groan that sounds half-pain, half-relief. "This girl is using my bladder as a trampoline today. I had to pee three times between the car and the door."
I give her a sideways hug, careful not to squeeze her too tight. "I was starting to think Coach King had you on bed rest or something."
"He wishes." She rolls her eyes, rubbing her massive belly. "I told him I'd lose my damn mind if I had to stay in that house one more day. How's the testosterone showcase going?" She nods toward the ice.
"Brutal. Ramsey just about murdered Powell against the glass a minute ago."
"Sounds about right." She shifts uncomfortably. "God, my back is killing me. This baby better appreciate the hell I'm going through."
"Well, maybe this will help." I reach for the gift bag, suddenly feeling a little shy. "It's nothing fancy, but..."
Hennessy's face lights up as she pulls out the tiny white onesie. She holds it up, reading the "FUTURE COACH KING" lettering out loud before noticing the embroidered whistle with its ridiculous little bow. Then she spots the matching headband.
"Reese, you bitch," she says, eyes welling up. "You're making a pregnant woman cry in public."
"You like it?" I'm grinning so hard my face hurts.
"I fucking love it," she sniffs, clutching the onesie to her chest. "Beck is going to lose his shit when he sees this."
"How are you feeling?" I ask, trying not to stare too obviously at the ice where Ramsey just stripped off his practice jersey, revealing a sweat-soaked Under Armour shirt that clings to every ripple of his abs. Fuck me sideways.
"Like I'm smuggling a bowling ball between my legs," Hennessy groans, shifting uncomfortably. "Doctor says any day now. Beckham’s been sleeping with his phone in his hand; he said some shit about calling for an ambulance once it starts. He’s really not processing labor well."
Hennessy fingers the onesie again, running her thumb over the embroidered whistle before letting out a squeal that could shatter glass.
