“Huh?”
Sienna rolls her eyes. “That’s whose jersey you’re wearing.”
“Oh, yeah. Right.”
My eyes follow him, but with his helmet thing on and the lights reflecting off it, it’s hard to get a look at his face, other than the scruff on his jaw. I guess he gets points for that. As for his body? That’s a complete mystery under all that padding; although, based on the sport he’s playing, I’d predict it’s probably decent.
All of that will wither to nothing, though, if he’s an arrogant jerk like I’m predicting.
I’m stereotyping, I know. I shouldn’t, because I live my life dealing with that exact same thing.
To the outside world, I’m just a beauty therapist. People judge me before they get to know me based purely on my chosen career.
I really should know better than to treat these guys the same way.
I blame the media. They make them out to be fuckboys who are more than happy to use the women who follow them around. The problem is, though, while many stories are blown out of proportion, they have to come from somewhere.
“Rett Donnelly is hot with a capital H. What I wouldn’t give to spend a night with him,” Rachel says.
“Then maybe you should have pulled his jersey from the box,” Lessy points out.
“They were wrapped,” Rachel protests, just in case we’d forgotten the events of the night so far.
I may have chosen mine at Sienna’s apartment, but they all opened theirs in the restaurant. We’re now all proudly—some more than others—wearing our player for the night.
“If I got to choose, it would definitely be Donnelly,” Rachel states, her eyes following him on the ice.
“Well, I’m happy with mine,” Lessy says happily.
“Me too,” Savvy agrees.
“Bea, look. Right now, look at your man.”
I roll my eyes. “He isnotmy man,” I mutter under my breath as I turn back toward the ice just in time to see the man wearing a matching jersey to mine drop to his hands and knees.
What the fuck is he—oh.
Holy shit.
“That’s—”
“Welcome to the boy aquarium, Bea. A place where we leave our inhibitions at the door and beg to be locked in the sin bin with as many players as we can squeeze in.”
“I’m sorry, what?” I ask, although I don’t take my eyes away from what that man is doing. Rachel was right: doing that in public should be illegal. And it only gets worse as more and more of them drop to the ice.
“Wait, is the goalkeeper doing full splits right now?” I balk. “Grown men should not be able to do that.”
“Hockey players aren’t your normal kind of man,” Sienna muses.
The warm-up time passes all too quickly, and before I know it, the lights have dimmed and names are being called. Theentire arena vibrates with excitement and cheers as each player shoots through a cloud of smoke and does a lap of the ice before getting into position.
“This is it,” Sienna says excitedly as the referee stands center of the ice with the puck in his hands.
“Kick-off?” I ask.
She giggles. “Puck drop. He’s literally going to drop the puck.”
“Right,” I mutter.
