“Great. That all works.” I swipe my clammy hands on my skirt and try not to stare at his mouth.
It’s damn hard.
Especially now that I know what that mouth tastes like, feels like.
Heat pulses between my legs and I glance away. I’m in dangerous territory right now, scrambling to maintain professionalism.
I clear my throat. “How do you feel?”
“Locked in.”
“Good. Let’s do one run-through. No freelancing.”
Bennett’s lips twitch. “You gonna play reporter?”
“Yes.”
“Then ask.” He moves past me, grabbing his stick from the pile of gear by the door. He rifles through his duffel bag, pulls out a roll of tape. Saunters over to the kitchen island and leans his stick against the counter.
“Bennett Steele—” I make my voice lower and serious.Reporter-style. “You’re eligible to play tonight after serving a league probation. Do you regret what happened at your house party?”
He picks at the tape, unwinding a long piece. Slowly. Methodically. Like he’s got all day.
I try to focus on the task, but my gaze drifts to his hands.
Strong. Powerful.
“I regret that it escalated.” His tone is calm, like he’s practiced. “I’ve taken responsibility for my actions. I respect the league’s process, and I’m focused on my team.”
“Good.” I play with my necklace, still focused on the calculated motions of his hands as they make a clean spiral down the shaft. “Don’t add anything.”
He leans the stick against the island, tape stretched between his hands. Then he dips his head, catches the tape between his teeth, and yanks. The tape tears with a sharp snap and my stomach drops.
“Next question.” My voice wobbles, flustered, as he smooths the edge of the tape down and begins the process all over again.
“Ask.”
“Some fans are calling you a hero. Others are calling you reckless. What do you say to that?”
The corner of his lip tips up. The tape stretches, then gives, and he pulls it taut around the top of the stick.
“I’m not discussing a private situation. I’m here to play hockey.” His voice is even and neutral.
“Perfect.” A rush of relief washes over me. “If they keep pushing for details?—”
“I repeat myself. Got it.” He tugs the tape with his teeth again and I’m flushed all over.
“Good. What did you learn while on probation?”
He finally glances up at me. His eyes hold mine—sharp and steady—and for a long second I can’t breathe.
“Accountability. Discipline.” He repeats the words as if he’s reading a cue card.
“Great.”
His mouth twitches. “And I learned that I don’t like being supervised.”
“You can’t say that.”
