I narrow my eyes. “I’m drinking like a four hundred calorie slushy.”
A muscle in his jaw jumps. “You are horrible at estimating calories. Even with the rum, that’s maybe two fifty, and that’s pushing it. It’s a small, and it’s mostly made of ice.”
“I’m actually really good at estimating calories,” I say back, but there’s no heat in the words.
His eyes lift to mine. “Overestimating, sure. So you don’t eat too much? Feel too full? Start feeling down about yourself if you enjoy a meal?”
I clench my teeth together and take a breath in through my nose.
Then another slurp of my drink as I look away from him. “We’re not doing this right now.”
“Then when’s a good time?”
“You’re not my fucking therapist.”
“Thankfully. I can put my hands on you, and they can’t.”
My heart races as my body grows warm.Holy fuck.His eyes don’t leave me; I feel him like a brand. Like he’s marked me as his, and maybe he has. It washisname I said when I came undone, not Sylvan’s.
“Tell me what you want to do when you’re done at Drayton.” He speaks quieter now. Softer.
I feel melty, like I could slip over to his side and fall asleep against his chest. He knows what the fuck he’s doing.
“I’m a psych major,” I start with, shifting in the seat to rest my cheek against it and peer up at him.
He dips his head, a small smile tugging on his lips. “I know.”
“How?” I narrow my eyes and think of him outside my door.
He shakes his head once, amusement still playing along the smallest lines near his eyes. “You’re not invisible, Neve Devine. You know that, don’t you?”
“Sure,” I say, “I’m great. But what does an elite hockey player care about us mere mortals?”
He laughs then, just one low sound, more of a scoff than anything, but it makes me feel warm, because I don’t think I’ve ever heard it before.
Is he like that on the team? As the captain? Does he ever relax, or is he always so serious?
“I don’t… think I’m all that.” He wrinkles his nose like even saying the words bothers him.
“You’re saying peopledon’task for your autograph when you’re walking in Dundas Square? Girlsdon’tthrow themselves at you when you’re out for parties or at strip clubs or?—”
“Strip clubs?” He jerks his head back like I’ve personally offended him. “I don’t go to strip clubs.”
“What? You got something against them?” I ask.
He looks bewildered, his lips in a line, brows furrowed. “No, I just… I don’t like all the noise and the crowd, and if the guys go—which they do—there’s definitely going to be a crowd?—”
“So youdoget harassed for your number and your dick and?—”
“My what?” he asks quietly, a smirk playing on his lips.
I take another drink. My fingers feel a little numb. “Your… dick.” It takes all of my tipsy willpower to stare at his face and not look down to his gray sweats where I’d definitely feel said dick if I crawled over the seats and started grinding against him like I desperately want to do.
He’s staring at my mouth now. “I like how your lips move when you say that word.” His fingers squeeze the wheel of the car.
My heart flutters inside my chest. “You might like how they move when they’re around it better.”
He inhales sharp. Then he closes his eyes a second and groans,“Fuck, Neve.”I can hear how much he wants me in those two words.
