“I don’t really think he needs to know what we discussed last night.”
A sly grin washes over Noah’s face as he throws an arm around his boyfriend. “No, I don’t think he does.”
“What are you guys discussing?” Bode asks as we each take our spots in front of our lockers.
“Pillow talk,” I deadpan.
Bode shakes his head, rolling his eyes. “I’m sorry I asked…the things we discuss.”
“Or don’t discuss,” Graham clarifies.
I push the guys and their conversation out of my head. I need this time to get into the right headspace for the game. For once, I feel good. The dull aches and pains are still there, but not nearly as present as usual.
We go through the normal pregame routine—warm-ups, music blasting through the locker room, and the usual speech from Coach Andrews.
Marcus leads us all out of the locker room before the game starts. The arena is rocking this afternoon.
Walking to the end of the tunnel, I stop right in front of two women, one of whom is wearing my jersey. And it’s not just anybody.
It’s Genevieve. The world’s biggest pop star. Even though I don’t listen to her, I’d have to live under a rock not to know who she is.
Her face is plastered over every billboard up and down Broadway. Every wannabe pop star belts her tunes from the bars.
I’ve never let myself pay this close attention to her. But as we’re waiting to be announced, I can’t help but smile at her. Her long blonde hair is curled. Her lips are painted a bright red. Black jeans cling to her curvy hips and thighs.
The jersey she’s wearing? That belongs to me.
Damn, does it ever look good.
“You ready for the game?” she asks. Her voice is deep and warm, like a smooth whiskey going down.
“Why are you asking?” I cross my arms over my chest as I eye her. She’s a good head shorter than I am in my skates.
She smiles back, a sparkling white smile. “Just making conversation.”
“Are you ready to sing?”
“Why are you asking?”
I match her smile. “I don’t know. Just making conversation.”
“Were you afraid I was going to ask if you’re ready after the game last week?”
“God, don’t tell me you’re going to heckle me about that,” I groan.
“You bounced back,” Genevieve says. “You looked good last night. No commentary from me.”
“For real?”
She nods. “I don’t play hockey. I don’t think you should take advice from me.”
“Just like you probably shouldn’t take singing advice from me.”
She taps a finger to her temple. “You’re pretty smart, Jasper Hayes.”
“I can say the same about you, Genevieve. Wearing my jersey? I like it.”
It looks really fucking good, but I don’t need to tell her that. Hell, I didn’t even introduce myself to her, but she knew who I was too.
