Then, to my horror, my dick swells.
No. No, no, no.
I press my hips down harder into the table.Make it stop.This is a new circle of hell. I am the captain of the New York Renegades, and I’m getting a semi during a post-practice massage because I can’t stop thinking about Harper Hayes. Fuck me.
“Alright, flip over. I need to work on your hip flexors,” Hillary says.
My blood runs cold. There's no way in hell I'm flipping over right now, not with the semi I'm sporting just from thinking about Harper's mouth.
“I'm good like this,” I mumble into the face cradle.
“Cole, I need to work on the front.”
“Really, I'm fine. Just keep working on my back.”
Hilary pauses, then lets out a chuckle. “Oh, I see. Having a little circulation issue, are we?”
My face burns against the face cradle. “I don't know what you're talking about.”
“Honey, you're not the first professional athlete to get excited during a massage. It's all that blood flow from lying face down. Perfectly normal.”
Except it's not the blood flow. “I'm staying right here,” I say firmly.
Hilary laughs. “Suit yourself, Captain. I've got other clients to see.” She pats my shoulder condescendingly. “Take your time.”
The door closes behind her, and I press my forehead harder into the cradle. This is humiliating. I'm the captain of this team,and I'm hiding face down on a massage table because I’m hard from thinking about my best friend's sister.
What the hell is Harper doing to me?
An hour later, I'm alone on the ice, working through drills with a fury that would concern my coaches if they saw it. The cold air bites at my face as I push myself harder, faster, trying to skate away from thoughts of green eyes and soft curves.
But even out here, in my element, I can't escape her.
I slam a puck into the net so hard it ricochets off the back and nearly takes out my shin.
Focus, Maddox. Season starts in ten days.
After my workout, I shower quickly and change into my best navy suit for the media interview in the conference room.
“Cole.” Jennifer waves me over to where several reporters are setting up. “Ready for this?”
I straighten my tie and nod. “Absolutely.”
The first reporter jumps right in. “Cole, the big opener against Boston is coming up. What’s the mindset of the team?”
“Focused,” I say, my voice even. “We’ve addressed last season’s weaknesses. We’re ready to compete.”
“Confident you can make a playoff run this year?”
“That’s the goal. It’s always the goal. We have the talent. Now we execute.” I answer on autopilot. Strong. Confident. Unflappable. If they only knew I’d been rendered a flustered, hormonal teenager by a five-foot-nothing event planner just hours ago.
The questions continue for twenty minutes. All things I can answer in my sleep. Then one reporter in the back raises his hand.
“Cole, there were reports that Novak was photographed leaving a socialite’s penthouse at six AM the morning before your playoff elimination game. Do you think his off-ice activities contributed to the team's loss?”
My jaw tightens, but my expression remains neutral. “Novak's personal life has zero correlation with team performance. I can give you his shot accuracy, face-off percentage, and plus-minus from that game if you want actual relevant statistics.”
The reporter tries to follow up, but I'm already moving to the next question.
