As everyone shuffles off the ice, I make my way down to the glass that separates the seats from the players. I’mgladI took his hoodie now, because there’s no way I’d be able to stop shivering with how damn cold it is in here. I like how it smells, though… cool, clean, faintly of snacks. And I like it even more when Donovan’s head twists toward me, and I watch his eyes widen when he catches what I’m wearing.
I tick up a brow, wondering if he can see me from the net he’s standing in front of, and fish his wallet and keys out of my pocket. My painted nails dig into the worn leather as I flick it back and forth to catch his attention before jerking my head to lure him in my direction.
I need to give it back so he doesn’t change the locks. The fact that I could have left it in his room plays like a taunt in the back of my head, but I ignore it.
If I hadn’t come, I would never have seen the way his body moves on the ice—if I hadn’t come, he would have been a dead man walking, because I would have convinced myself to finish what I’d started.
But now…
Now I just want him to get closer so I can see if the flush on his cheeks is from exertion or because he’s looking at me.
He breaks away from the rest of the group and skates to the glass, his brows knitted together as his coach yells at him that he needs to cool down.
Cool down?
Whatever.
“You’re a thief,” he says, staring at his wallet. Even with the accusation, he doesn’t sound angry.
“No, I found these and wanted to bring them back to you.” I’m careful when I counter the words, tilting my head. If I were on the other side of the glass, close enough to touch him, would his skin be warm from exertion or cool from being on the ice? Would he smell as good as his sheets did, even when he was sweaty?
“Oh.” He’s still staring at me like he’s not sure if he believes me. “Okay… I…” He trails off slowly when his gaze drifts down. “That’s… my… hoodie.”
Of course it is. It has his name stitched on the sleeve. But…
“Myers! Stop talking and get over here.” A loud voice makes us both jump, and I narrow my eyes as I glare at his coach.
I could slit his throat for interrupting us, maybe snag one of the skates the players are wearing and see how sharp it is. I could?—
“Can I have my stuff back?” Donovan’s soft voice interrupts my thoughts, and I turn back to him.
“I’m hungry.” It’s not an answer to his question. “I’ll be waiting out here with your wallet and keys?—”
“And my hoodie,” he interrupts, but I keep talking.
“For that food you promised me.”
“I didn’t…” he starts, but hedidand we both know it. He frowns again, but I don’t miss how his eyes rake over me, noticing the way the clothing I’m wearing is swallowing me up. His gaze bounces from my chest to my fingers clutching his wallet, down to my boots and back up to my face, each glance apparently playing counterpoint to whatever he was going to say. “Wait for me in the stands, California.” I grin, satisfaction purring through my chest as he adds. “And don’t run off this time.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” The clack of his skates as he turns and heads off to follow the rest of his team drowns out the sharp edge that might have given away exactly how much I’m looking forward to having him alone.
CHAPTER FOUR
DONOVAN
I feellike I’m slogging my way through maple syrup today. My feet can’t quite move fast enough, my body aches, and there’s a pounding starting behind my eyes that’s threatening to turn my stomach over and spill its contents onto the floor of the locker room.
Not enough sleep, that much is certain. By the time I got in touch with the super of my building to have a key dropped off so I could get inside, it was well past midnight. I managed to scarf down a late night snack of frozen waffles and cut up strawberries, but I’m running on empty today.
It’s always worse after a loss, but last night I didn’t just lose the damn game. I lost my wallet. My keys. My entire life, contained in two items, just gone in a split second. At least I still had my phone in my pocket after Shiloh did his little disappearing act. I’m still not certain that he just happened to stumble across both items last night after they somehow fell out of my pocket in the dark, but for some reason he’s brought them back. I only hope that what’s tucked into one of the pockets on the inside of the wallet is still there.
I mean, and my driver’s license, banking cards, and all the other shit I’ve crammed into the leather since I moved here too. I think there’s a punch card for this sandwich shop I love tucked into one of the spots, and I’m like two punches away from a free sandwich. I don’t make any of the big NHL money down here in the minors, and I’d be choked if I lost out on free food.
I’ll have to survey what damage, if any, has been done to the contents of my wallet when I get it back. And my keys. I missed that little penguin keychain this morning on my drive to the rink. I hadn’t noticed how often I fiddle with it until this morning when I slid my spare key into the ignition of my shitty Jeep. That little penguin keeps me calm in the hectic Boston traffic, apparently, and without him I’m probably one road rage incident away from some serious traffic fines.
Not exactly something I want in the story of my hockey career, honestly.
The timer on the bike goes off, and with a yawn, I slide my heavy body off the seat, taking care to wipe up the sweat left behind with a towel. Gilly, the other goalie on the active roster, is standing beside the bike holding a disinfectant spray and waiting for his turn. He nods as I toss the sweat-drenched towel into the hamper and yawn again.
