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Jesus. I see her almost every day at hockey practice. Yes, she covers more skin since it’s cold inside the arena, but her practice clothes fit her body snugly. It’s not as if I didn’t know her waist is that tiny and her breasts are perfect little handfuls or that her ass curves enticingly like that.

Her brother has caught me staring at her ass more than once.

Her brother… Who has told me in no uncertain terms to stay the fuck away from her. Her brother, who is my teammate and someone I want to get along with. On a team I’ve really come to love. A team that’s become a lot more than just a bunch of guys I play hockey with.

I don’t regret what I did in New Orleans with my pro team. I’d actually love a chance to beat the hell out of Jake. But I don’t want to blow up everything in Rebel with a sister-teammate thing. I really don’t.

I clear my throat. “Hey, Sutton.”

“Are you okay?” she repeats. “Is something wrong? Why are you here?”

“I want to put cameras up to watch you. No, not you. Your house. The porch.”

Her eyes are wide, and her cheeks are pink.

Fuck, what am I saying? My brain has short-circuited because of the strip of stomach I can see.

I clear my throat again. “Sorry. I…I need to talk to Beckett and he’s not answering his phone.”

I did call on my way over.

“He’s out for a run,” she says. “He doesn’t answer his phone when he runs. Unless it’s me.”

I like that he answers for her.

“Do you want me to call him?” she asks.

“Oh. Uh, no. I guess it can wait.” Though I don’t want it to wait.

I have the cameras in my truck, and I can install them right now if he agrees.

But this is Sutton’s house too. She could agree.

“I want to put up a couple of cameras on your porch to see if we can figure out who Beckett’s stalker is.”

“Oh.” She looks confused. “Why?”

“I’d like to find out who it is.”

“You would?”

“Yes.”

“Has something happened with Beckett and this woman I don’t know about?”

“What do you mean?”

“For you to be concerned, something must have happened. He wouldn’t tell me if something bad happened.” She reaches out and grabs my arm. “You have to tell me Lawson. Please.”

It’s not like we’ve never touched. We do sometimes at practice when she’s demonstrating a dance move and is correcting something I’m doing—I actually need that a lot—or if she asks me to be her partner to show everyone else a move.

But every single time, I feel it. Not the way I do whenever anyone else touches me, I feel it with Sutton. I’m aware of every inch of her against every inch of me, even if it’s only her fingers on my forearm. I could close my eyes and draw exactly where her fingers lay.

Now is no different.

I have to take a second before I say, again stupidly, “I’m concerned but not for Beckett. For her.”

Her fingers flex against my arm. “What? Her? The woman?”