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I shake my head and glare. I don’t want him to refer to me at all, but he just shrugs his big shoulders and turns to haul out his pants and pads. I let the camera keep rolling so I don’t miss anything as Varg lays each piece of equipment out along the wooden benches. I pan the camera over the items, making sure I get a good look at the light blue jersey and the howling wolf. I also spend an extra moment on the appliqued “C” over his chest.
“You might want to turn around kitty cat,” Varg says, and I bring the camera with me as I look up and smooth, tanned skin is all I can see.
He’s pulled his shirt off and it’s hanging in his cubby, and I have a white-knuckled grip on the camera as I suck in a nose full of damp funk. I’ve seen Varg shirtless. Everyone has. He was on a billboard for a while in just his hockey pants, but it’s different being this close to him. Deep grooves bracket his defined ab muscles and the divot between his pectorals. There’s a faint smattering of sandy blonde hair in the center of his chest, and a darker trail starting under his belly button and dipping down under the waistband of his sweats. His hands are there, pulling at the white cord cinching the cotton to his hips.
“I guess I’ll turn around then. Protect my virtue.” There’s a lilt to his voice as he turns, and I’m looking at the corded muscles of his triceps and trapezius. Muscles I only know the names of from quizzing Hayley for her anatomy class. He has a tattoo, the heads of two black and grey wolves. One snarling, the other tucking the angry one protectively under its chin. Then the pants loosen and slip down the firm curve of his glutes and I’m dropping the camera and turning myself around.
“What are you doing?” I hiss, balling my hands into tight fists until the edges of my nails cut into the skin of my palm.
“We agreed to run through how I dress for a game,” Vic says and there’s a rustling and shuffling sound that I refuse to think about.
“Weagreed,” I lean into the word to show my distaste for his surprise nudity, “to keeping things family friendly.”
Another chuckle and I will not acknowledge the swoop of my internal organs at the sound.
“I can’t put my gear on over my sweats,” Varg says. “And to be fair, I did warn you. Twice. Not my fault you didn’t listen, kitty cat.”
“Commando is not family friendly.” I squeeze my eyes shut, but it doesn’t block out the firm contour of his ass or the twin dimples at the base of his spine. I also don’t want to admit that I hadn’t heard his warning. If I had, I would have stepped out of the room or turned myself around before the show. Maybe.
“I wear a jock, kitty cat.” The damn nickname makes me clench my teeth together. I’ll show him kitty cat when I claw him and leave him bloody in my wake. The ass. Dammit. Not ass, I’m not thinking about certain parts of his body. The jerk. ”Were you hoping for a peek?”
“I have no desire to see little Varg. I doubt he’s worth the time.” I say with a snort, and sudden shame floods my body from top to bottom.
“Play nice kitty. Bet I could change your mind,” Varg says, and I can feel the heat in my cheeks as I turn off the camera and struggle to breathe through the tightness in my chest.
I can’t let him get to me. Not about this. The Arctic organization has a strict non-fraternization policy. Sexual flirting might be a bit of a grey-area, but it’s a far-cry from the professional I am. This line of conversation isn’t appropriate, and despite the absolute truth that there is less than nothing between Victor Varg and me, there are people in the organization who might not agree. A hockey organization is a boys’ club. A club that doesn’t always approve of having women on board. I can’t do anything inappropriate with the players or other employees, but not only am I standing here with a naked hockey player, he’s flirting with me and I’m not shutting it down the way I should. On camera.
If anyone saw this…. It could mean my job.
“Stop.” I’m not proud of the way my voice shakes just the tiniest bit. It’s rage doing that. Rage at myself for forgetting.
There’s more rustling, a muffled curse, and then I can feel the heat from Varg’s body as he steps up behind me. I expect him to reach out, but he doesn’t, and I turn my head to look at him over my shoulder. There’s a respectable space between us. The whole bench plus a few extra inches, but I could have sworn he was a breath away from my back.
“I’m sorry, Tristan,” he says, and there’s a furrow between his brow. “I didn’t think. Sometimes when you’re around I—” he looks away and I watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. That was never my intention.”
His voice is low and serious, and I know he’s telling the truth. I know it. No matter how much he aggravates me, I’m safe around Victor Varg. At least physically. That wasn’t the problem.
“You didn’t,” I say, “But you can’t flirt with me like that.”And I definitely can’t flirt back. I don’t add the last part, but it’s right there, battering my brain until I can’t avoid the fact that I did.
There’s another swallow, and then Varg says “I won’t. You have my word.”
There’s a wrenching inside of me that wants to explain. It’s my contract. It’s technically his too, but we both know he wouldn’t get traded away over something like this. Not when he leads the team in goals and assists. He has his socks and hockey pants on, but he’s still shirtless and I take a step back. I square my shoulders and snap my spine into place.
“Let’s film, Varg.” I lift the camera again and line him up in the shot. “I don’t have all day to get through this.”
The grin I get as I hit record is the one everyone gets, it’s lazy and broad, and I can’t help but feel like there’s something missing.
“Talk me through the plan again,” Tristan says as the door to the shop closes behind her and her icepick heels clack across the wide-plank floors. I can feel the stretch in my cheeks as my smile splits my face.
“Hello to you too, kitty cat,” I prop my elbows on the shiny wooden counter. Her eyes narrow at the nickname, but it’s not a full glare and the corner of her lips quirk as if she thought about smiling back for a fraction of a millisecond.
“If you want to blow our limited time on small talk, be my guest.” Her wide blue eyes blink up at me as she pulls her phone out of her bag and starts tapping on the screen. I absolutely do not notice that her vivid red nails are the same shade as her vivid red mouth. Just like I absolutely do not spend a single second stuck on the word “blow.” “It’s not my free time we’re wasting. I’m paid to do this.”
Technically, I am too, when you consider that part of my contract stipulates playing nicely with the marketing and PR departments, but I keep that thought to myself.
“Saying hello isn’t small talk.” I shrug. “It’s the bare minimum for polite social interactions.”
Tristan’s eyes flick up from her phone screen at that, her fingers stilling their tapping. Her knuckles go white as she tightens her grip on the baby-blue case.
