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Tuck walks behind Rhys and sidles next to me. “That’s Maddie,” he says in a low voice, though I think he could be shouting right now and it wouldn’t penetrate the haze Rhys is in. “Lane’s younger sister.”
I take one more look at Rhys’ entranced expression, and everything clicks into place mentally. I bounce my eyebrows at Tuck as if to say oh, shit.
Tuck lifts his brow and lets out a long breath through the side of his mouth. “Tell me about it. A clusterfuck waiting to happen.” Suddenly, something catches Tuck’s eyes. “Well, Rhys may not be able to go after the object of his attention, but me on the other hand …” he pats me on the back again. “Catch you later, bestie.”
“We’re not …” I begin to shout after him as he chases after a girl, but I cut myself off. It’s Tuck, there’s no point.
I walk to the kitchen to get another beer. When I turn around to head back to the living room, this time it’s my turn to be stopped in my tracks and have my eyes glaze over.
Summer’s here.
And the dress she’s wearing …
My lower ab muscles tense hard. Desire thrums through my blood. My cock twitches, and my pants are already feeling too tight. I take a big sip of my beer because I sure as fuck need it.
Her dress clings to her curves. It’s cut just perfectly to make it obvious how great her tits are while still covering up enough to make my mind go fucking wild imagining what my eyes don’t get to see. Her long, gold-hued legs and arms are on full display.
I throw back my drink and finish the whole cup in one gulp; because, again, I fucking need it.
I drag myself to the kitchen to refill my cup. Normally I’d limit myself to one beer, but knowing that Summer’s here, wearing that fucking dress, makes me feel like I need a full cup for my sanity.
When I turn around, what I see makes my fingers curl, crumpling the solo cup so much that a wave of beer spills over the rim and splashes my wrist.
Summer’s talking to some guy.
My eyes narrow on him, the muscles in my shoulders straining, a hot and caustic feeling pulsing in my chest.
He leans forward and says something to Summer. She laughs in response. My neck feels so tight that I think it would creak if I turned it.
In my mind, I’m imagining myself setting this beer down, marching over to them, clasping my hand on this guy’s shoulder so tight that he winces. I’d look down at him with a white-hot gaze and he’d get the message instantly, scampering off and leaving Summer to me.
Then I’d …
Then I’d what? Say, “Hi, Summer, saw you from across the room and decided to march over and scare the guy you’re talking to away like a psycho stalker?”
I turn around and walk out the back door, dodging a tipsy girl with lust in her eyes who tries to wrap coyly onto my arm. I bypass the big group of people playing beer pong, and thankfully find some lawn chairs at the corner of the yard that are unoccupied.
I plop myself down into one and let out a frustrated sigh. Some of the tension in body dissipates when I look up at the sky. One great thing about living out here is how dark the night sky is, how many stars you can see.
Gazing up at the stars, I drink some more of my beer, stretch out my legs, and crack my neck. I don’t know why I got wound so tight just because I saw the girl who sits next to me in English talking to some guy.
She’s a college student, just like I am. She’s supposed to be out at parties, talking to people, living her life.
I guess that means I should be, too. But that kind of thing’s never come natural to me. Only one thing’s ever come natural to me: playing goalie.
My dad, legendary NHL defenseman Ed Voss, was initially determined that I’d follow in his footsteps as a defensive player. I was fine at it, but I didn’t like it. It didn’t feel right. The first time I tended a goal, though, now that felt right.
My dad wasn’t happy about it—he’s never happy when something doesn’t go entirely according to his plans—but even he couldn’t deny that I was a natural in the crease, that it would be nuts to try and have me play any other position.
After my mom passed, it feels like I hardly did anything but practice being a goalie. My dad paid top dollar for private training, and when we were at home, most of the time we were in the backyard, me in the net and him firing off shots for me to block, hour after hour.
If you can’t block every shot from a retired defenseman, what chance to do you think you have against forwards in their prime? His words echo in my ear, and I take another drink.
“There you are.” The familiar voice cuts through my thoughts. My breath catches as Summer sits down in the chair next to me.
All the beer I’ve had to drink in the last twenty minutes or so makes it impossible for me to keep from sneaking a quick glance at her legs when I look towards her; the hem of her dress has ridden up, showing off the delicious curve of her hip.
I suck in a sharp breath through grit teeth and force my eyes level with hers.
