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I don't know any Swedish, but I recognize a curse word when I hear it. Payton apparently does as well because she marches ahead to put herself in front of Erik. No easy feat in heels, especially after the workout Sawyer just put us through.
"You want to throw down with me, Nordstrom?" There's fire in her eyes. "Because we can go again. Right now."
I've got to admire her balls, even if she's crazy. You do not mess with goalies. But Payton doesn't seem to care or even notice that Erik is literally head and shoulders taller than she is.
Sawyer must agree with me because he puts himself bodily between them, grabbing Payton gently. He doesn't bother with subtlety. Instead, he maneuvers her as far from Erik as physically possible.
"Thanks for all the help tonight, Payton. I'm sure you have lots of work to do." He says pointedly. "Erik, see you tomorrow. I'll walk you home, P."
Sawyer keeps walking as he talks, dragging his sister away with him.
Erik stomps off in the opposite direction without a word. Well, at least not any in English. I don't know Swedish, but I can tell he's swearing.
Leaving just me and my little voyeur.
Perfect.
I steal a glance at her out of the corner of my eye. As always, she's fiddling with her camera. Flipping through images on the screen, rapid-fire.
She's quiet. Nothing new there. I can probably count the number of times I've heard her voice on one hand. It's a shame, too. Because Sofie has a voice like spiced honey. Warm and low with a hint of promise dripping off every word.
Her blacker-than-black curls cascade down her back, long despite their bounce. Some people have dark brown hair that looks black.
But Sofie's hair is the color of night. It's true black— like a stretch of starless sky or the ocean at midnight. Even her mahogany eyes, so dark that her pupils nearly disappear, look a shade lighter in contrast.
Sofie is wearing a sleeveless tee shirt in the same soft pink as her headband. The saturated colors of a tattoo spread out from beneath the thin straps of her top. It's an intricate piece— starting at the base of her neck and winding down to her shoulder.
Both hair and eyes are darker than the faint hint of ink peeking out from her shoulder. Her frame is slender, except for her well-endowed posterior, which I definitely haven't dreamt about.
"Want to grab a drink with me?" I ask, fracturing the silence into a million pieces.
"No."
Sofie is a girl of few words, but still, I was hoping for more than that.
"Why not?" I ask, borrowing a move from Payton's playbook and putting myself in front of her.
"I don't do bars. Too loud," she says, still working her camera. Her thumb is almost a blur as she spins a dial, flicking through images faster and faster.
I scoot around, twisting to see what she's looking at.
Picture after picture of me. Me, skating. Me, shooting. Sofie is the team photographer; I'd expect at least a few of Erik. But everything she's looking at is focused solely on me.
"Alright. We can go somewhere quiet," I offer, my voice gentle.
Sofie finally looks up at me. Her dark eyes make my heart skip a beat, make my cock stand up and start panting. They pierce right through me. I don't want a drink from this girl.
I want a lot more.
"Why?" She asks. Her pink tongue flicks out, wetting her lips. Both of those have featured prominently in several of my recent fantasies.
A lot of things spring to mind that I could say. Because I want to kiss you. Because I've never crushed this hard. I don't think it's even a crush. Because you're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
"Because you owe me. Your flash ruined my shot earlier," I flash her a smile.
She shakes her head, her lips twitching up at the corners.
"If you can't handle a little flash, Parker, you're not cut out for the big leagues," she says.
