It’s almost the end of the period, which means I don’t have long to grab a few more shots. I’m not having much luck getting in-motion snaps. Gonna have to work harder on that, maybe spend a day in Wyatt’s daycare following toddlers around. Nothing moves faster than a toddler with something they shouldn’t have clutched in their tiny little hands.
I turn my attention to the bench to work on some more candid shots of the players. Focusing on the first guy, one of the de la Peña twins, I get a great shot of beads of sweat trickling off the tip of his nose. Don’t know them well enough to know who’s who, but one thing is for sure—they have beautiful genes.
I snap a picture of the line change, catching Twin One and Twin Two glove-bumping as they switch places. When Twin Two sits on the bench, someone leans across into the shot.
My stomach free falls with a jolt.
Those twinkling blue eyes, that firm jawline, the “everyone’s friend” casual smile that lights up the whole world.
Fuck.
It’s Wyatt’s father.
The lying fucker is a hockey player.
And he’s been here this whole time.
CHAPTER 11
Raffi
The win doesn’t matter.
Okay, that’s a lie. It does matter. It actuallyreallymatters. I’ve been falling behind on the ice. My legs have been heavier, my headaches more frequent, and the puck hasn’t been going where it’s supposed to as often as it should.
No one’s said anything, but I feel it. Ifeelit. Everywhere.
In every missed pass, in every clink against the crossbar, in every training session where I slip behind by another fraction of a second.
I feel it.
But right now, it doesn’t matter. The W doesn’t matter. The goal and two assists I got don’t matter. The bubbling headache behind my eyes doesn’t matter.
What matters is the stunning woman sitting at the edge of the bench in the bar. She’s got thick, curly auburn waves rolling over her shoulders. I can’t see what color her eyes are from here, but they sure as hell are expressive.
When I scooch down the bench to sit next to her, her expression darkens. There’s definitely murder in those eyes.
I can’t for the life of me figure out who it is she wants to murder.
There’s a distinct lack of hockey colors on her person, but I’m pretty sure I can convince her to cheer for our team. I’m kind of charming.
Or so I’m told at least.
Perhaps if I’m really nice, I can convince her to let me buy her a drink.
Before I can make my move, a flicker of red in my periphery catches my eye, drawing my attention from the beautiful woman I want to kiss.
The tattoo. I grab the stranger’s forearm. He has a similar firecracker tattoo to me—there’s no date underneath it, but his ink is close enough to my own that he might know why I got it.
“Dude.” The guy moves to lift his fist until he clocks who I am. “Raffi Shaw. Great game.”
“Thanks.” My cheeks warm. I’m no more used to people knowing who I am in the bar now than I was in my freshman year. But I might be closer to knowing what the fuck this tattoo on my arm means.
“Your ink.” I jerk my chin at his forearm.
“Yeah? Cool, right?”
Nodding, I drag my hand over my face. “It’s great. Hey, did you get it for any reason?”
