“Your team is watching,” she murmurs.
I turn my head and, sure enough, at the end of the tunnel half the fucking roster is stacked like dominoes, poking their heads around the doorway like nosy six-year-olds spying on their parents kissing.
Tanner is literally kneeling on the floor. Jace is shoving him forward. Matt is standing behind them, pushing the rookies to the side.
I whip back to Jessica, and she’s smirking. “You better be nice to me, pretty boy,” she murmurs, sliding her hand up my chest.
My pulse spikes. “Jessica,” I warn.
Her fingers hooking the collar of my shirt to pull herself closer, eyes locked on mine. “You wouldn’t want to give them the wrong impression,” she whispers.
Then she leans up, tilts her chin, and presses her mouth to my jaw—a slow, soft, intentionally lingering kiss.
Heat detonates under my skin at the contact. Her lips graze the edge of my jawline, right over the pulse hammering in my neck, and my body goes tight. My hand slams to the boards beside her head just to stay upright.
My other hand finds her waist, and before she even realizes what’s happening, I lift her straight off the ice.
Her little gasp hits my throat like a spark. She squeaks, grabbing my shoulders for balance.
I’m too busy grinding my molars into dust. “Playtime’s over,” I mutter, turning and carrying her toward the gate.
Her legs kick once in protest—completely useless, completely annoyingly adorable.
She clutches my shirt tighter and I adjust my grip like she’s a misbehaving cat. “I said be nice to me,” she pants, breath leaving her in a flustered huff.
“Oh, trust me,” I say, stepping off the ice with her still in my arms. I haul her in closer, chest pressed to mine, skates bouncing against my thigh as she clings.
“This is me being nice.” I shoulder the rink door open with one shove.
The boys scramble back, pretending they weren’t watching with popcorn.
“If this is you being nice, I’d hate to see rude,” she says, cheeks flushed.
I lean in, voice low enough that only she hears, “Oh, but you will.”
Chapter five
~JESSICA~
The arena is alive. A massive, roaring, vibrating beast of steel, concrete, and human adrenaline, and I already feel overwhelmed.
Lights spin over the ice like searchlights; music pulses through the walls, and fans scream all around me. Someone hands out thundersticks behind me, and the clapping booms like gunfire.
This is… a lot. It’s my first time ever attending an NHL game.
Tinnie tried escorting me upstairs to the VIP suites with floor-to-ceiling glass, catered food, plush chairs, and giant screens. Basically, a luxury prison where you can’t hear anything. You’re above it all. Detached. Itook one look through that tinted window and said, “Absolutely not.”
And that’s how I ended up here instead, standing right against the glass, rinkside, next to a dad trying to hold three hot dogs while yelling at someone named Lucas to “stop hitting strangers.”
The lights drop, and a spotlight cuts across the ice, bright enough to blind half the arena. The announcer’s voice blasts through the speakers, vibrating in my chest:
“MIAMI! ARE YOU READY FOR HOCKEY?”
The crowd detonates and so do my eardrums.
The team gets called out one by one, skating through the tunnel and exploding onto the ice like missiles.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen, wearing the C for your Miami Blazers… Dominic Moreal!”
