Don't fall for it,I want to tell Indie. I've seen so many girls fall into that trap. Thorne is a total man-slut, with a sexual history longer than a freaking Dostoevsky novel. The worst part is that he's praised for it. Instead of bemoaning that they’re just the latest in a barrage of one-night stands, his dates always give glowing reviews. They say he's a great kisser, fun to hook up with, kinky but respectful, and a good listener.
Gag me with a dirty hockey pad.
"Thorne!" Connor calls. "You can flirt after we break for the day!"
"You know, Miss Journalist." Thorne's baby blue eyes light up with mischief. He skates closer and leans on the boards, jerking his head to the rink. "If you want to get closer to the players, you can.”
"Really?!" Indie squeals, looking at me. "Can I?"
"Go nuts. Stay in public spaces and don't bother the players."
"Yes!" She books it toward the tunnel, leaving me smiling after her.
Thorne rakes his fingers through his hair and considers me. "So?"
My heartbeat picks up as I arch a brow. "So what?"
He stares at me for a couple of seconds, then shakes his head and pushes away. "Nothing, Squeak,” he tosses back at me. “You just stand right there and look awestruck."
"I do not look—" But he's turned away and is skating off already. I wrinkle my nose at his tone.
God, I really hate the growly, nearly threatening way he says that stupid nickname. More than that, I loathe the way he describes me.Awestruck. As if. I'll show him awestruck.
Fuming, I watch him as he skates off to join the other players. Because this is a summer skate day, he's dressed ultra-casually, wearing a fitted vintage Seattle Havoc t-shirt, a pair of black athletic shorts, and his skates. Every inch of exposed skin is covered in tattoos; some freehand, some neat patterns, but all colorful and bursting with energy. When he lifts his hockey stick, his biceps jump and his jersey number – 19 – stands out.
I swallow. Dude might be a jerk, but he's awfully nice on the eyes.
But again, a total dick. And absolutely the last person that I should be harboring this horrible secret crush on.
I make my way around to where Indie is filming, taking a few short videos of the guys as they play. Beck and Thorne are among the only ones here year-round. They don't take summers off. But what the audience wants to see has nothing to do with their work ethic.
They want the asses. The tattoos. Sweaty boys humping the ice while they stretch.
I put my head down and focus on filming. When Beck calls an end to the practice, I’m left blinking.
Where did the last hour go?
As the players start to move off the ice, I look over at Indie. She's already slinging her bag over her shoulder and checking the time on her phone.
"Got dance practice?" I ask.
"Always." Indie wrinkles her nose good-naturedly. "Thanks for letting me crash your grownup job."
As opposed to my dream job, the one I'll never have again. I can't decide if I'm thankful she doesn't mention it.
"Anytime!" I catch myself. "Anytime in the summer, that is. Everything is more laid back right now."
"I have to run, but we're still on for a bad movie marathon, right?"
I clap my hands excitedly. "Yes! The next one on our list is about aliens who come to earth to steal our reserves of pizza. It looks abysmal."
"It’d better be terrible. Let's do it soon, okay?" Indie gives me a quick hug, then jogs off toward the tunnel.
Sighing, I sink down onto one of the benches. I could make the fifteen-minute walk between the practice rink and the tin can I call my office. It's shoved at the very end of a hall with the rest of the PR and merchandising offices, and due to its odd size and lack of windows, I'm pretty sure it used to be a supply closet.
I'm not especially fussed. More often than not, I just use my phone for editing videos, posting content, and responding to comments on our socials.
Right now, I pull out my clunky spare battery bank and plug it into my phone. Then I flip through the videos I've taken today.
