Andfuck, it transforms her entire face. It softens those tired lines around her eyes, lights up the warm brown of her eyes until they glow like those delicious caramel bites she sells at her bakery.
Oh yeah.
This woman isbeautiful.
"Well," Zoey says, gripping the cart handle. "I should get these to the staff kitchen before Coach Ashford sends a search party."
I glance at my watch and nod. "Yeah. I should probably get going too. Big medical to get signed off. Gotta prove to the docs that my brain's still firing on all cylinders."
"Brain?" Zoey sticks her tongue out at me.
My gaze catches on the pink flash of her tongue, the curve of her lips, and suddenly my mind is spiraling to places it absolutely should not go in a stadium corridor.
Down, boy. She's a single mom with a life, not a puck bunny at a bar.
So I continue playing this banter game we always play instead.
"Wow, Zoey. First you deny me being your favorite customer, now you're questioning my mental capacity? This is a lot of emotional damage for nine-thirty in the morning."
She shrugs, pushing the cart forward with a shake of her hips.
"Your support is overwhelming," I call after her, trying my hardest not to stare at the way her ass flares out as she pushes the cart away from me.
I fail. Spectacularly.
Fuck me.
Her jeans hug the swell of her ass like they were personally tailored by the universe to torture me. The worst part is… she's not eventryingto look good right now.
And she's still the sexiest thing I've seen in years.
Dammit.
I've had women in designer dresses drag their nails down my chest. Women in lingerie begging for my attention. Women who looked at me likeIwas the prize and they were ready to claim it.
But none of them made my heart do whatever the fuck it's doing right now.
Across the corridor, Delaney Evans, Snow Leopards sponsorship queen, catches my eye from the doorway to her office. She's on a call, phone pressed to her ear, but she raises an eyebrow and gestures vaguely in my direction—half wave, halfwhy are you here.
I blow her a kiss and wink. She rolls her eyes and turns away as I turn and head for the medical wing, my smile already sliding back into place.
Because that’s who I am, right?
I'm Colt Lane.
Up here, on the surface, Iamthe show.
The wink, the grin, the harmless flirt… it’s my uniform. Women usually play along when I crank up the charm. They laugh, they blush, they give in.
But Zoey? She just… looks at me.
And I don’t know what to do with a woman who sees past the show to the man still learning how to stand in the silence.
The medical wing is tucked at the back of the building. It's a luxurious recovery space that Big Mike spared no expense on, but lucky for me, I haven't spent much time in here over the years.
Cryo chambers line one wall, hydrotherapy pools gleam along the other, while a row of massage tables are arranged like spa beds at some five-star resort. There's even an entire smoothie bar dedicated to recovery drinks, because apparently we're too elite for regular Gatorade.
Willa Jameson, the team wellness co-ordinator, is already there when I push through the door, her blonde hair twisted up in that bun she always wears.
