“All hockey is deadly, and this is hardly a league,” he argues.
People in this part of my world aren’t supposed to argue with me. Ethan might ride the line, but when I give an order, he follows it. That’s how it’ll be with Ryan, I’ve just got to make him understand.
“It’s my league, and you’re forbidden from playing in it.”
“You can’t do that.”
I smirk. “Actually, I can.”
He rubs a hand over his sweaty face; it smears the blood. I still want to lick him. Maybe I can get him to wash his face, we make new blood, and I lick that.
“Are you even listening to me?”
Was he talking? Okay, I’ll admit I zoned out that time, but damn, he’s distracting. That pretty face, like a doll.
“I said, are you even going to tell me why?”
“Change into your street clothes. You’re watching the rest of the game with me. Oh, and wash your face,” I add.
“No.”
I frown. “No?”
“Yeah, no. If I leave this office, I’m getting back on the ice.”
My shoulders shrug as I marvel at him some more. “Good luck with that. I’ve already sent word. No one’s letting you back on the ice. They’ve already begun play without you.”
“Arrrgh!” He pushes me away. “Why are you doing this?”
Lunging forward, I grip his face in one hand. “Because if someone else touches you like he did, there’s gonna be a massacre on the ice.”
Ryan freezes, then shivers, a healthy mix of fear and arousal in his eyes. Good, he gets it now.
“Go change, dollface.”
He closes his eyes, gathering strength. “Will we at least talk about this?” His pretty eyes flutter open. That’s becoming difficult to ignore. They’re so damn beautiful, they almost sway me. Almost.
“Sure.”
“That is so not promising,” he mutters. He’s right. It’s not. “You’re such a fucking asshole.”
I lick my lips, attempting to taste his anger in the air. I could spend a lifetime dissecting it, feasting on it.
He pushes me away again, this time storming out past my guards, who are staring at me as if I’ve grown a second head. I don’t let people talk to me that way. I never let someone push me around like that without retribution.
But Ryan seems to be the exception to everything.
“Make sure he finds his way to my seats,” I say, rubbing a hand over the now tender spot where he pushed me. If I’m lucky, I might have a bruise.
If I’m extra lucky, I leave here with a husband.
6
RYAN
Iknock over the row of expensive hockey sticks, tearing off my jersey, throwing it at the wall. Doesn’t look like I’m going to need it anymore unless I can convince Tate VanCourt otherwise. What the fuck is up with him? I sucked his dick, once. It didn’t mean anything. And the way he turns me on?No.I have to stay the fuck away from that.
It’s all-consuming.
