Page 12 of With the Assist

My jaw works. “Fine.”

I run my tongue across my teeth to keep myself from saying what I’d really like to.

His gaze flicks to my mouth, trailing the motion. Something darkens in his eyes, and desire curls low before I can stop it. That’s a problem. A big problem.

We pose, and his hand settles on my waist. It’s normal contact, not illicit, but my skin lights on fire. His palm is firm against my hip, comfortable even, and it’s distracting in the worst possible way.

The photos are endless, and I manage to smile through them, ignoring the way my body seems to react to him. When the flashes stop, though, I step away fast, desperate for space.

He catches my forearm gently enough to pause me.

“I didn’t realize you were an athlete,” he admits, rubbing his neck. “When we were talking, I mean.”

At least he has the decency to look embarrassed now.

“Yeah, I figured.”

“I wouldn’t have let Liam drag you like that if I’d known.”

“Just Liam?” I quirk my brow.

“Oh, c’mon, I mostly just listened. You could’ve said something.”

“But where’s the fun in that?” I shrug, coating my tone in ice. “Now I have my official answer to your question.”

Confusion knits his brow.

“You asked what I thought of hockey players.” I tap my chin as if I’m thinking it over. “I can confidently change my answer from ‘to be determined’ to ‘not a fan’. A little too arrogant for my tastes.”

“I’m not… we didn’t…” He stammers.

I shouldn’t enjoy it, but I do.

I’m not actually bothered by what they said. My name is unconventional for girls. They made an honest mistake. Besides, it was mostly Liam’s jealousy doing the talking. Nathan really hadn’t contributed much. He seemed more in his head, especially when I mentioned the lack of Stanley Cups recently.

But none of that matters. If I’m going to see him again, I need to set boundaries. I don’t flirt. My stomach doesn’t flutter. My skin doesn’t prickle. I sure as hell don’t think about the hand imprint that’s burned into my hip.

I have more important things to do than flirt with a pretty hockey player who throws around hundreds of thousands of dollars for fun.

“See you next Saturday at seven a.m. sharp.” I grab my purse, then pause, pretending I didn’t notice his eye watching my ass. “And Nathan, don’t be late.”

“Don’t be late?” He raises an eyebrow, not even bothering to hide the way his gaze rakes over me. “Careful, Miller. I might just get the idea that you’re looking forward to seeing me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” I turn to go, but then glance over my shoulder. “I’m looking forward to fixing your attitude.”

I stride away from him and out into the cold. Only then does my heart begin to slow.

4

Nathan

I’m never late.

Not for practice or games. And definitely not to a charity commitment that I threw a small fortune at in front of half the city.

But here I am, five minutes past seven, as I sprint across the parking lot toward Harborlight Stadium, home of the Boston Tempest. The icy morning wind rips through my sweatshirt, and my breath fogs in one long stream as I fly through the doors.

Hopefully, Coach Rylan won’t hear about this. He doesn’t need any other reason to be disappointed in me, and I don’t need any other reason to stress about my place on this team.