Page 32 of Play Dirty

Annoying.

Ridiculously annoying, actually.

I spun the spigot and let it run scalding hot, adding more steam before I began getting undressed. And just out in the hallway, Grayson lingered in a towel. Nothing but a few thin inches of door between us.

Was he thinking about me getting naked?

No, probably not.

Because I definitely wasn’t thinking about the way he looked a few minutes ago.

Not at all.

~ 13 ~

HAVEN

I stepped out of the rink, pulling my coat tighter around me as the cold enveloped me like a living thing. Tonight was worse than most nights. The sky had gone a dull, heavy gray that came before a real storm; the kind that made everything feel closer than it really was.

Behind me, doors banged open again, voices spilling out. Not our voices, though.

The scrimmage team.

They’d been obnoxious all practice. Louder than necessary. The kind of energy that wasn’t about competition, so much as it was about being seen.

And believe me, I’d been seen.

“Hey, cheerleader!”

I kept walking.

“Yo — groupie!” another voice shouted. “You lose your way?”

Laughter followed, but I didn’t turn around. Turning around would be giving them something. And after the rock-bottom scrimmage we’d just had, I wasn’t about to give them anything else.

“I thought this was a closed practice,” yet another voice called. “Or are you part of the entertainment?”

More laughter. More jeers, and catcalls.

Not very creative, though.

I exhaled slowly, watching my breath fog outward like that of a dragon. None of this was new. Not really. Just louder, and more public.

Inside, things had been worse. Not because what they said about me — I couldn’t care less about that. Because of what they said about the Reavers.

“Nice logo,” one of them laughed earlier, loud enough for everyone to hear. “What is that — a discount Grim Reaper?”

“Looks like a cereal box mascot,” another added.

That last one had gotten one of our guys to shift. Not much, but enough.

Luckily, coach Mercer caught on. He squashed that bug with a vicious scowl before it grew into anything bigger and uglier, and his players skated away. I, however, was under no such obligation to keep my mouth shut.

“At least it’s original,” I’d said, without looking up from my tablet. “Speaking of logos, why does your viper have a hood? Wouldn’t that make it a cobra?”

The Lake Erie Viper player glanced down at his chest like the answer might be printed there. I let out a short laugh.

“What happened?” I added. “Did your designer just Google ‘snake’ and call it a day?”