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What’s she still doing here?

She’s leaning against the concrete talking to Cruz, but when I finally pull my gaze up, I realize she’s not looking at him.

No.

Those pretty hazels are locked on me.

Her eyes draw me in like I’m under her spell, but when Cruz grips the part of her jersey hanging off Nina’s shoulder, irritation ignites, blazing right through my self-control. My resolve snaps at the sight of his hands on her.

I don’t want him touching her.

I don’t want anyone touching her, but me.

“Fuck it,” I mutter to myself. “Patty’s right.”

Every filthy thought I’ve tried to smother floods my mind. Those breathy little noises she made when I rubbed my cock all over her in the kitchen. I picture those full lips wrapped around me, sucking me off like I’m her favorite meal.

I imagine shoving my tongue so deep inside her that I’ll never get rid of her taste, licking every inch of her wet pussy, pushing Nina up against the wall, and burying myself to the hilt, fucking her hard like that’ll push her from my head.

She could take all of me. I know it.

I’ll probably come in two seconds once I’m inside her, but that means I’ll get to go down on my knees for this girl. I don’t care that she’s too young or that we’re all wrong for each other.

I want her.

I want her bad.

And if she’ll have me, I’ll make her feel so fucking good.

Striding past the Hall of Fame jerseys, I walk right up to her, nudging Cruz out of the way like he’s nothing more than a speck of dust. I’m not going to fight the kid.

It wouldn’t be fair for him.

“Come with me?” I murmur in her ear, hoping like hell she doesn’t say no, but it’s her call. I lean against the wall, trying not to look too feral.

She arches one brow. “You’re going to have to ask me nicer than that.”

Reaching out, I use my thumb to stroke the curve of her inner wrist, right where her pulse quickens.

Her breath catches, so I squeeze, just a little. “I’m not in the mood to be nice.”

18

NINA

That husky rasp in Rhode’s voice sends a shiver trickling down my spine. He seems completely relaxed, but there’s something different about him, something darker—something that might suck me under.

Rhode struts down the hall like he’s ambling through Centennial Park, looking nothing like the brutal player I witnessed during the game. His dark hair glistens under the fluorescent lights, calling out to my aching fingertips.

To touch him.

To know he’s okay.

My throat tightens every time I picture him crashing on the ice, but the rational part of me realizes he’s been playing for years, decades, even.

He doesn’t need me worrying about him, so I shove thoughts of his painful winces away, choosing to focus on his suit that’s a little too tight for his broad shoulders.

Rhode twists a knob, lets a door swing open, and gestures inside like he’s leaning over my shoulder at a French patisserie, his voice a soft murmur in my ear as he asks which decadent pastry I’d like to savor.