Page 35

He chuckled. “That’s not what I was going to ask, but thanks for clarifying. I figured the stories were exaggerated, considering how important rest and recovery are. And with jet lag and the crazy practice and game schedules…”

“Right?” I pulled a face. “I mean, do people hook up at the Olympics? Sure. People get engaged too. But it’s a few people, not everyone.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I was actually going to ask to see your gold medal.”

“Oh.” I laughed, my cheeks heating.

I stood from the couch, going over to the bookshelves where my medal was resting in a box along with other hockey awards and memorabilia. I liked to keep them there as a reminder of everything I’d accomplished and everything I still wanted to achieve.

I carried the medal over to the couch before opening the box and holding it out to Carson. He stared down at it with a mixture of awe and envy, fingers hovering over it.

“You can pick it up if you want,” I said. “You’re welcome to try it on. Elmo definitely did when I was on Sesame Street.”

Carson grinned. “That is so fucking cool. But…I don’t know,” he hedged. “I wouldn’t touch the Stanley unless I’d won it. Maybe it’s bad luck to touch a gold medal that isn’t yours.”

I couldn’t knock him for that. Most athletes were superstitious, and Carson was no exception. Nor was I. We all had our pregame rituals, our little quirks. If something worked, you didn’t question it, no matter how ridiculous it might seem.

I set my medal on the coffee table in case he changed his mind.

He continued staring at it. “I want to play in the Olympics so damn bad.”

I wasn’t surprised. Apart from winning the Stanley Cup, an Olympic gold medal was one of the highest goals for a hockey player.

“Because you want the tattoo, right?” I teased.

I lifted my shirt to showcase my Olympic rings tattoo. Carson’s eyes focused on my skin, his gaze like a physical caress. He raised his hand so it hovered over my skin. He wasn’t touching me, not quite, but I wanted him to.

He swallowed hard, his attention flicking to my face. “May I?”

I gave a swift nod in response, practically holding my breath all the while.

He returned his attention to my side, tracing the design with his fingers with such…reverence. I shivered at the feel of his skin gliding over mine, and when I met his gaze again, his eyes were hooded.

“Fucking incredible,” he rasped, and I wasn’t sure whether he was referring to me or my ink or the fact that I’d gone to the Olympics and brought home a gold medal and had the tattoo to prove it. Maybe all of it.

Unlike guys in the past, he didn’t seem intimidated by my success. If anything, he’d only ever been impressed.

He continued tracing my tattoo, skimming his fingers along my ribs as they drifted lower still, hovering near the waistband of my leggings. I swallowed hard, silently urging him to continue his exploration as goose bumps broke out on my skin.

Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.

The air was rife with tension. Surely he felt this too. Right?

I was scared to move, to breathe, for fear that I’d break whatever spell we were currently under. But then the wail of an ambulance sounded in the distance, and he took a deep breath and withdrew.

My knees felt weak, and I sank back down on the couch cushions before I could fall. What the fuck was that?

I mean, yes, it had been a while since I’d had sex. But Carson had barely touched me, and my response had been immediate and intense.

Carson draped his arm over the back of the couch. An inch closer and he could’ve grazed my shoulder with the tips of his fingers. Did I want him to touch me again?

I told myself I was too tired to make a rational decision. Instead, I started a movie, mostly to cut the tension. It was a goofy action movie that both of us had already seen, and neither of us was really paying much attention.

“Who do you think will be on the team for the next Winter Olympics?” Carson asked, and I was grateful to him for breaking the tension by steering us back to more familiar territory.

I briefly considered the options then started rattling off names for the women’s roster. When I finished, I moved on to the men’s but paused when I came to defensive players. Because there was one player who deserved to be on that roster, and he couldn’t be.

“Lo?”