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“So I’ve been told.”
His crooked smile and disgustingly good looks produce a strange reaction inside me. My physical reaction to Preston needs to fuck off. Like right now.
“Bex is short for Bexley,” I add for clarification.
Not like he cares about my name. He’s too busy staring down my basketball jersey at my boobs.
“Preston,” he says. “Not Peter. No one calls me by my first name. But I’m sure you already knew that.”
I roll my eyes at the arrogant jerk.
But I’m sure you already knew that.
Who does he think he is?
My dad will have a stroke if he sees me talking to one of his players, let alone his precious Preston. After winning the Frozen Four last year, my dad swears Preston will take them all the way again, especially after he won MVP. And from what I’ve heard, Mr. MVP has no problem doing the same with the girls on campus.
I can’t be one of them.
I will never be one of them.
So, why do I want to be one of them?
“Nice meeting you, Bex,” he says, and then struts—yes, fucking struts—down the aisle to his locker.
I look over my shoulder at him, still in shock. My lips part when he removes the towel from his waist and hangs it over the top of his locker door. With his back slightly turned to me, I can’t see all of him. Although, I have an excellent view of his perfect ass.
My mouth is still open in horror. Shock. Curiosity. Take your pick. I blink a few times to make sure I’m not imagining him. Maybe all the steam from the showers is going to my head. Preston and his insanely gorgeous body could be a mirage. It has to be because a guy like Preston would never look at me the way he is right now.
He knows damn well what he’s doing when he slips into his boxer briefs and winks at me. Preston sure can fill out a pair of underwear—like holy shit, he sure can.
And I’m still staring. It’s like watching a train wreck, a spectacular one. I’m too stunned to move, which makes this even more embarrassing because I’m not supposed to be in here.
Every guy is now staring at me, some dressed, while others are shirtless and in boxers like Preston. Most of them don’t seem to give a shit that a girl is standing in the middle of the locker room.
I bite my bottom lip, and Preston mimics me. He’s the spitting image of his father when he was younger—the sexy smirks, the killer abs, all of it. My dad obsessed over Alex Parker while he was in the NHL. Now he’s the head coach of the Philadelphia Flyers—my dad’s favorite professional hockey team.
My dad is just as crazy over his son. And now, for obvious reasons, so am I. After an intense stare down, I shake my head at Preston, finally having enough sense to walk away.
What’s wrong with me?
I’ve never acted so ridiculous around a boy before. Well, Preston isn’t a boy. He’s all man with his chiseled jaw, thick chest, muscular body, and sexy smirks.
I can’t get any of it out of my head. I may never forget how good Preston looks almost naked. And now I wonder about the rest of him. This is so bad. Like the worst thing ever because I can’t break my dad’s rules.
At the end of the long hallway, I find my father’s office. He stands in front of a flat-screen television with a remote in his hand. My dad loves two things—hockey and me. And when he can combine them, he’s at his happiest. I love seeing him in his element.
I inch my way into the room. “Hey, Dad.”
“Hey, honey.” He hits pause on the game tape and drops the remote on the table. “I wasn’t expecting you so soon. Your practice usually lasts until at least four-thirty.”
“Coach Vaughn let us leave early.”
“You should have stayed behind to get more time on the court.”
My dad doesn’t know the meaning of a break. All he does is work. When he’s not coaching hockey, he studies it. He’s obsessed to the point of madness. By extension, he thinks I should be as crazy about basketball, but it’s not like I plan to make a career of it.
“Three hours was enough for me. Coach Vaughn had us running suicides for over an hour. My calves are screaming at me.”
