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I press my ear to the door, straining to hear Tony moving around in the storeroom two doors down. Sound doesn't carry through the concrete well. I can't hear anything. I give up trying and wait a full five minutes before carefully poking my head out.
The coast is clear.
I scurry back down the hallway and turn right.
Breathe, Leia. Breathe.
I force myself to slow my steps slightly and stand up straight. If you act like you're supposed to be there, most people don't question you as much. Since I have a press pass, hopefully if I run into anyone, they'll just assume I'm where I'm supposed to be.
Forty-five seconds later, I get to test that theory. I round the corner, and a row of doors come into view, alongside a security guard playing on his cell phone. He's leaning against the wall not even five feet from a set of double doors. It must be a locker room.
He flicks his gaze up at me.
"Hello." I give him a polite, confident smile.
He eyes me silently, his brows furrowing.
Crap. He's going to stop me.
I pick up the pace, veering toward the door.
"You can't go in—"
"I'm with the press." I flash him my badge and scurry through the doors before he has a chance to say a word. The doors swing shut behind me.
I inhale a relieved breath…and let it out in a shocked rush. This isn't the Stingrays' locker room. The giant emblem on the carpet in the middle of the room is a falcon, and the locker room is decked out in blue and white. I think a bomb went off at some point. Benches are overturned. Pads have been flung across the floor. There's even a pair of pants dangling from the edge of a locker.
"What the fuck?"
I spin to the left with my hand over my heart.
Holy crap.
Number 88 looked like a beast on the ice. It's nothing compared to the sight of him standing in front of me wearing nothing but tattoos and a dark scowl. He is…wow. Yes. That's it, exactly. He is wow. He's a good six-four with the body of an athlete. Makes sense, all things considered.
"Where did you come from?" I gape, caught completely off-guard by the sight of him.
"Where did I come from?" He flicks his gaze up and down my body. His hazel eyes linger a little bit longer than they should on my chest. "Shouldn't I be the one asking you that?"
Oh, right.
"Got lost," I lie. "You were on the ice ten minutes ago. How are you naked now?" I peel my gaze away from his ridiculous body—I bet being God's favorite is seriously awesome—and scan the locker room. "And what happened in here? A freaking tornado?"
"Again with the questions?"
"I like to know things." I turn back to him, my gaze naturally falling to his…Good grief. Why is it hard? "Can you please put away your…" I wave my hand in the general direction of his dick. "That monster?"
"Uh, no?" He quirks a brow. "You snuck into our locker room. If you didn't want to see my dick, you shouldn't have followed me. And if you don't want him to be hard, you should stop talking."
I scowl at him, which makes him shrug, completely unrepentant. So I refuse to acknowledge the last part of his statement. I don't even know what the last part of his statement means. "I did not follow you. I thought you were still on the ice where you're supposed to be," I protest. "And you still haven't explained why you aren't there, by the way."
"Got ejected from the game." He scowls, reaching up to touch his finger to his lip. Only then do I notice that it's split. There's a small cut above his right eyebrow too, partially hidden by the damp blond strands plastered to his head. "For instigating. The ref decided he had enough of me attacking Gordon."
I snort. "Maybe if the ref got his head out of Bruce Gordon's butt, he could clearly see that Gordon started those fights."
Number 88's scowl slips. His eyes crinkle at the corner as his lips curve into a grin. He's got a pirate's smile, the kind that screams trouble. The kind that makes my stomach flutter. "At least we agree on that much," he says, taking a step toward me. His erection bobs, drawing my attention again.
Jeez. It's even harder now. I thought dicks were supposed to be ugly, but his is kind of beautiful. Or maybe I've officially lost my mind. Who am I kidding? I'm standing in a locker room with a naked hockey player, grilling him about why he's in the locker room as if I have a right. I've definitely lost my mind.
"You're staring at my cock again, goddess."
"I am not!" I squeak, wheeling around so quickly my head spins.
