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"Wait, what the hell is happening?" I stare up at the men who’re circling each other.
"I believe lover-boy here went into a tizzy because Finn dared touch you," Priest drawls as he draws abreast.
I huff. "More like, he had a prior score to settle with Finn."
"More like, he’s clearly sweet on you." Sinclair joins us.
"More like, he needed to act out his frustration, since he’s not going to act on what he wants." JJ walks over to the boxing ring and hauls himself up. "I do believe you gentlemen are going to need a referee."
"No referee needed. I’m winning." With that declaration, Rick throws the first punch. He catches Finn in the side of the head. Finn stumbles back, recovers himself and attacks, and the two begin to trade blows so quickly their motions blur.
"The first round of tryouts start this afternoon and the two of you need to be there, you—" I gasp, for Finn gets in a good punch at Rick. Blood drips from his forehead. "Oh, my god—" I close the distance to the ring and grab the edge of the platform. "Stop it. You’re going to be the two most seasoned members of the team. Is this the example you want to set for the new recruits? Shouldn’t you be talking out your differences or whatever?" Rick lands the next punch, then Finn, and so on, they keep trading punches, until their movements slow.
JJ whistles, and the two break apart. Rick’s chest rises and falls. His already sweat-stained, cut-off T is now sodden. His cheekbones stand out in relief; the blood slides down his temple. He looks like a soldier who’s been to battle. He looks magnificent.
My thighs quiver, I grip the edge of the platform with nerveless fingers. He’s a beast. I should not find him so attractive. He’s too similar to my ex. Exactly the kind of man I’ve sworn to stay away from. He continues to glare at Finn, who scowls back. Then, as if they’ve exchanged a silent message, they move toward each other.
"Stop! Don’t fight. This is no way to resolve an argument, this—" I gape, for the two do that weird man hug routine, where they slap each other’s shoulder then bump fists, "Huh?"
"Sometimes, the best way to resolve a disagreement is with your fists." JJ joins me.
"Sounds stupid, if you ask me," I grumble.
"They needed to blow off steam. A bit like puppies fighting," Sinclair drawls from behind me.
"More like full grown Dobermans," I murmur.
Priest laughs. "Once they get cleaned up, you won’t notice their bruises."
"Hmm." I watch as Rick and Finn exchange words in low voices. Then, my mouth falls open again as Rick pulls off his T-shirt. Jesus H. Christ, the man is ripped. Massive shoulders roped with muscles that could be carved from steel, deep ridges between his eight-, or is that a twelve-pack abs? Narrow waist with that panty-melting ‘V’ arrowing down to disappear under his sweats. Oh, and the tent at his crotch is impressive. My mouth dries. My throat feels like every bit of moisture from it has been sucked down to between my thighs. He’s more delectable than the latest design by Louboutin, and that’s high praise coming from me.
Next to him, Finn, too, yanks off his T-shirt. The two converse for a few more seconds. Then, Finn nods and jumps off the ring. "I’ll see you at the playoffs." He raises a hand in farewell, winks at me, then prowls off toward the dressing room.
"I gotta go, too. See ya later?" Priest murmurs.
"Oh, the wife’s calling, can’t keep her waiting." Sinclair turns and walks off, followed by JJ, who flashes me a grin.
"Meeting Lena for lunch. She said to call her if you need anything and that you’re not alone in this city.”
A warmth steals up my chest. I had colleagues and people I knew through my work in L.A., but it was such a cut-throat world, you never trusted anyone. I’ve been in London mere days, and it feels like I have more of a support network here.
"I will and tell her I said thank you." I nod as he stalks off. In the ensuing silence, I realize I’ve been left alone with that overbearing, too-hot, over-the-top, sexy bastard. Rick thrusts his arm over the ropes on the perimeter of the ring. I glance at his hand, then up at his face. "You’re joking."
He merely looks at me with an expression that implies he never jokes. Which, to be fair, he doesn’t. When he doesn’t speak for a few more seconds, I huff, then thrust my hand in his.
He lowers his other hand, grabs the wrist of my free hand, and the next second, I’m rising in the air. My heels slip off. Before I can protest, he lifts me over the ropes and parks me on the platform. It’s as if I weigh nothing, which, in comparison to him, I suppose I don’t, but I’m not that slim either. Sadly, the way his muscles bunched as he lifted me, and the way his shoulders flexed and the veins on his forearms popped as he hauled me up sent a flurry of sensations swirling in my lower belly. I resist the urge to squeeze my thighs together. Resist the urge to look away, either.
He holds my hips until he’s sure I’m steady on my feet, all the while holding my gaze in that unblinking fashion that zips an electric current up my spine. Neither of us look away. The air between us flares. The blue in his eyes grows more azure, more penetrating. Then his jaw tics. His left eyelid twitches. It’s the only give that he feels this weird whatever-it-is that sparks between us. I pull away from him, and he releases me. Of course, I stumble but manage to find my balance.
"You planning to say something, or are we going to stare at each other all day?”
Does he reply? Of course not. There’s no change of expression on his features. He seems to have turned to stone, except for the rise and fall of his chest, which confirms to me he’s breathing.
I toss my head. "Why do I bother trying to have a conversation with you?” The heat of his body rolls across my spine, and I gasp. I glance about the now empty gym and take a step forward. He moves with me, blocking my path, and the fine hairs on the nape of my neck rise. I swallow. "So, you want to do the planning session here, I take it?"
His gaze intensifies. Those cerulean orbs slice through the barriers I’ve thrown up against the world, sharp-edged sapphires as mesmerizing as the depths of a frozen lake—once you’ve cut through the ice. No wonder, this man plays ice hockey. His body could be carved out of the frosted surface he plays on. Not to mention, the glacial frigidness of his gaze. He draws that gaze slowly, leisurely, down my face and to my lips. Where he stays. Without apology. He continues to stare at my mouth, and heat zips under my skin. My pulse rate soars.
I shuffle my feet, then laugh lightly. "If I didn’t know you better, I’d think you were trying to seduce me."
