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Hunter skates over next. With his messy, bleach-blonde hair and pretty boy good looks that give California surfer vibes, it’s not hard to understand why I’ve already overheard so many girls talking about him on campus.
If I were any other girl, my stomach would probably be full of butterflies while interviewing him—while interviewing any of these guys, who are all ridiculously hot and charismatic.
Luckily, I haven’t had to deal with any of that. Unluckily, the reason for that is because for three months, there’s only been one man who’s been able to spark that kind of reaction in me—and when he does spark it, the result is more like a blazing housefire than a lit match.
“I’m usually pretty level-headed,” Hunter says, “but when one of the other team’s players gets away with a dirty play on one of ours, I go nuts. Last year, I got kicked out of a game for fighting one of Ohio’s players who tripped Liam.”
Just hearing the name spoken is enough to make my core tighten.
“Ohio, huh? You guys are playing them this weekend.”
“That’s right,” Hunter says, competitive spirit flashing in his eyes. “And those assholes haven’t been playing any cleaner than last year, so the Ohio version of this bench might be in my future.”
“Try not to get kicked out of the game this time,” I say. “This is my first time coming with you guys to an away game. If you lose, I’m worried I’ll be branded a bad luck charm.”
Hunter chuckles. “Don’t worry about that. The team loves you already. The social media posts you do make us look great.”
Hunter skates back out on the ice. He’s my last interview for today. I stay in the penalty box, watching the rest of the practice. It’s an interest glimpse into what goes on behind the scenes to get the team ready to perform at the level they do. I already knew how hard they all work, but seeing an intense practice in person really drives the point home.
One person who isn’t on the ice right now, though, is Liam. His knee is still banged up from taking a hard fall last game. The trainers expect him to be able to play against Ohio on Sunday’s away game, but they’re instructing him to take it easy in the meantime. Which means no practice.
Most people would probably be happy to have a day off, especially from something as physically demanding as what I see my dad putting the players through on the ice right now, but it’s clear from Liam’s body language he’s anything but happy.
He looks like a sad puppy dog sitting across the ice from me, on the player’s bench, watching every moment of the practice that he’s missing out on. Even though I now know that his path to hockey wasn’t ideal, to say the least, it’s clear he loves the game.
My dad’s whistle cuts through the chilled air again, and he sends the players to the back, ending today’s practice. I’m having dinner with my dad afterwards, so I head to the arena lobby and plop down onto one of the couches, opening the Kindle app on my phone to do some reading while I wait.
I’m in the middle of a sports romance book calledScore of the Seasonabout a bad boy pro football player who’s forced to work with an image consultant to clean up his terrible reputation with the media.
Of course, the image consultant ends up being a woman he dated in college, the only woman he ever really had feelings for, before a crazy misunderstanding made them break up. Who can resist some forced proximity, opposites attract, workplace, second chance steam?
The cover blows up to fill my phone screen to load when I click on it. The obscenely beefy chest of the model, and the huge, veiny hands of his that hold a football, caught my attention while I was scrolling through choices for my next read. I like a cute, illustrated cover or an ornate, classy graphic design cover as much as the next girl, but sometimes you just want a book that goes all-in with the man chest, you know what I mean?
The cover lingers on my screen as the load time is a bit longer than usual. Maybe it has something to do with reduced signal connectivity thanks to the thick walls of the arena.
“Whatcha reading?”
It’s Liam.
I startle, pressing the cover of my phone close to my chest. Liam of all people catching me reading a smutty romance book is the last thing my blood pressure needs.
“Just a book,” I answer. My body warms when he lowers himself on the cushion on the other end of the couch. My stomach somersaults as his weight sinks the cushioning.
“What’s it about?”
“Just, you know, a novel. About some people.” I keep deflecting.
Logically, I know I shouldn’t be embarrassed to be reading something smutty in public. After all, no one makes fun of guys for reading or watching things with gratuitous violence, ridiculous explosions, and totally unrealistic fight scenes—so why should it be okay to judge girls for reading love stories that have a little spiciness in them?
Still, I guess I can’t help that I’ve internalized stupid ideas about what’s “appropriate,” even if I know those ideas are wrong.
That chuckle that turns my insides into jelly rumbles from Liam’s chest. “Yeah, I think all novels are about people.”
“Nuh-uh. Some are about animals.” Or shifters, but somehow I think Liam would be confused if I mentioned that possibility.
Liam leans over, and my senses are flooded with his cinnamon and sandalwood scent. “Come on, don’t hold out on me. I might be in need of a good book recommendation.”
I feel a flush of embarrassment warming my cheeks. But then, I remember how Liam opened up to me in the library. How he told me things about himself that he never tells anyone. I remember how he felt comfortable sharing not just one, but two of his drawings with me.
