Page 55 of Slap Shot

“Jesus Christ,” I mumble.

“What?” he asks

“Nothing. I—the smell.” I stare at his ear instead of his chest. I’ve never seen such a good-looking man before. I could bounce a quarter off his stomach if I wanted to, and Ireallykind of want to. “Did you have a good night?”

“Yeah.” Hudson sets his shirt in his lap and laughs. Drops his head back and spreads his thighs. “We’re all dumb as hell, but at least we know how to have fun.”

“I like that your idea of fun is a food fight, not a strip club.”

“Not my style, knife girl.” His eyes roam over the empty cartons on the coffee table and my position on the couch. “Am I interrupting you?”

“From watching bad television? Not at all. Some company would be nice.” I smile and rest my elbow on the pillow to my left. “I promise I won’t hurl any leftover lo mein at you.”

“You hurled a banana at me.”

“I won’t hurl any food at youagain,” I amend. “Do you want a glass of wine?”

Hudson’s laugh is soft and slow, an indulgent sound, and he bobs his head. “Why not? I have grilled chicken in my hair. I’m allowed to have a drink. But only one glass. A headache at practice tomorrow sounds like my idea of hell.”

“So, you’re a lightweight? I can’t wait to see this.”

“I’m two hundred pounds. It’s going to take more than one glass of alcohol to get me drunk.” He stands and drapes his shirt over his shoulder. It’s absurd he walks around looking likethat. “Do you need anything while I’m up?”

“Nope,” I say. “I’m fine.”

I’m treated to a view of his back muscles as he walks away, and I push the heels of my palms into my eyes.

It’swrongto be gawking at him.

That’s exactly what I said I wouldn’t do when I took this job, but here I am: my tongue almost hanging out of my mouth, my skin flushed and my pulse racing. Starry-eyed, like I’ve never seen a man before.

And,fuck, is Hudson a man.

Every inch of him shows off the hours he spends on the ice and in the gym perfecting his physique. I’m torn between throwing a blanket his way so he has to cover up and asking him to model for a picture so I can commit every line, every divot, every curve of his body to memory.

It doesn’t help that I haven’t been with anyone in years. That the only physical contact I’ve had since my divorce has been my fingers and a vibrator. I’m aware this is a natural reaction to seeing someone like him without clothes, but the other things?

The other things are very not good.

Like the way I’m imagining what’s under his jeans. What his hands would feel like on my thighs and his mouth on my neck. If he’s as nice in the bedroom as Emmy claims, or if he’s someone else entirely.

“Didn’t feel like cooking?” Hudson asks when he returns with a glass of wine and the bottle tucked under his arm. My stomach swoops low when I notice he’s changed into sweatpants and a thin T-shirt. That’s not much better than what he was wearing before. “I didn’t think to tell you about some of the restaurants around here, but it looks like you found one.”

“I ordered takeout, and it was delicious.” I shift across the couch so I’m not taking up all three cushions and point to the other side of the sofa. “Sit wherever you want.”

“Thanks.” He takes the spot beside me and swirls his drink around his glass. “I’m not a big wine guy.”

“What’s your drink of choice?”

“Beer, typically. If I’m feeling fun, I love whiskey.”

“I like whiskey too.”

“I’d say we should pour some of that, but it’ll get me in trouble.”

“Trouble? You mean like going thirty miles an hour instead of twenty-five?”

“Wow. Throwing me under the bus.” His throat bobs with a sip, and he leans back. “I know how to have fun, believe it or not. I don’t always behave.”

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