Page 38 of Drop the Mitts

He kissed her again, wild and wrecked, like she was the only thing that had ever shut him up, shut him down, shut him off.

Grace’s hands fisted the collar of his shirt, dragging him down to her mouth like she had no control left, no carefully measured words, no accusations. Just heat and breath and fury.

“You don’t taste like nicotine,” she murmured. “I thought you would.”

“You thought about this?”

She pushed against his chest, but he only pressed her harder into the lockers, reaching under her thighs and hoisting her up to rest on his hips. She curled her legs around his waist. “Maybe.” Her nails scraped the back of his neck, and he nearly lost it.

He fought with the hem of her blouse, his fingers trembling as he finally met warm skin. She was softer than whatever silky fabric she wore. He bit down lightly on her lower lip, and she sucked in a breath, her body bucking against him. He wondered if Nora from admin would have a problem with him taking Grace right there on the benches.

Grace’s hands fumbled with the tie on his joggers, then froze at the sound of a door slamming open.

“Hey, have you seen my—oh damn.”

Grace dropped her legs, pushing away from him and skittering to the side. André turned to find Brett standing in his coat and toque at the end of the row of lockers.

André tried to catch his breath. “Seen what, bud?” His heart thundered in his chest, blood roaring in his ears, and he was two seconds away from launching Brett into the wall.

Brett’s throat bobbed. He motioned to the bench, then stalked forward and picked up his roll of hockey tape. He started to retreat, his eyes wide, but Grace peeled away from the lockers like she’d been burned. She didn’t meet André’s eyes as she straightened her blazer and strode toward the door. “I have to go.”

“Grace—”

“No.” She shook her head, already rounding the locker bank.

And then she was gone. There was a bang of the door and the echo of her boots as her footsteps faded down the hall.

André stood there, chest heaving, lips tingling, hands still shaking.

Brett’s nostrils flared as André turned a murderous glare on his friend. “How the hell was I supposed to know you were still here?”

“Because I hadn’t walked up the damn stairs,” André growled. Brett looked between him and the door, the corner ofhis mouth twitching. “Don’t laugh, bud. You’re going to make it up to me.” André grabbed his hockey bag off the bench.

“Yeah?”

He punched Brett in the shoulder a little harder than necessary. “You’re going to help me quit smoking.”

Chapter

Fifteen

Text conversationbetween André and Grace.

Sunday, March 2nd, 8:39 AM

André

Good morning

Grace

Now you know how to text?

Something must’ve jogged my memory

If you’re still pissed, that’s cool. I was going to apologize

I’ll allow it

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