Page 26 of On Thin Ice

“No pads?”

Jacob tossed him a pair of form-fitting ones, one after the other. Finn caught them easily out of the air, raising a questioning eyebrow.

He knew perfectly well this wasn’t the normal setup he wore. Jacob knew it too.

But Jacob’s eyes gleamed knowingly. “Wanna see what we’re dealing with. But put the helmet on.”

Finn made a face. “But—”

“Let’s see how you do without your gear,” Jacob said. “But I’m not about to let you take a puck to the head.”

“But—”

“I’m interested in how you move without it.” He moved over to the machine and checked its feeder.

“Those aren’t cheap,” Finn said, picking up one of the helmets on the shelf. Slipping it on. “And they’re hard to find.”

“Good thing I’m rich then,” Jacob said dryly.

“You need to find someone to spend all that money on,” Finn teased.

Jacob grimaced.

“Or not?”

“No . . .no, I want to.” This was not what they were supposed to be discussing, Finn knew it. Jacob knew it too, from the deepening crease between his brows.

But that didn’t stop Finn from saying. “What’s stopping you?”

He really didn’t want to know. But he asked anyway as he strapped on the kneepads and maneuvered into the goal. Getting a feel for the space as Jacob repositioned the machine another foot back.

“The closet?” Jacob asked, the edge of his voice hard.

“That shouldn’t stop you,” Finn said. “Not if there was someone you really liked.”

It wouldn’t stop me. Even for a second.

Jacob rolled his eyes. “Stop digging, Reynolds.”

Finn had told himself he wasn’t, but maybe he was, a little. A guy like Jacob—rich and famous and hot, would have guys pounding at his door at a chance to pound—

He cut that thought off hard and fast.

Ignored how his fingers were shaking a little as he curled them around the stick.

“Ready,” Finn said, nodding at Jacob.

Hoping he was. Ignoring the insidious voice deep inside that said he wasn’t.

“It’s set at three-quarter speed. For now,” Jacob said, and Finn raised his chin.

Even at partial speed, the pucks came in hard and fast.

He wasn’t as used to the in-line skates or the concrete beneath him as he was the ice. And playing without the pads he usually relied on meant he had to react quicker, more instinctually, not letting them take the easy shots.

Three shots in, his forehead was already damp as his focus narrowed to three things.

The stick he gripped in his hand, the next puck coming at him, and Jacob standing there, expression opaque.

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