Page 3 of The Girl in the Hockey Jersey

She glances back, doesn’t reply. That’s weird. The easy grin I give her—the Marsh classic—should at least warrant me a flustered smile or a shy flutter of her lashes.

Nothing?

I glance at Stanzi’s friend. “Is she okay?”

All I get is a shrug, so I follow her into the hall. The last thing we need is drama because a party we attended went sideways.

She’s standing in the hall, digging in a little leather cross body purse just big enough for a phone and some credit cards.

“Everything okay?”

“Yep.” She doesn’t look up. Her distractingly smooth hair curtains her face, and my fingers itch to hook the strands over her ear so I can see her better.

“The party’s just started.”

“Yeah, I’m gonna bounce.” She lifts her head and I get my first good, long look at her. Wide, dark eyes with lush lashes. Glowing skin, pink lips, and a confident gaze that challenges me to argue with her.

So I do. “Got somewhere better to be?”

“Yeah.” She pauses a beat for emphasis. “My bed. It’s getting late.”

“It’s not even midnight.”

“Some of us work for a living.”

Her jersey suggests she just watched me work the hell out of the puck for sixty minutes. But that attitude zings anyway. “Okay, so you’re not a puck bunny.”

“I’m—do you know how dismissive that term is? Those people are your fans.” She gestures back at the suite.

She was the only one in there wearing my jersey.

“Fans of my dick, maybe. Not my game.” Wow, Marsh, way to keep it classy.

She clearly has the same reaction. “Well, I’m a fan of neither.”

I step closer. “Your sweater says otherwise.”

“I’m a fan of hockey jerseys. Not the men who wear them.”

God, the way she slices those words through the air, it’s something else. I rock my jaw back and forth. “Wow.”

“Have a nice night, Mr. Hot Shot.”

“Hang on, hang on…” I’m laughing as I jog to keep up with her. Can she tell I’m not all the way sober? That double shot and the fact I skipped carbs has loosened my tongue a little too much. Should have had some potatoes. “Iamhaving a nice night now—with you.”

She shoots me a look of disbelief. “Do you get off on being insulted?”

“Not usually. Why are you so pissed? We just got here.”

“That’s…those girls have been waiting for more than an hour.”

“They don’t seem to mind.” Nobody ever minds. The players need to eat after a game. Doesn’t she know that?

“Well, I mind.”

“I can see that.” I scruff my hand against my jaw. “Why?”

“I don’t know.”

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