Page 2 of The Rebound Plan

Maybe this is how his opponents feel when he eyes them from across the ice and decides they aren’t going to win a puck battle.

He takes the jersey that has Max’s number on the back, the number I always wear at team events, and he drapes it over the little girl who is bouncing excitedly next to us. “There you go, princess. Fits you perfectly. You can keep that one.”

I gape at him, but he doesn’t look back at me. He’s not interested in debating whether my jersey is his to give away or not. He just reaches past me and grabs one of the others Mabel is holding out.

“Don’t want you to get cold,” he says, turning back.

It’s his own jersey, just like the one he’s wearing. He floats it over my head, the heavy fabric settling on my shoulders with a weight that feels heavier than just a hockey sweater.

Against my will, I feel myself pushing my arms through the sleeves, and his hungry gaze drops down to his number there.

If I turn around and stalk away from him, he’ll see it branded on my back.

“We’re ready to start,” the photographer says.

“This won’t take long,” he says. “Wait for me.”

And I want to, so much, but I can’t.

As Russ is pulled back to the children, I flee, racing out the side door and across the hall to another room that’s being used for anything. I’m not needed for this photo shoot anymore.

I’m not needed for anything to do with this team anymore, and it breaks my heart.

In the quiet, I yank off his jersey.

It doesn’t take him long to follow, though.

When the door behind me opens, I nearly jump out of my skin.

Russ raises his hands. “It’s just me.”

I laugh weakly. “That was fast.”

He winces. “You waved at a reporter I know on your way in here.”

The anxiety explodes in my brain, like an oncoming car turning on their high beams. “A reporter?”

“It’s okay.” He comes closer. “Aaron’s a good guy, and you wearing my jersey isn’t sports news. There are some weirdos on Twitter who might find it interesting, and I really liked it, but it’s your personal business.”

I throw his jersey at him. “Not funny.”

“I’m not laughing.”

He closes the gap between us.

“Russ, we can’t…” I trail off as he lifts his hand.

His fingers hover just above my bare shoulder. “Can’t do what?”

“Anything.”

“But we already have.” His hand lowers, those fingers making contact with my shoulder.

I shudder at the deep, profound ache that spirals through me from that warm press. I miss being wanted.

I miss being desired. That’s all that this is. I’m vulnerable to his attention because I haven’t been a good enough wife and?—

He drags his fingers up my neck and tips my chin up. “I’m not going to kiss another man’s wife, don’t worry.”

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