Page 39 of Silver Fox Puck

Not happening.

I do not see the way his sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, revealing those strong, tanned forearms.

I do not notice how the dim lighting casts shadows against the sharp angles of his face, making him look way too good for my peace of mind.

And I absolutely do not let myself think about how I once had my fingers tangled in his hair, tugging him closer as he—

Nope.

Absolutely not.

I clear my throat, shifting my attention to Kingston, who’s currently arguing with another player over whether pineapple belongs on pizza.

Focus on that. Not on the way Grant’s gaze is still on me. Not on the fact that, for the first time since I walked in, he finally speaks.

"Look who finally showed up." His voice is low and soft, as if he’s been waiting for the chance to tease me. His words are smooth. Casual. A landmine wrapped in politeness.

I freeze. Because what the hell is that supposed to mean? My gaze snaps to his. He’s watching me with that same unreadable expression, his voice just neutral enough to sound casual.

But I know better. That was a test. A push. A deliberate reminder.

I tilt my head, arching a brow. "You missed me, Coach?"

His lips twitch.

And I know this dinner is going to be hell.

I hate that he’s sitting across from me, cool as hell, looking like a goddamn silver-screen heartbreaker in real life. I hate that he somehow makes sitting at a team dinner look like a power move.

I hate that his sleeves are still pushed up, strong hands resting casually on the table—the same ones that had me pinned against a hotel door just a week ago.

And most of all?

I hate that he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.

He leans back, too relaxed, too smug.

"You look tense, Flight."

I take a slow sip of my beer, forcing my best unbothered expression.

"And you look tired, Silver Fox. Guess we both have problems."

A few of the guys laugh, thinking I’m just being my usual, sarcastic little-sister self.

But Grant? Grant’s mouth curves as if he’s reading me like an open book.

I threw out that jab because the last thing I need right now is for my brain to short-circuit over how stupidly attractive this man is.

"Must still be a bit sleep deprived from my time in… Denver," he says smoothly, that deep voice threaded with something wicked.

"Good," I murmur, picking up a fry and popping it into my mouth.

He watches me, too closely, like he’s waiting for me to break.

I shift in my seat, reaching for another fry, but before I can grab one, Grant’s hand moves at the last second—calculated, precise, cutting me off just before my fingers reach the fry.

Then, slow as sin, he brings it to his mouth.

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