Page 56 of Jaded

Another chorus of greetings, plus a few names tossed in. Won’t remember those.

“Syd here too?” one of the younger guys asks as Nat throws his bag down next to Avery’s. I drop mine beside his. Great, I’m gonna have to get changed sitting directly next to him, force myself not to look atanyof that delicious ink or muscle.

Nat’s shoulders go taut, but his voice is completely casual when he replies. “She’s here, yeah.”

On the bench, Avery sits up straighter than a fence post.

“Don’t worry, kid.” I lean past Nat to talk to Avery. “Pretty sure Old Knuckle Tats here is not letting any of these hooligans get within ten feet of that girl without explicit written permission and an armed chaperone.”

Avery snorts, relaxes visibly. Nat looks down at his feet, and I bite back a grin when he mutters, “Damn straight.”

“So. Where you from, Olli?” The guy on my other side—older, bearded, literally wearing nothing but his jock shorts—leans in so I get a nice whiff of coffee breath.

“Miami.” I kick off my shoes, slide out of my jeans. Force myself to keep my gaze between my clothes and the older guy next to me. “Maine before that.”

Somehow, most of my awareness is still focused on the fact that Nat’s undressing too.

“Oh, so you’re a hockey kid.” The guy throws an elbow into my arm. “You can be on my team.”

“Hell yeah, man.” I flash him a classic Olli grin—and then I make the mistake of turning towards Nat.

I nearly choke on my own damn spit because my sweet, sweet baby Jesus. The man’s removing his shirt—we arechanging—and I swear God commissioned Michelangelo for this build.

The man is a sculpture of perfection—every muscle, every line, every honed edge. Perfect. The curve of deltoids and biceps, the hills and valleys of his abdomen, the hard planes of his pecs.

And the ink . . .

I tear my gaze away, hoping against hope that my eternity of staring was actually just a short moment. The last thing I need is to be caught ogling some inked-up coworker like I haven’t been laid in a month.

I’m not one for swearing, but shit.

“New kid’s from Maine,” dude next to me is saying, and I try—I try so hard—to concentrate on thosewords.

But Nat bends over to pull off his shoes and socks, and I realize just in time that his pants are going to come off next and make myself very busy with taking off my own shirt. Who knew that required so much effort?

“Oh, where in Maine?” someone’s asking, and I force myself to locate the source as Nat shimmies his shorts up. I do not need to know if he wears underwear underneath, or what kind.

“Orono.” My voice comes out in a pathetic squeak. “University of Maine.”

“You play for them?”

“Guess we’ll find out, eh?” But I swipe out a set of blue and white socks—ironically, U Maine has the same colors as the Dingoes.

Beside me, Nat’s already half dressed—pants, socks, one foot in his skate. He leans over to tug on his laces, giving me a glorious view of a beautiful set of bat wings stretched across his shoulder blades.

Not that I’m looking.

I shove my own damn foot into my own damn skate andfocus. It’s the only way I’m ever gonna get through this damned locker room dress. My fingers fumble on the laces, but I race through the rest.

I yank on an old white jersey and head for the door.

Outside, I practice my deep breaths, made all the more deep and calming by the cold icy air, by the faint tang of pad and glove sweat. This is my place, my home, my comfort. My therapy away from Dr. Huxton.

This is calm. This is peace.

Someone hops onto the ice behind me, and I know without turning it’s him. Just like I know he’s also wearing a white jersey.

“Think we’ll be as good out here as we were making out against the wall of that bar?” I ask as he skates up beside me. Because I have absolutely no willpower or sense of self-preservation.

---