Page 31 of Married to Number 22
Far more than I should.
“Sheispretty.”
I jump, not realizing that Gray’s leaned over, is staring at my phone.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, locking the screen and shoving it onto the shelf over my head.
“What?” he says and, swear to fuck, but this may be the first time I’ve ever seen my captain’s eyes filled with humor. “I didn’t say she was hot.” A beat, the corners of his mouth tipping up, just the slightest bit. “Or your mom.”
I glare at him. “Fuck off.”
He winks then tosses me a towel, jerking his chin in the direction of my skates and the mess I’ve created.
Scowling, I swipe at my skates, the black mat beneath my feet, then scoop up the remains of my hot dog and walk to the trash can, dumping the rest of my lucky pregame meal inside before tossing the towel into the dirties bin.
Then I go back to my locker, grumbling, “Are we going to stop talking about my personal life and focus on the game?”
“That sounds a lot less fun than giving you shit,” Joel, another teammate, says, his mouth curved into a smile.
Damn.
This shit is catching.
Fucking great.
“Personal lives are on the table?” I ask quietly, knowing that his—mostly because of the woman he loves—might be the most complicated of anyone in this room.
A lifted brow.
A knowing look.
But he doesn’t comment further, just goes back to winding tape around his shin guards.
“Yes!” Smitty booms. “Personal lives aredefinitelyon the table.” He stands up, snagging his jersey. “There are far too many single fuckers on this team, but don’t worry”—he yanks the blue and black and white material (a color scheme that, in my opinion, is completely incongruous with the name Grizzlies)—“Matchmaker Smitty is on the case! True love is coming for all of you assholes and I’m going to make sure you’re not too stupid to miss it.”
“Such inspiring words,” Gray mutters, snapping on his helmet.
Smitty opens his mouth.
But our captain is not done talking—and his words have even Smitty shutting up for once.
“Game time, boys,” Gray says, shoving on his gloves and heading for the door. “Let’s fucking go.”
Twelve
Luna
I’ve gota lap full of snacks.
And I’m still stuffed from all of my Molly’s treats.
But am I shoving down popcorn by the handful?
Abso-fucking-lutely.
Mostly because I forgot how nerve-wracking it is to watch Aiden play.
He’s good, smooth and confident, connecting passes, anticipating what’s going to happen next, playing both excellent offense and defense.
