Page 45 of Pucking Around

Pulling on my big girl pants, I step in. “Hey,” I call.

Caleb glances up, his expression carefully veiled. His gaze falls right back to his work. “Hey.”

Great start.

I cross the room, coming around the stack of towels. “Listen, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

He stills, not looking at me. “Who told you?”

“Google.”

He just goes on folding.

I take a step closer. “I didn’t know, but that’s no excuse. I didn’t understand the context of what was happening, and I shoved my foot in my mouth. I’m new to this team and to this world. I’ll make mistakes, but I’ll learn. And Iamsorry, Caleb—”

“It’s fine,” he says, grabbing a stack of towels and turning away. He loads them in a massive laundry cart big enough to hold three grown men.

I should leave him alone. He clearly doesn’t want to see me or speak to me. I should go. But I don’t. Instead, my feet are moving. Before I know it, my hand is on his tatted forearm. “Hey…can you at least look at me?”

He stills, his gaze dropping to my hand on his arm. “Take your hand off me, Rachel,” he says quietly, his voice cold as ice.

I drop it to my side, my stomach doing a little flip acknowledging the strength of his command. I don’t like him using my real name. I want to be Hurricane again. “Caleb—”

“Juststop,” he growls, turning to look at me. His eyes are so dark, almost obsidian. It’s a beautiful combination with his reddish-brown hair. Mix in his cheekbones, his pouty lips, and the fuck-all-the-way-off energy oozing from his pores, and I’m ready to fight a whimper as he leans in. “You see what you’re doing here? You’re making it worse. Justgo.”

He turns away from me, stalking off back over to the table to snatch up more towels.

I spin around, heart racing, following right on his heels. “How am I making things worse by apologizing?”

He turns again, his shoulder almost knocking into me. His hand goes under my chin, tipping my face up sharply. Our chests are almost touching as he glares down at me. “See that look in your eyes right now? That pitying look. ‘Poor Caleb can’t play anymore. I’ll go pat him on the hand and make him feel better.’ I hate thatfuckinglook.”

“I didn’t—”

“You think you know what happened?” he growls, leaning closer. “You think you haveanyidea what I’ve lost? Or how I’ve picked up the pieces? You don’t know anything, Doc. You don’t know me.”

He’s right. Of course, he’s right. We’ve known each other all of a week. I don’t know him. But I can’t focus on that. My mind is humming.Oh god, he’s so close.I can feel the heat of his skin. I can smell his aftershave. It’s crisp and clean, with soft notes of citrus. I can also all but taste his burning resentment on my tongue.

I raise a hand, wrapping it gently around his wrist. “I don’t pity you,” I murmur, holding his dark gaze. “Empathy and pity are not the same.”

“They are to me,” he mutters, trying to pull away.

“No,” I say, holding him still. “Pity implies that I feel sorry for you. Poor, sad sack Caleb got a raw deal, right? Well, we both know that’s bullshit.”

He glances sharply up at me, his dark brows narrowing.

“You knew what you were doing,” I explain. “You were at the very top of your game in a dangerous sport. You were a forward, a damn good one from your records, which made you a target. But you knew the risks.” My fingertips brush the inside of his wrist. “Why would I pity you for doing your job and taking the hit you always knew might come?”

He softens slightly. He lowers his gaze to my lips, and I fight the urge to lick them. My mouth feels suddenly dry.

“You’re not the first athlete I’ve known with a career-ending injury, Caleb. And you certainly won’t be the last,” I go on. “And I saw that hit. I saw the video, and Iempathizewith your pain—”

“Oh, you do?” he huffs, trying to pull away again, but I tighten my hold on his tatted wrist.

“Yes, I do. I may not have seen your chart, but I can only imagine how you fought in your rehab to regain the level of function you have now.” I’m determined to get through to him, to set this right. “But I think that’s who you are. You’re a fighter. You’re fighting me now,” I add, gesturing to the way he’s pulling back. “So no, Caleb. I don’t pity you. I wouldneverpity you. I admire strength and determination. I admire resiliency. Which means I admire you.” With that, I drop my hand away.

His gaze lifts again and those dark eyes pierce me, holding me captive. Something is shifting between us. I’m sure he must feel it too. The darkness in his eyes changes from vehemence to something warmer. I can hardly believe when he adjusts his hand under my chin. Suddenly, his thumb is brushing gently over my lips.

Oh god, he’s going to kiss me.

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