Page 97 of The Cruelest Kind of Hate
I’m headed to wish him luck before the game, and I’m just hoping that I won’t mess up any of his pregame rituals. When I round the corner into the main tunnel, I find Gage in his giant, padded gear, standing next to a decked-out Fulton.
They’re turned half-toward each other and half-toward the rink, mumbling about God knows what, and I awkwardly try to get Gage’s attention without crashing full speed into their conversation.
But thankfully, it doesn’t take long for my boyfriend to notice me and for his whole face to light up brighter than a polar sunrise. He walks over to me and embraces me, which basically feels like the equivalent of hugging a cloud.
“I’m so happy you’re here,” he says, giving me a slight squeeze before letting go.
My nerves keep backflipping all over the place, and now that Gage has effortlessly captured my heart’s attention, the chaos continues as it swoons and tries to jump into his arms. “You are?”
“Of course I am, Spitfire. You’re my lucky charm.”
“How do you know I’m lucky? I’ve never seen you play before.”
He takes his helmet off and sets it on the ground. “You’re my lucky charm when it comes to life, not just hockey.”
Oh.
Oh.
Judging by the incendiary heat that’s just risen to my head, my cheeks have probably gained a new pink tone to them. I thought all these nerves were supposed to disappear when you become a couple! And these butterflies feel like a swarm of wasps terrorizing my stomach.
I really don’t know what to say. At this point, I’m more anxious than Gage is, and he has a game to play in front of the entire world after being off the ice for three months.
“I—”
Completely oblivious to my miniature freakout—or maybe not—he leans forward and captures my lips in a kiss that seems to silence every nonvital activity in my body, and I mentally thank myself for wearing platform boots today so I can link my arms comfortably around his neck. There’s just the right amount of sparks. Not too little to be overlooked, but not too much to set both of our libidos on fire. It’s a kiss of reassurance and stability. I melt against him, in the safety of his arms, and both of us slowly pull away at the same time.
“And you’re wearing my jersey,” he notes, taking his gloves off so he can rub the material between the pads of his fingers, as if he needs to be convinced that this is all real.
“I thought you might like it,” I offer coyly.
“You have no fucking idea.”
Something dark traipses through his eyes, turning green into gunmetal, and his gaze lowers to my lips, which only exacerbates the second heartbeat in my nether regions that was perfectly content with being out of service.
His voice is low, lecherous, promising things that I can’t in good conscience resist. “Shit, Cali. As much as I love seeing you in my jersey, I can’t wait to see you out of it?—”
“Hey, guys! Hey! Still here. Right here. Literally right next toyou,” Fulton half-shrieks, waving his arms at us like a frenzied traffic cop.
I cringe. “Sorry, Fulton.”
“It’s okay! No, I’m totally all for you guys getting freaky-deeky. I just don’t want a front row seat. I tend to be forgotten a lot. Not in a bad way, though! I kind of don’t understand social cues and when to leave.”
Laughter furls out of me, shaking my shoulders gently. “Do you also overshare?”
Fulton has to pause and think for a second. “That is what I’ve been told before.”
Oh, Fulton. You sweet, sweet thing.
The truth is, I might’ve come down here with an ulterior motive in mind. And because this is the best thing my twisted little head has ever come up with, I can’t keep hiding this secret any longer.
“You remember when we made that stupid bet over Teague’s goal?” I ask, flirtatiously dragging my finger up and down his arm, getting a sick sense of satisfaction when he still shivers under my innocent little touch.
“Uh-huh,” he drawls, the corner of his lips tugging up into an arrogant half-grin.
“Well, I went to that tattoo session you booked for me and followed through.”
“Oh, really?” Gage brushes his lips over the shell of my ear, his breath warming the stretch of neck located right below. “Where is it, Spitfire?”
