Page 97 of Lucky Laces
“That’s whatIsaid.”I toss up my hands.“And then there are the interview requests.”My nose wrinkles.“I get that I’m the new coach and I’m a woman, but God, there are only so many times I can take being asked about my plans for the season and what I’m going to do to make sure we’re a contender for the Cup.”
He chuckles.“It does get old answering the same shit.”He slides his hand up, cups my jaw.“You going to start turning some down?”
“No,” I grumble.“After the PR crises of the last few seasons, I’m doing everything I can to keep us in good press.”
His thumb brushes over my lips.“My poor baby.”But his tone is far from sympathetic.
I scowl.Then come up with a rather brilliant idea, if I do say so myself.
“And actually,” I say.“I shared the story of you saving me, and it was a big hit.”His face pales but I keep going.“Numerous outlets want statements and ESPN wants to do a feature.”Wide eyes, mouth opening and closing, excuses already forming on the edges of his expression.“Since you’re on the Injured Reserve and not playing, I told them you were free to—ack!”
He lifts me, still pinning me against the wall, but doing it a couple of feet higher now…and with the added bonus of my legs being wrapped around his waist.
And yeah, that’s nice.
Reallynice.
“You’re lying,” he growls, mouth at my ear again.
“N-no—” I say, trying desperately to stay focused.A nearly impossible task considering my current position and the fact that I haven’t seen him for a few days, since the team was out of town and he stayed home to recover and take some appointments with the therapists from Smithie’s team.“You’re giving the interviews,” I attempt to order, even though it sounds incredibly breathy.
He lifts his head, mouth quirking, eyes dancing.“You beautiful liar,” he says softly.
“I—”
But he doesn’t give me the chance to continue that deception.
His lips hit mine and he’s kissing me, and it’s even better than normal in this position, all heat and tongue, strength and rough-edged need.He tastes like fruit punch Gatorade and smells like spice and the way he rocks his hips, aligning his pelvis—and the hard length of his erection—against mine has a moan rumbling up the back of my throat, my hands diving into his hair, my desperate desire to devour this man beyond intense.
So intense that I snake a hand down between us, shove my fingers beneath the waistband of his sweats?—
“Oh shit!Sorry!”
I freeze, the interruption hitting me like ice water.
Hudson goes still then exhales sharply and glares over his shoulder.“Go the fuck away,” he growls.
“Right,” King says.“I’ll just…”
“Go,”Hudson says, still growling.
“Right,” King says again and this time he pairs it with disappearing.
“Fuck.”I push at his chest and Hudson sets me back down on my feet.“I’m sorry,” he whispers.“I wasn’t thinking.I’ll make sure he doesn’t say?—”
I should be horrified.
I should beterrified.
Instead, I do the only thing I can.
I laugh.
It’s absurd.I just got caught making out with one of my players in the hallway of the rink by another player on my roster.
It’s straight out of a romcom or a romance novel.
Next step, I guess I’m supposed to freak out and push Huddy away, shut down what we’re building and put us both through hell.
