Page 47 of The Love Dare
She wants to feel chosen.
Members of the arena staff bring skates to all the women. Winnie’s of course don’t fit. She can’t even get her foot in the boot because they’re so small. It’s a producer move—it must be. They know her shoe size. They just want to annoy her, and it’s working. Her already irritable mood deepens into a dumpster fire of discontent while she watches the rest of the girls leave the locker room one by one and head out to the rink where Tyler is undoubtedly standing, with his perfect hair, and his perfect lips, and his perfect body, on his ice, under the bright lights that make him seem more god than man.
A camera trains on her glower as the minutes tick by. She can practically see this play out on TV—a shot of her forlorn face, then cut to Tyler holding hands with one of the girls, another shot of her, another cut to him laughing while he helps a fallen damsel to her feet. They bring out two more pairs of skates before one finally fits. The staff member offers her an apologetic glance as he explains that they ran out of figure skates and she’ll need to use hockey skates instead. If it’s another setup from production, they played this hand poorly. Sure, hockey skates are typically harder for beginners, tougher on balance, and slicker on the ice. They’re probably hoping she’ll face-plant the second she gets out there. But she practically grew up with blades on her feet.
Laughter is the first thing she hears as she makes her way down the tunnel. Winnie pauses in the shadows to stare out at the rink. A few of the girls zip confidently over the ice. Others hug each other as they shuffle along. One or two grip the edge for dear life. Tyler weaves easily between them, so freaking sexy it isn’t even fair. He’s smooth as butter, perfectly at ease as he darts forward, spins, cuts backward, the act of skating easier for him than walking. Dark jeans hug his muscular thighs, and a light-blue quarter zip brings out his brilliant eyes. His blond hair settles in perfect disarray as he runs a hand absently through it,the bottom edge of his shirt pulling up just enough to reveal a peek of the six-pack waiting underneath. A hint of scruff covers his cheeks. She’s always preferred him that way, not so clean cut, a little gruff like his personality. Still oblivious to her presence, he crouches into a low turn and drags his fingers over the ice. Winnie shivers, imagining the cold press of them against her throat.
Okay. Stop being a wimp. And a stalker.
Stop being a wimpy stalker.
She emerges from her hiding spot. He clocks her the moment she steps on the ice, and immediately starts speed skating in her direction, determination etched into the grooves of his handsome face. But after five days of doing nothing but wait for any morsel of attention he dared throw in her direction, Winnie’s sort of over it.
Maybe Tyler should chase after her for a change.
She pushes off the wall, a sudden rush shooting through her at the sound of his skates scraping over the ice, changing direction, following. This is exactly what she needed. He’ll catch her eventually. They aren’t ten anymore. He’s got height on her, muscle on her, and about a million more hours of practice. But she’s still quick, and with the other women doing everything in their power to get in his way, she can cut and weave enough to catch him off guard. He’s closing in, but he doesn’t seem to be in a rush either. She risks a glance over her shoulder and spots an eager grin on his lips. He’s about five feet behind her, getting nearer every second. A wild glow lights his eyes. Heat crackles down her spine.
“You can keep running as long as you want, Win,” he calls out. “I could stare at your ass in those tight pants all day.”
It’s so unexpected, her mind goes blank. In that shocked nanosecond, her skate hits a patch of rough ice. She loses her balance and skitters forward. He catches her around themidsection before she falls and spins her in his sturdy arms as they sail toward the boards. Her back slams into hard plastic. Tyler lifts his hands to either side of her face, stopping before he hits her. She’s breathless just the same, caught within the cage his body creates, unable to escape the sheer size and scope and heat of him.
They’ve known each other since they were kids, but this is brand-new territory. She doesn’t know what to say, how to act. He’s never spoken to her like this before, so blatant, so wanting. Never stared at her so openly, as if he’s undressing her with his eyes and doesn’t give a shit if anyone else sees. It’s intoxicating.
He leans closer.
“You’re sexy when you’re angry,” he whispers. “I’ve always thought so.”
“Always?” she asks, searching his gaze.
He grips her by the chin, turning her face up toward his, and runs his thumb across her lower lip. “Always.”
“Good,” she says, suddenly remembering her resolve to make him the one who’s waiting and wanting and worrying.I will not become putty in his hands after he ghosted me like that. I will NOT.“Because I’m pissed.”
Winnie shoves her palms into his rock-hard chest and he slides back, not anticipating the blow. She slips to the side. He takes her by the hand and pulls her against his chest.
“Please,” he pleads. “I’ll explain. I promise I’ll explain.”
“Explain what?” she seethes, an ache burning in the back of her throat. “I told you I loved you, and?—”
“I know,” he cuts in, lifting her hand to his chest and spreading her fingers over his heart. “Trust me, I know. I can’t think about anything else. I?—”
A foghorn blasts through the arena, cutting him off.
“Shit,” he curses and glances at the row of producers in the stands, watching them intently. “Winnie, I?—”
The foghorn blares again.
He doesn’t turn. He just grips her hand tighter. “Please, I?—”
It sounds twice more, so loud her ears ring. The determination on Tyler’s face makes it clear he intends to ignore the interruption. But then another sound cuts across the ice—voices, slightly high pitched, filled with awe and glee, backed by the clanging of gear and the sudden scrape of blades on ice. They both turn as ten boys slide onto the rink, each one staring at Ty as if he’s the messiah. The wordsBreakaway with Youth Hockeyare painted across their shirts—the name of his charity.
Tyler sighs heavily. Just like that, Winnie knows she’s lost him.
The producers played this hand perfectly. Tyler would’ve gone deaf before allowing a silly noise to tear him away. Those innocent boys and the work he does with them are pretty much the only draw big enough to pull his attention.
He casts one last pained glance at her before shifting his hold on her hand. “I’ve got to?—”
“I know,” she says, letting go of her anger for a moment. She can put it aside to make sure those kids have the afternoon they deserve. “You should go.”
