Page 68 of Playing the Pucking Game
“Sorry. Should have warned you.”
I’m no virgin when it comes to cleaning up wounds. It comes with the territory of being an ice hockey player, even as a girl.
“It’s fine,” I whisper, my eyes locked on where he very carefully cleans me up.
Silence falls between us as he works. Every brush of his fingertips makes my heart beat a little faster and my skin erupt with goose bumps.
I’m fifteen. But thanks to my title as Rett’s little sister, I’m yet to have a boyfriend or kiss anyone like most of the girls at school.
I want to. I’m ready to experiment, but all the boys are too scared to go anywhere near me.
A heavy sigh slips past my lips, and Linc looks up with his bright blue eyes.
“Penny for your thoughts, Little P.”
That nickname makes something light up inside me. It reminds me that sometimes, he does see me as a person. Maybe even a girl.
I shake my head. I couldn’t possibly tell him my thoughts. He’d laugh in my face. He has girls falling over themselves to get to him at school. They both do. And I’ll never admit it, but I’ve overheard them talking about what they’ve been getting up to with said girls.
Something uncomfortable and unwanted stirs within me.
Jealousy.
I want him to look at me like he does those girls.
“Does Rett know you’re up here?” I ask, changing the subject.
“Your mom called, reminded him that he promised to go to the store for her.”
“You didn’t want to go?”
“Does it look like it?” he says, switching to my other knee. “Thought I’d check on you. Grab a drink and chill for a bit.”
“You don’t need to check on me,” I argue.
“What if I want to?”
I stare down at him, my mouth opening and closing as I try and fail to find any words.
“Okay,” I squeak.
His eyes hold mine for a beat before he gets back to work.
“Rett was an asshole for checking you like that,” he mutters as he places Band-Aids on both my knees.
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
He chuckles before demanding I show him my elbow.
“Jesus,” he mutters, taking in the mess.
I hold my arm in front of my chest, allowing him to repeat the process of cleaning it up and checking for debris. He opens a Band-Aid and applies it, but as he smooths the underside down, his knuckles brush against my breast.
I might be wearing a padded sports bra, but his touch is like an electric current that zaps straight through me.
No one has ever touched them, but that one graze is enough for me to know that I’d like it if someone—okay, if Linc—did.
“Shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean?—”
