Page 137 of Playing the Pucking Game
Concern is etched into his features, and I hate it. He’s usually so confident and sure of himself. To see him questioning this is unsettling.
“What’s going on in that head of yours?”
I shake my head. “Nothing. Everything. I don’t know.”
“Spending time with me is that bad, huh?”
I can’t help but laugh as another unwanted tear slips free.
“No, Linc. It’s not. All of this...everything you’ve done. It’s been more than I ever could have asked for.”
Something wicked flashes in his eyes. “Everything?” he asks as he reaches up and wipes the tear from my cheek with his thumb.
I roll my eyes. “Almost.”
Someone behind us clears their throat, making us both startle and jump back from each other.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, but you’re going to need to finish up.”
“No problem,” Linc says as I focus back on the view once more. “Good to go?” he asks.
I want to say no and demand that we stay in this little bubble for the rest of our time. But I can’t, so instead, I let out a sad sigh and turn toward the man waiting for us.
I only make it a step before Linc catches up to me and his fingers brush against mine.
I don’t think anything of it for a moment, but then it happens again before his fingers twist with mine, squeezing gently in support.
“Thank you,” Linc says, holding his free hand out to shake the man’s who’s holding the elevator doors open for us.
“A pleasure, Mr. Storm. Ma’am.”
I smile at him, too dumbfounded by the hand holding to muster any words.
We stand side by side, hands still intertwined as the doors slide closed, locking us inside the enclosed space.
A million questions dance on my tongue, but none of them break free.
As the elevator slows to a stop, so we can switch to another that will take us back to the ground, Linc reaches for his back pocket and pulls his cap free.
I watch as he places it on his head, my heart still beating a little too fast.
“See something you like, little P?” he asks with a smirk.
“No, not really,” I deadpan. He rolls his eyes, one side of his mouth kicking up in a smirk.
As the doors open, he pulls the bill of his cap lower, and still hand in hand we switch to a second elevator, but this one isn’t private.
By the time the doors close, it’s packed with people.
Linc is tucked into the corner behind me, trying to keep a low profile, but the second he tugs on my hand, I gasp in shock and turn multiple sets of eyes our way.
I step back, just like he intended, and he wraps our joined arms around my waist, pinning my back to his front.
My pulse jumps as his heat only makes my temperature climb.
He drops his head to my neck. I tell myself that he’s hiding, keeping his identity hidden just in case any of the people around us are hardcore hockey fans in town for tomorrow’s matchup. But the second he takes a deep breath and whispers, “Why do you always smell so fucking good?” I know differently.
“Because I’m not a sweaty hockey player.”
