Page 235 of Playing the Pucking Game
“There,” he soothes.
Glancing down, I find myself covered in a gray and green Vipers shirt.
“Why this one?” I ask as I push my arms through the holes and turn to face him.
His pupils are blown with desire, making me even more curious about this T-shirt choice.
“Because of this,” he says, gently directing me to stand in front of the mirror.
I frown, not seeing a reason for his reaction. But then he turns me around and it all starts to make sense.
I find “Storm” printed across my shoulders and a large seven down my back.
“One day, there will be a game you’re not working, and you’re going to be right behind the plexiglass, wearing my jersey and cheering my name.”
I nod, swept away by the images he paints.
“Okay,” I breathe.
“Get ready for bed, babe. I’ll be right back.”
I stand there in the middle of the room and watch him leave. It’s ridiculous, because he’s only on the other side of the wall, but I miss him.
Shaking my head at how pathetic I am, I shuffle toward my bathroom.
Less than ten minutes later, Linc is fresh from the shower, wearing only a pair of boxer briefs, and he’s slipping into my bed.
The second he wraps his arms around me and hauls me against him, I relax, and only moments later, sleep claims me.
I wakethe next day to the scent of bacon filling the apartment and my stomach growling loudly.
I guess if I can’t wake up with him next to me, having him cook me breakfast is the next best thing. Assuming that’s what he’s doing, of course.
Needing to know, I roll out of bed and stumble into the bathroom to freshen up.
Still dressed in nothing but his T-shirt, I make my way to the kitchen.
I pause in the entryway, finding Linc moving effortlessly around his kitchen with a tea towel thrown over his bare shoulder.
My eyes drop, taking in his exposed chest and abs before I get to the waistband of his boxers and sweats.
Hottest chef I’ve ever seen.
The bacon sizzles in the pan while a waffle maker sits on the counter.
It beeps, and he lifts the top, revealing two perfectly made waffles.
I’m impressed.
Next come the eggs. He pours the already-beaten mixture into another pan and stirs.
I already knew Linc could cook, but eating what he’s made and watching him create it are two very different things.
“I know you’re watching,” he suddenly says, scaring the shit out of me.
Busted.
“I…uh…yeah. I guess I am,” I confess.
