Page 53 of Playing the Pucking Game
“Someone’s feeling extra sensitive today,” Monroe taunts, although when I glance back, I notice he’s stepped out of the aisle and out of Linc’s way.
Linc glares at the rookie. But Monroe being Monroe, he just shakes it off and smiles back.
“I’d go and rest that leg, if I were you,” I state, hoping to get him to move on. I’ve had more than enough of his surly ass today.
I spent almost the entirety of morning skate working on him. He barely said a word to me, and those he did were barbed and full of frustration. Somehow, though, the silence was worse. It allowed my mind to wander, to drift back to last night and all the sweet things he’d done for me.
No guy has ever bought me flowers before, let alone gone to the effort of writing a handwritten note. And the home-cooked dinner. As disappointed as I am that I missed the invitation, I’m also relieved. I don’t need to be around that side of Linc. It’s dangerous.
I’m better off remembering that he’s an arrogant manwhore who doesn’t care about anything but the game.
There was a time I allowed myself to see past that and let my fantasies run away with me. But I’m not that naive eighteen-year-old anymore. Instead, I’m an almost-twenty-four-year-old cynic who knows finding “the one” is reserved for only a fewspecial people. The rest of us are destined to spend our lives searching and forever failing.
With one more silent glare, Linc continues toward his seat.
Don’t look back. Don’t look back.
Squeezing my eyes closed, I chant that over and over.
Nothing good can come from watching his ass as he walks down the aisle.
“Are you okay?” Brooke asks quietly.
Her attention makes the right side of my face burn, but I don’t respond immediately.
I count to five, and when I’m confident that I can keep my attention focused forward, I open my eyes and smile.
“Yeah, of course. I’ve been dealing with Linc almost my whole life. I know how to handle him.”
An amused scoff comes from the other side of the aisle, and this time, I can’t stop myself. My head whips around to stare at Mitchell.
“Is there something you’d like to say?” I bark, my hackles rising.
I fucking hate this guy.
“Who, me?” he asks innocently. “Nope.”
“Ignore him,” Brooke urges, and I do, because I don’t have the energy to spar with the asshole.
The last few players arrive and quickly take their seats. Both Fletch and Kodie stop beside me for a quick hello. But before long, the flight attendants are locking the doors and giving the signal that the guys have been waiting for.
Movement erupts behind our heads, and I can’t help but smile as I think about the amount of skin that’s about to be on display.
“Best job ever,” Brooke giggles beside me.
I jump when a pair of pants land in the aisle next to me, and I make the stupid move of turning around.
Oh, holy hell.
Inches upon inches of toned muscle, tanned skin, and tight boxers greet me.
But while my eyes scan the bodies, it’s not until they find one that they linger.
I recognize him instantly. And it’s not just because of his ink that I’ve seen more than enough times over the years, or because I had my hands on him less than six hours ago.
I know I should turn back around, but I can’t. Much like last night when he walked out of the bathroom in only a towel, my eyes are glued to him.
You’re his trainer.
