Page 12 of Penalty Box
“That wasn’t flirting,” I said. “Just a statement of fact.”
She turned toward me, arms crossed. I tried not to stare at the smooth inside of her elbows, or the smudge of grease on her jaw. Her hair was in a loose braid that was starting to fall apart. My hand moved on its own to tuck a strand behind her ear.
But, what the hell was I thinking? She’d never go for that.
I regained control of my hand in mid-air, and could do nothing but fake a big stretch with a yawn to go with it.
“You’re pretty confident for a guy who’s about to be late for training.”
“Because I know I’m making the roster,” I said.
“Even with your wobbly blade?” She clamped my skate on the sharpening rig, and locked it in.
I gave a low chuckle. “Especially with my wobbly blade. It’s my signature move.”
She gave a slow shake of her head, but I caught the curve of her smile before she looked away. “Still going, right? You’re braver than you look.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Take it however you want,” she said, guiding the skate back and forth in smooth, consistent passes.
Sparks snapped and hissed in short, bright arcs, lighting up the greens of her eyes through the safety glasses. I felt like I could skip the game completely, and just sit there and watch her do her thing all day.
“So, what do I call you?” My voice barely lifted over the gentle hum of the rig. “In my head, you’re Firestarter, which is kind of badass but doesn’t feel right.”
“You don’t think I’m badass?” Another pass. Then another. Her hands were steady and focused.
There was something mesmerizing about the way she moved—deliberate but not robotic. Like she was in some sort of secret kinship with her tools that nobody else would understand.
“I’m beginning to think you’re the right amount of badass to keep most guys from pestering you for a name.”
This made her look up, one brow raised. “And you’re not ‘most guys’, I take it.” She gave me the once-over, her hawk-like gaze making me feel more vulnerable than I did in the recurring nightmare where I went out on the ice in front of a packed arena with nothing but my skates and a stick.
I was on the back foot, and needed to recover. Quick.
“I’m the guy who’s happy to call you whatever you want if you’ll go on a date with me.”
Her laugh wasn’t exactly what I was hoping for, but something warm flicked over in my gut just the same. I’d made her laugh. It was a start. A way in.
“What’s the game plan for tonight?” She lifted my skate from the rig and began smoothing it out with the leather strap dangling from the side of the bench. “Or you planning to wing it with a heroic solo goal and lots of hair-flipping?”
I ran a hand through my hair that was still damp from warm-ups. “Definitely thinking of going full Disney montage. Gonna throw my helmet off mid-play and break the fourth wall for all the screaming fans at home.”
“I think you better leave that stuff to Grayson,” she chuckled, then unlatched my skate and held it out to me. “Here. Try not to trip over your ego when you get out there.”
I stood up and took it from her with a mock salute, but I didn’t make to leave. Something about this little room made it hard. Or maybe it was her.
“Thanks,” I said, quieter now. “Seriously.”
“Anytime.” Her smile was barely there but goddamn if it didn’t raise the temperature by a hundred degrees. “Just— Maybe don’t bring it around too often. You don’t want it shaved too thin before the playoffs even start.”
“But how else am I going to see you?” Her eyes met mine, charging the moment until it seemed to contract around us. Closing us into a bubble that only we could feel.
“Mason.”
“Yes, Firestarter?”
She burst out laughing, dipping her head shyly. But—and this was the most important part—she didn’t back away. Not even when I took another step to close more of the distance between us. Close enough to smell that flowery perfume that had been wafting through my thoughts all week.
