Chapter 8
eight
. . .
Jason
Amelia is at the back of the plane with Zac and Derek. Graham stayed home with the injured players, working on their recoveries. I never paid attention to the physical therapists’ rotation before.
I overheard Trevor, the director of rehabilitation, talking about how they switch shifts so that one person is always home and the other two get to travel.
Zac has young kids, but he's also been on road trips in the past. It helps to have a deep enough bench that you can rotate.
I know all about that approach. I do it every day on the ice.
In the first three weeks of the season, I notice Amelia everywhere.
It's like I can't escape her. Every morning, I wake up, and I see her empty bed.
When I go to sleep, it's only after checking on her, asleep in her own bed, to make sure she's okay.
I don't know why she doesn't draw her curtains, but I can't bring myself to close my blinds, either.
There haven’t been any more shows or glimpses. At work, we keep things strictly PG. Not even PG-13. It's all completely aboveboard.
So, why do I hate it so fucking much?
I watch her brother with the baby. Occasionally, there's another man with him.
I rarely see the three of them together.
I feel like I should go over and introduce myself.
After all, I stare into their apartment every night.
Still, what her brothers don't know won't hurt them.
The last thing I need is to get in a fistfight with those clowns, thinking I'm taking advantage of their very much consenting little sister.
At least, I think she's a little sister. She could be the older one. I don't get that vibe, though.
There's something about Amelia that says she's a scrappy little fighter, the kind that stuck up for herself as a kid. Not that her brother wouldn't protect her. More like, it was the two of them against the world.
I want to get to know her. I want to learn what makes her tick. And fuck, do I ever want to watch her fuck her fingers again.
But I don't get to. I don't have that right. We're coworkers and nothing more. I'm not cut out for a relationship, and it is a supremely terrible idea to fuck around at work.
Especially as a captain. The team counts on me to hold myself accountable, to set a good example. I can't do that if I'm screwing the staff.
Even if our first time together occurred before she joined the team. It doesn't matter. I have to hold myself to a higher standard.
Our flight lands, and two buses arrive to bring us to the hotel. One bus is reserved for players and coaching staff, the other for support staff. I don’t usually pay attention to who gets on which bus.
But then, Amelia steps onto our bus, and everything goes fuzzy.
She sits in the front with Zac, three rows ahead of me on the opposite aisle.
Her dark hair is pulled into a ponytail, showcasing the long column of her neck.
What I would give to bury my face there, to lick and suck at her sensitive skin.
It’s the middle of the night. That’s why everything is suddenly on fire, why my cock surges in the confines of my suit pants. I’m sleep-deprived. When I get to the hotel, I’ll rub one out and hopefully crash.
Except when we get to the hotel and receive our room keys, she’s in the elevator, too.
I can’t escape her. Somehow, she ends up right in front of me, and when Jenkins climbs aboard, she moves back, nearly stepping on my toes to give him room.
Her back is plastered to my front, her ass brushing against the tops of my thighs.
She’s nearly a foot shorter than me, which means she’s average height.
Even after working the game and then the flight, I can still smell a hint of her perfume.
Something sweet. It’s not overpowering, not like the stench of the other guys’ colognes in the tight confines of the elevator.
The subtle scent of hot cocoa and marshmallows washes over me, settling the nervous churning in my gut.
The elevator chimes, the doors open on the fifth floor, and all the guys pour out.
“You coming, Cap?” Sinclair asks, holding his arm between the doors.
“Nah, I’m on seven,” I tell him. “Goodnight. Get some sleep.”
“You, too,” the defenseman says. “‘Night, Amelia.”
“Goodnight,” she says. Exhaustion colors her voice, and when the last person files out, she moves away from me.
“So, you’re on seven, too?” I ask, trying (and failing) to keep my voice neutral. Instead, it comes out rough as gravel.
“I’m on eight,” she says, without looking at me.
I let out a soft hum. “Too bad.”
She glares at me, and then lets out a loud, long yawn. “Why is it too bad?”
“I don’t know. I kind of like being neighbors.”
Does she put on a show for everyone in the neighborhood, or am I the lucky one?
Her eyes flash. “You—”
The elevator chimes when we reach the seventh floor.
“Have a good night, Amelia.” I tip my head when I squeeze past her. What I’d give to brush my body against hers, to finally feel her beneath me as I—
Exhaling slowly, I look over my shoulder, but the elevator already closed, whisking her away. With a sigh, I trudge down the hallway until I reach my impersonal hotel room.
Kicking off my shoes, I pull at the knot in my tie, and then strip off my shirt and pants. I should probably hang up the suit, but right now, I can’t be bothered.
My pulse is thready, heat circling in my gut as my semi turns into a full-blown erection.
Her scent is in my nose, furling through me, like a wisp of smoke curling off a fire.
I stroke myself, my eyes falling shut as her image appears on the backs of my eyelids.
Her lithe body, the rounded swells of her breasts, her full hips and the swell of her belly…
Her fingers delving between her legs, coming out slick…
A groan falls from my lips as I work my cock, wishing Amelia was standing before me. My imagination conjures up an image of her falling to her knees, taking me in her slim hand, her lips stretched wide around my cock.
My breaths come faster now, my hand jerking my cock as if my life depends on it. I want her to knock on my door, to barge into my room and offer to take care of me.
Next time I’m on her table, maybe her hand will move from my knee to my thigh, and then higher…
Electricity travels down my spine, a clear warning sign, and I come with a long, rattly groan. Cum fills my fist, and I’m aware of sweat prickling my skin. Fuck. I need another shower.
But it’s Amelia I’m thinking about while I clean up. Wishing our relationship was real and not simply a fantasy.
Shit. I’ve got to get this under control. I can’t keep lusting after a team employee. My neighbor. A woman ten years younger…
No. This is not okay. This pesky attraction to her needs to go away—and fast.