Chapter 36 – Alise
Chapter Thirty-Six
Alise
The man blocking my escape grins like I’ve walked straight into his trap. I know that face, or at least, I think I do. It takes a beat for my brain to sort through the blur of introductions, pre-game chatter, and sideline glimpses before the name clicks into place.
Even out of uniform, Tim Bower is impossible to miss, all broad shoulders and easy swagger. His dark hair is damp, curling slightly at the edges, and there’s a faint red line on his cheekbone. He smells faintly of soap and something sharp and clean, an aftershave that lingers long after he’s gone.
“Lost?” he asks, voice threaded with humor, like he already knows the answer.
“Just, uh, looking for someone.”
His eyes flick briefly to the headphones looped around my neck. “You always wear those,” he says, not unkindly, more curious than anything. “Been wondering why.”
“They help when the noise gets to be too much,” I answer simply, my fingers brushing the padded ear cup. It’s as much as I’m willing to offer, and it seems to be enough for him because he just nods and grins wider.
He nods toward the number stretched across my chest, grin widening. “Bold choice, advertising your loyalties in this hallway.” His eyebrows shoot up like he knows exactly what he’s doing, and a slow, knowing smile spreads across his face.
Before I can stop him, he slings one massive arm around my shoulders, palm spanning nearly the entire width of my upper arm, and steers me forward. “Well then, let’s not keep your man waiting.”
“My—wait,” I respond, my brain short-circuiting slightly, but Bower is already walking me toward the locker room door.
I can barely keep up with his long strides, half-jogging to match his pace.
My protests fall uselessly into the charged air that always hangs around this close to the ice.
He pushes the door open with his free hand—low laughter, snippets of conversation, and the dull clatter of gear being tossed into bins echo inside.
“Hey, boys!” Bower’s voice booms over everything, and every head turns. “Hendrix, your girlfriend’s here!”
Their reaction is immediate. A chorus of oohs and whistles bounces off the cinderblock walls, someone lets out a dramatic wolf howl, and another pounds his palm against a locker in mock applause.
I freeze just inside the doorway, and heat floods my cheeks so fast it feels like someone dunked me in boiling water.
“Oh, my God! No—” I rush out, looking straight at Beau.
His eyes lock on me from across the room, scanning my form and committing it to memory. His dirty blonde hair is damp with sweat, clinging to his forehead, and the slow curl of his mouth tells me he’s enjoying this way too much.
“I didn’t—” I stumble over my words, trying to make them reach him before the teasing does. “I didn’t tell him that. I swear!”
Beau leans back against his stall like he’s got all the time in the world, one brow lifting in lazy amusement.
“You mean you’re not my girlfriend?” he asks, the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Damn. Guess I’ll have to return the flowers I ordered.”
The room erupts into a chorus of shouts and groans before someone hollers, “Smooth, Hendrix!”
My stomach does a dangerous flip, caught between embarrassment and something warmer I don’t want to name, and Beau just keeps looking at me like I’m the only person in the room.
He doesn’t look away, not once, like the whistles and laughter of his teammates are just static.
His gaze holds me in place, daring me to move.
My pulse kicks hard, each beat echoing in my ears.
I can feel the burn creeping down my neck, pooling low in my stomach.
My fingers tighten in the jersey hem until the fabric bites into my skin, grounding me the only way I can manage.
“Careful, Beau,” a voice calls from somewhere to my left. “You’re gonna make us all look bad!”
“Pretty sure he already did, lover boy,” another chimes in before I can recover.
The noise spikes, ricocheting off the lockers, but Beau doesn’t so much as glance away from me. His eyes, locked and steady, cut right through the noise.
“Seriously,” someone else shouts, “at least give her a tour before you propose.”
The comment earns a round of oohs and a mocking, drawn-out “Saaaay yes” from another corner of the room.
I swallow hard, my throat tight, heat prickling behind my ears.
My brain is begging me to step back, to break eye contact, to do something, but my feet don’t move.
Beau’s smirk deepens slightly, the barest flicker of something warmer sliding into his gaze like he’s perfectly aware of the show they’re putting on, and he’s in no rush to end it.
For a second, I forget the room is full of people.
It’s just him, me, and everything we haven’t said out loud hanging in the space between us.
He pushes up from the bench with an unhurried grace that makes my stomach dip.
The shift in the room is immediate; a ripple of oh, this is about to get good runs through the guys like a current.
Beau takes his time crossing the floor, every step purposeful, his gaze locked on me like there’s nothing else worth looking at.
My pulse hammers everywhere. In my throat, my wrists, the tips of my fingers still twisting the hem of the jersey like it’s the only thing holding me together.
“Go get her, Hendrix!” someone calls from down the row, laughter chasing the words. “Bet she’s here to give you your good luck kiss.”
That earns a wave of whistles and mock howls, but Beau doesn’t glance away. He’s close enough now that I can see the sheen of focus in his eyes and smell the faint scent of his body wash mixing with the sharper tang of fresh tape and clean ice drifting in from the tunnel.
When he stops in front of me, the rest of the room might as well disappear, except it doesn’t because the wall of sound I can’t hide from keeps pounding around us.
“Hi,” he says, low enough that it’s just for me.
“Hi.” My throat tightens, but I manage to get the word out.
“Are we in a rom-com right now?” From somewhere on our right, someone groans loudly. “Do I need to cue the music?”
“Ignore them.” Beau’s mouth twitches like he’s fighting a grin, but his gaze never wavers. “They’re just jealous.”
“They’re all staring,” I whisper back, my voice barely cutting through the noise.
“Good,” he says, his tone warm and firm. “Let ’em see.”
The words send a rush of heat through me that has nothing to do with embarrassment.
“Just kiss her already, Hendrix!” someone shouts, and the entire room erupts again.
Beau doesn’t flinch. If anything, he steps closer, his shoulder brushing mine, his body radiating heat in the narrow space between us.
My pulse skips, my skin prickles, and every nerve keys in on him even though I can feel the weight of every gaze in the room.
Even so, it’s like there’s no one here but him.
His mouth curves slowly like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me. The noise around us fades to a low hum as he leans in, slow and deliberately, like he’s giving me time to stop him. His scent hits me first, causing my breath to catch, fingers still tangled in the hem of my borrowed jersey.
Is he going to kiss me? Here? In front of everyone? Surprisingly, I’m okay with that.
Beau’s lips are inches from mine, his voice a low scrape I can feel more than hear. “Guess you’ll have to stick around if you want that good luck kiss, hmm?”
And just like that, he pulls back. His warmth disappears, replaced by the cool rush of air between us.
He takes a step backward, eyes still on me, and that infuriating grin settles deep on his face.
The chirping starts up again instantly. Ooooh, she’s blushing, and that’s cold, Hendrix!
, but Beau just turns away, reaching for something in his locker like the conversation’s over.
“Don’t go anywhere,” he says, glancing at me one last time, a quick up-and-down that’s both a promise and a challenge.
And then he’s gone, folding back into the rhythm of his pre-game routine like I’m not standing there, flushed and breathless, with my heart hammering so loud I can barely hear anything else.
I’m still rooted to the spot, trying to remember how to breathe, when Bower slides back into my peripheral like he’s been waiting for his cue.
“Well, that was… interesting,” he drawls, folding his arms across his massive chest. His grin is wide enough to make my cheeks burn hotter. “You know, you might be the first person to make Hendrix crack a smile before puck drop in, oh… ever.”
“I’m not—” I roll my eyes, but my pulse is still galloping.
“Oh, I know,” he cuts in, eyes flicking pointedly to the jersey still bunched in my fists. “Definitely not his girlfriend.”
A couple of guys down the row snicker. One of them, a forward I vaguely recognize, leans around Bower to add, “If you were, you’d be sitting on his lap by now. He’s a creature of habit.”
“I… no—”
“Relax, we’re just giving you a proper Timberwolves welcome. We did the same thing to your girl Ramona. You survive the chirping, you’re in.” Bower chuckles, clearly delighted by my flailing.
“How do you know… You know what? Never mind. You guys probably gossip more than a bunch of teenage girls.”
“You got that right,” a voice calls from two stalls down—a forward I vaguely recognize by the messy blond hair sticking out from under his beanie. He props an elbow on his knee, smirking like he’s been waiting to join in.
“Locker room gossip is basically a team sport.” He pauses, grin widening. “Of course, it didn’t save me from the black eye I got, courtesy of Hendrix, when I called you a puck bunny.”
“What the hell? You called me what?” My voice cracks so high that half the room bursts out laughing.
“Shhh—” His eyes go comically wide, darting a quick, guilty glance toward Beau. “Please keep your voice down. I really enjoy seeing with both eyes. I’m not looking to start the game half-blind.”