Chapter 8 Blake #2
“It’s a risk.”
My gaze shifts back to the door, bringing a grin to Wyatt’s face.
“You’re not coming in there,” he warns.
“Why? Because I might see your dick?”
He simply sighs again, but I can see him trying not to laugh. “Oh my God. Just fuck off.”
At that, he ducks into the locker room, and because I do have some etiquette and wasn’t raised by wolves, I head to the rink instead.
It seems to be some sort of free hour, because there’s nobody out on the ice save for a fair-haired man teaching his son how to skate.
The boy can’t be older than four, and he’s literally the cutest thing I’ve ever seen in his puffy blue coat and tiny black skates.
Sometimes I wonder if my dad wishes he’d had a son he could share his hockey love with.
Instead, he got me, a stubborn girl who only wanted to read books or watch football.
To Dad’s credit, if he ever did resent it, he never once showed it.
In fact, he went above and beyond to bond with me.
The man who doesn’t love reading read all the books for my freshman literature class so he could discuss them with me and help me study.
My dad’s pretty great.
Rather than sit in the stands, I find a spot in front of the plexiglass and stand there. Hugging my arms against the chill, I watch my breath puff out in the cold air. I’ve spent my whole life in ice rinks, but I’ll never love it the way my father does.
Not long after, Wyatt enters the arena. He’s not in full padding, but he does wear a helmet, a black practice jersey, and hockey pants. And he’s enormous on skates, I realize. The blades add a couple inches to his already commanding height.
Eyeing me in irritation, he snaps his helmet into place, then pushes the low wooden door that opens onto the ice. A minute later, he’s joined by another man, this one in full pads. Goalie gear.
I walk along the plexi, trailing the two guys toward one end of the rink where a net is already set up. The newcomer drops a bucket of pucks on center ice before skating with a very reluctant Wyatt in my direction.
“Blake,” Wyatt says gruffly, his voice a tad muffled behind the glass. “This is Miguel. He plays for the local men’s league. Miguel, this is Blake. Family friend.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say, smiling at Miguel.
“Likewise!” Unlike Wyatt, this guy actually smiles back, flashing his dimples before gliding toward the net and dropping into a slutty butterfly stretch.
“Can you please go to the library?” Wyatt grumbles at me.
“I could. Or…” I lift my phone and snap a picture of his unhappy face. “I can do this.”
Mumbling under his breath—something not very nice, I suspect—he skates to the blue line and spills a handful of pucks from the bucket onto the ice.
As unimpressed as I’ve always been with hockey (and hockey players), I can’t take my eyes off Wyatt.
Watching him skate, I can see why Garrett wanted so desperately for his son to follow in his footsteps.
Wyatt is deceptively slow. He moves with a lazy grace, almost seductive as he allows the goalie to grow accustomed to the insolent tempo, to grow complacent…
before suddenly kicking into another gear, catching Miguel off guard by firing a dizzyingly fast bullet at the net.
Score.
For the next ten minutes, Miguel doesn’t make a single save.
Sure, could be he’s the worst goalie on the planet, but I’ve been watching hockey my entire life.
Miguel has skills. He’s got a fast glove.
It’s just that Wyatt’s glove shots are faster.
Miguel is quick with the pads, but Wyatt is quicker to find a slot and squeeze that puck in.
The rink echoes with the familiar sounds I grew up with. The sharp thwack of Wyatt’s stick striking the puck, followed by the dull thunk of it hitting the goalie’s pads. It’s hypnotic.
No, he’s hypnotic.
He moves with purpose. Fluid. Powerful. Every shot is deliberate, but he isn’t showing off. He’s just…focused. Sweat beads along his brow, and as always, I feel the urge to lick it off. This guy has triggered some sort of licking fetish in me. I’m always imagining dragging my tongue over his skin.
I track him through the plexiglass. For the first time since they hit the ice, Miguel stops the puck, knocking it away.
Wyatt grins, and it’s boyish and light and tugs at my chest. It’s rare to see him smile like that.
I’ve spent the past few days watching him brooding on the dock, his forehead furrowed as he tries to battle his writer’s block.
Here, he actually appears to be having fun.
Although he’d probably yell at me for it, I start snapping pictures of him on the ice. I’m tempted to send them to Gigi, but I curb the impulse. It’s obvious he doesn’t want his family to know about this.
Which is wild to me. He should be proud of how good he is.
At hockey, at music. I would kill to be that good at something.
Instead, I’m just a passionless, talentless college chick who’s probably going to end up working a boring, soul-sucking nine-to-five after graduation while everyone around me shines in their chosen field.
When the chill in the air finally gets to me and the boredom sets in, I tuck my phone in my pocket and wave at Wyatt. He glides backward before pivoting, his skates scraping across the ice as he comes toward me.
“You taking off?” he calls.
“Yeah, I’m going to the library now.”
Nodding, he removes his glove and shoves his sweat-dampened hair away from his forehead. He is inconceivably attractive.
“All right,” he says. “I’ll meet you at the car.”
He’s about to skate away when my brain decides to hijack my mouth.
“You hurt my feelings.”
He stops, pivoting again on his blades. A deep crease appears in his brow. “What?”
“You hurt my feelings,” I repeat, shifting my feet in discomfort. “Yesterday. You made me feel…small. And pathetic.” Shut the hell up, Blake, I scream at myself. But my emotions have taken the reins. “Like there’s something wrong with wanting to wear a pretty dress and go out.”
Wyatt visibly swallows.
“You made me feel like maybe I deserved to be cheated on,” I mutter, now staring at my sneakers. “Because I was so stupid and apparently didn’t see it coming.”
The silence from him drags, eliciting a rush of frustration. I find the courage to lift my gaze, only to be met with…nothing. His expression reveals absolutely nothing.
“Anyway.” I shrug. “That’s all I wanted to say.”
Still, he doesn’t speak.
Clenching my teeth, I step away from the plexiglass. Okay then. Screw you, asshole.
“Blake.”
I stop at the sound of my name, turning toward the glass.
“What?” I mutter.
Our eyes lock. When he speaks, his voice is low and husky.
“It won’t happen again.”