Chapter 9
Reese
Ican't take my eyes off him.
The way Ramsey moves on the ice is fucking hypnotic.
Even through his bulky pads and helmet, I can trace the exact lines of his shoulders, the flex of his thighs as he pivots and slams another player into the boards.
My stomach does this weird fluttery thing when he glances up at the stands, and I immediately look away like I wasn't just mentally tracing everything about him.
"Where the hell is Hennessy?" I mutter to myself, bouncing my leg and checking my phone. I’ve been anxious since dinner last night and I need someone not related to me to freaking talk to. The gift bag next to me crinkles with every fidget.
I scan the entrance again, trying not to be too obvious about stealing glances at Ramsey as he barks something at his teammate.
The way his mouth forms around what's definitely a "fuck you" makes my thighs clench involuntarily.
Jesus, I need to do physical labor if I'm getting turned on by hockey practice and my best friend's trash talk.
Finally, I spot Hennessy's unmistakable silhouette at the entrance, moving with the determined waddle of a woman who's carrying what must be a future goalie. I wave frantically until she sees me.
"Sorry I'm late," she huffs, lowering herself next to me with a groan that sounds half-pain, half-relief. "This girl is using my bladder as a trampoline today. I had to pee three times between the car and the door."
I give her a sideways hug, careful not to squeeze her too tight. "I was starting to think Coach King had you on bed rest or something."
"He wishes." She rolls her eyes, rubbing her massive belly. "I told him I'd lose my damn mind if I had to stay in that house one more day. How's the testosterone showcase going?" She nods toward the ice.
"Brutal. Ramsey just about murdered Powell against the glass a minute ago."
"Sounds about right." She shifts uncomfortably. "God, my back is killing me. This baby better appreciate the hell I'm going through."
"Well, maybe this will help." I reach for the gift bag, suddenly feeling a little shy. "It's nothing fancy, but..."
Hennessy's face lights up as she pulls out the tiny white onesie. She holds it up, reading the "FUTURE COACH KING" lettering out loud before noticing the embroidered whistle with its ridiculous little bow. Then she spots the matching headband.
"Reese, you bitch," she says, eyes welling up. "You're making a pregnant woman cry in public."
"You like it?" I'm grinning so hard my face hurts.
"I fucking love it," she sniffs, clutching the onesie to her chest. "Beck is going to lose his shit when he sees this."
"How are you feeling?" I ask, trying not to stare too obviously at the ice where Ramsey just stripped off his practice jersey, revealing a sweat-soaked Under Armour shirt that clings to every ripple of his abs. Fuck me sideways.
"Like I'm smuggling a bowling ball between my legs," Hennessy groans, shifting uncomfortably. "Doctor says any day now. Beckham’s been sleeping with his phone in his hand; he said some shit about calling for an ambulance once it starts. He’s really not processing labor well."
Hennessy fingers the onesie again, running her thumb over the embroidered whistle before letting out a squeal that could shatter glass.
"This is the cutest fucking thing I've ever seen! She’s gonna be so little."
Her shriek echoes through the rink, and suddenly every single hockey player on the ice freezes mid-drill. Even from here, I can see Coach King's head snap in our direction, his whistle dropping from his mouth.
"Sorry!" Hennessy calls out, waving the onesie like a tiny surrender flag. She turns to me, lowering her voice. "Oops."
I'm laughing until I notice Coach Kingston skating over to Ramsey. They stand side by side at the boards, talking in low voices, both looking in our direction. Coach nods at something Ramsey says, then starts skating toward us, his expression unreadable.
My eyes are locked on Ramsey. He's watching me, that goddamn smirk spreading across his face, the one that makes my insides turn to liquid heat. He winks—actually fucking winks at me—and my cheeks burn hot enough to melt the ice.
Remind me again why I decided to torture myself by watching this boy aquarium when I’m already toeing the line of being into my best friend.
I really need to get my shit together.