4. Chapter 4 #3
She rolls her eyes dramatically, skates wobbling again. “Well, lower your expectations, Captain.”
I step closer, my shadow swallowing hers against the boards.
Her fingers twitch on the barrier and her pupils dilate immediately.
Got you.
I lean in, close enough for her breath to fog against my chest. “You’re starting to piss me off,” I mutter.
“Oh no,” she whispers dramatically. “Accept my deepest—”
She lets go of the board to place a hand on her chest and immediately loses her balance, lunging forward. I grab her waist before her face meets the ice, my hands locking around her hips.
She gasps, wide-eyed, fingers clutching my shirt. “Oh,” she says softly, breath catching, “Hi.”
“Hello.” I glare down at her.
“Anyway, accept my deepest apologies, Captain Asshole,” she says, but she’s leaning into my hold, her fingers curling in the cotton over my chest.
I pull her up flush against the boards, my voice low near her ear. “If you’re going to be this much of a menace,” I snarl, “at least stand up straight while you do it.”
“I’m trying, but you seem like you don’t want to let go of me.” Her lips curve.
I let her straighten but don’t take my hand off her, enjoying how she feels under my skin. She’s so close—too warm and too smug.
“So,” I say, “you sent conditions.”
“Mmhm.” She tilts her head, smiling, proud of herself. “Did you read them?”
“Unfortunately. ‘Be nice to me’ won’t hold up in court. ”
Her cheeks heat, but she doesn’t look away. “Well,” she says, “someone has to teach you manners.”
“Manners,” I repeat.
She bites her lip to hide a smile. She enjoys this. Enjoys poking me. I cage her between my arms against the boards, leaning closer until her breath stutters.
Fuck, I love how she reacts to me.
“You want basic civility from me?” My voice is a low growl.
She blinks up at me, pupils dark and wide. “Oh, don’t pretend you don’t know how to be nice,” she teases. “You’re just choosing not to.”
“I’m choosing,” I say, “to be way nicer than I’d like to be.”
She opens her mouth, but I cut her off. “And another thing,” I say, voice low, lethal, “you want full control over styling the Blazers?”
“Absolutely.” Her smile widens.
“You’re using my team as mannequins.”
She shrugs, unbothered. “If the mannequins fit.”
Just the thought of her touching them, putting her hands on them—no. Absolutely not. I inhale through my nose because if I don’t, I might do something irresponsible. Like lift her onto the boards and—
“You can give your creative opinion. Nothing else. The team has a stylist.”
“We’ll negotiate.” She bats her lashes.
My fingers dig into the boards beside her head. “And then…” I say slowly, voice dropping, “we get to the real highlight. The residency clause.”
Her lips part, and for the first time, she looks a little uncomfortable. Good. About fucking time.
“You want to move in,” I drawl. “Into my house. You want to live with me during playoffs.”
“Well, yeah.” Jessica straightens her spine, bracing for impact.
“Are you insane?”
“Possibly.”
“You sent an email telling me to be nice and then invited yourself into my house.”
She’s staring at me, lips parted, chest rising faster. I lean in until my forehead almost brushes hers, voice a growl. “I don’t think you’ll like it when you realize you’ve boxed yourself into a contract with a man who doesn’t give up ground. ”
Her fingers slide tighter into my shirt, nails catching fabric. She tips her chin up and gives me that smug smile again. Then her gaze shifts over my shoulder and her lips twitch.
“What?” I snap.
“Your team is watching,” she murmurs.
I turn my head and, sure enough, at the end of the tunnel half the fucking roster is stacked like dominoes, poking their heads around the doorway like nosy six-year-olds spying on their parents kissing.
Tanner is literally kneeling on the floor. Jace is shoving him forward. Matt is standing behind them, pushing the rookies to the side.
I whip back to Jessica, and she’s smirking. “You better be nice to me, pretty boy,” she murmurs, sliding her hand up my chest.
My pulse spikes. “Jessica,” I warn.
Her fingers hooking the collar of my shirt to pull herself closer, eyes locked on mine. “You wouldn’t want to give them the wrong impression,” she whispers .
Then she leans up, tilts her chin, and presses her mouth to my jaw—a slow, soft, intentionally lingering kiss.
Heat detonates under my skin at the contact. Her lips graze the edge of my jawline, right over the pulse hammering in my neck, and my body goes tight. My hand slams to the boards beside her head just to stay upright.
My other hand finds her waist, and before she even realizes what’s happening, I lift her straight off the ice.
Her little gasp hits my throat like a spark. She squeaks, grabbing my shoulders for balance.
I’m too busy grinding my molars into dust. “Playtime’s over,” I mutter, turning and carrying her toward the gate.
Her legs kick once in protest—completely useless, completely annoyingly adorable.
She clutches my shirt tighter and I adjust my grip like she’s a misbehaving cat. “I said be nice to me,” she pants, breath leaving her in a flustered huff.
“Oh, trust me,” I say, stepping off the ice with her still in my arms. I haul her in closer, chest pressed to mine, skates bouncing against my thigh as she clings .
“This is me being nice.” I shoulder the rink door open with one shove.
The boys scramble back, pretending they weren’t watching with popcorn.
“If this is you being nice, I’d hate to see rude,” she says, cheeks flushed.
I lean in, voice low enough that only she hears, “Oh, but you will.”