Chapter 14
Fourteen
Practice had ended, but Luke lingered in the locker room longer than usual.
From his stall, he watched Cassie cross the room, chatting animatedly with Connor Martin and the power-play coach.
Jealousy was an unfamiliar ache; he had never been possessive about his friends or teammates.
Yet seeing her laugh with others while he sat silent made his chest tighten.
He flexed his fingers around the tape of his stick, reminding himself that there was nothing to be jealous of—she was doing her job.
Still, his gaze tracked her, noting the way she tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, the way she leaned in just enough to hear without invading personal space.
He forced himself to look away and start untaping his socks.
Normally he stripped out of his gear without a second thought.
Years of hockey had made him casual about the ritual: shoulder pads clattered to the floor, undershirt peeled off, the air cool on sweat-slicked skin.
But today he felt her eyes on him before he saw her.
When he tugged his shirt over his head, he caught Cassie’s glance flick across his chest and the ink that wound along his ribs.
For a heartbeat, he felt exposed in a way he never had before.
Heat rose on the back of his neck, and he busied himself with folding his towel and pulling on a hoodie.
It wasn’t shame—more like a new awareness of how she saw him, not just as a player but as a man.
That evening, back in his loft on the edge of the Strip District, Luke tried to shake the feeling.
He cooked pasta, listened to a new album a teammate had recommended and stared out at the dark river.
The exposed brick walls and lofty ceilings that usually felt inviting seemed cavernous.
He picked up his phone twice to text Cassie about a mundane thought and put it down both times.
When he finally stretched out on his bed, his body hummed with restless energy.
Sleep pulled him under, but not into rest.
In his dream he was back in the locker room, but this time Cassie wasn’t across the room interviewing someone else.
She was in front of him, her eyes warm and intent.
He reached out and tucked her hair behind her ear.
She traced the tattoo over his ribs with a curious finger.
He bent down to kiss her, and everything dissolved into sensation: the press of her body against his, the way her hands slid up his back, the feeling of her lips opening to his.
The dream grew dirtier, more insistent; in the half-light of his subconscious he laid her down on the bench, took in the flush on her cheeks and the way she whispered his name when he kissed the hollow of her throat.
Each touch was gentle rather than frantic, but there was no mistaking the hunger.
Her hands roamed over him, and he savored every glide of her fingers like a promise.
By the time he woke, his pulse was racing and his sheets were tangled around his legs.
He lay there for a moment, heat pooling low in his belly, and laughed softly at himself even as he reached for a glass of water.
He hadn’t planned on falling for a reporter.
He hadn’t planned on dreaming about her this way either.