Chapter 10 – Waylon
chapter
ten
Waylon
Friday practice. The one day of the week I actually looked forward to because Coach ran full scrimmage sets and I could go all out without getting a lecture about controlled intensity. And today came with a bonus, because Josie was going to be there.
I was pulling my practice jersey out of my bag in the equipment room when she walked in carrying a case. If I was in the mood to be honest, I’d say I’d been looking forward to this since yesterday.
I lost my train of thought when she shot a smile at Ryder, and my cock woke right up the second her dimples showed.
She was in leggings and a cropped hoodie, and her hair was pulled back, and she smelled fucking amazing as usual. All I wanted to do was lean in and inhale. That smell had been stuck in my head since she’d crashed into my chest on Monday.
“Hey, Flash.” I leaned against the bench and tried to pretend my pulse hadn’t picked up. “We gotta stop meeting like this.”
Her lips twitched, but she denied me the full smile. She set the case down and unzipped it, all business.
“Thor. I need to mic you for the practice session. Ambient rink audio for the content project, not just crowd noise.” She pulled out a wireless transmitter and a cable run with quick, careful hands, and she didn’t look at me once.
“Transmitter clips inside the jersey. I’ll route the pack along the hem near the waistband. ”
“So you need to get under my jersey.” I grinned up at her. I couldn’t help it. “For professional reasons.”
She still wasn’t looking at me. “Hold still,” she muttered as she stepped in close.
She slid her fingers under the hem of my jersey, and my brain went blank so fast I had to run through defensive-zone formations just to keep standing. Box, diamond, triangle with a weak-side cheat.
Her hands were warm. Her knuckles grazed the inside of the hem where my hip bone met the V-line that disappeared into my waistband, and that two-inch strip of skin was suddenly all I could feel. I went rock hard, no warning.
I angled my hips back and prayed she didn’t notice.
Congratulations, Johnson. You have the self-control of a freshman.
My gaze drifted to her lips. Fuck, I wanted to kiss her.
Focus up, doofus. You’re in the locker room with your teammate’s girlfriend.
Her damn scent didn’t fucking help.
Her knuckle caught skin again, right at the crease, right where I couldn’t afford to be touched by her, and I inhaled through my nose as quietly as I could.
I had to think of anything else. I had to get this boner under control.
Patrick Roy. 1993 playoff run. Save percentage .929. Think about literally anything else.
Her hand shook a little as it trailed over my abs. She wasn’t unaffected either, and knowing that made everything worse.
I placed my hand over hers without thinking.
“Steady, Flash.”
Fuck, why did my voice sound like gravel?
I could feel her breath shift against my collarbone, and I bit back a moan. I kept my hand there just long enough to steady her, then let go.
“I’ve got it.” She pulled back so fast she nearly fell over.
She finished the cable, clipped the transmitter, and stepped back.
And suddenly I could breathe again. I wasn’t sure I liked that either.
The equipment room door banged open, and Ryder walked in, took one look at us, and grinned. “I’m not interrupting, am I?”
His glance slid between Josie and me, stopped on my jersey, and turned into the kind of grin that made me want to put a puck through his teeth.
“Wiring up Johnson? Can you do me too?” He dropped his bag and spread his arms like he was presenting himself for inspection. “I’m way more entertaining on mic. Better commentary. Funnier. Ask anyone.”
Josie’s mouth twitched. It was the first crack in her armor all afternoon, and Ryder was the one who got it, not me. I’d deal with that later, when I wasn’t holding a bag strategically in front of my lap.
“Actually… that’s a great idea.” She tilted her head, and I watched her brain switch gears, working in real time. “If you guys skate together a lot during practice, I can capture the dynamic. More content, better footage. If you don’t mind, Ryder.”
“Mind? I was born for this.” Ryder dropped onto the bench and lifted his jersey like he’d been invited to a photo shoot. “You want raw athleticism and devastating good looks on camera, I’m your guy.”
Josie giggled, and I felt a flash of jealousy that had no business being there. Ryder wasn’t doing anything wrong. He was being Ryder. He was charming and easy, the kind of guy women liked immediately because he didn’t come with complications. He flirted but didn’t take it over the line.
I was nothing but complications.
“You know Trace?” Ryder asked her, gesturing vaguely toward the hallway. “Coulter? Big guy, bad attitude, secretly has a heart? He’d be good to mic up too.”
“You think he’d mind?” she asked.
“Not at all.”
“I know who Trace is. Lena talks about him all the time. Still haven’t met him yet though,” she said, her eyes going soft.
I adored Lena. “She’s pretty cool too.”
“She lives next door to me. I love that girl. She’s one of my favorite people already, and I’ve known her like two weeks.”
The warmth in her voice when she said it got to me.
Ryder launched into a story about Trace burning pasta at the team house, and Josie laughed. I wasn’t jealous that he could make her laugh, not at all.
The guys started filtering in from the hallway. Jimmy. Kowalski. Trace himself, who eyed Josie with surprise, then gave her a wide smile.
She was good with the guys. Asking questions about positions, about practice structure, about who played which line. She worked the room, so damn relaxed, professional and warm, and I was standing six feet away pretending I wasn’t watching every move she made.
Then Marcus walked in.
He had his phone to his ear, clearly enjoying his conversation. When he saw Josie, his smile faltered.
He said something quickly and quietly into the phone, then hung up.
Who was that?
I had no right to ask that. I wondered anyway.
“Babe.” Marcus crossed the room and pulled Josie in by the waist. “Didn’t know you’d be here.” His hand slid down her back and landed on her ass, and I had to look away. Trace caught my gaze, though, and there was a warning in it.
Yeah, yeah, I was an asshole. I knew it. But fuck if I cared. He didn’t deserve her.
Josie shifted out of his grasp, a half-step anyone else would have missed. I didn’t, because I was watching that closely, which was, yes, kind of pathetic.
Marcus grinned at the room. “My girl’s doing some media project. Making us all look good.” He kissed the side of her head. “You’re gonna kill it, babe.”
My girl. He didn’t use her name or say what she was actually doing. Just my girl, like she was a jersey he’d put on that morning.
My hand was already a fist at my side when Trace appeared next to me. I hadn’t heard him move. He put a hand on my shoulder, and when I glanced at him, he gave me the smallest shake of his head.
Don’t.
I breathed, unclenched my hand, and looked at the wall.
Across the room, Josie was telling Marcus about the mic-up project, voice bright and professional, and Marcus was nodding in the way he nodded when he wasn’t listening.
She was performing. I knew what her real voice sounded like—I’d heard it Tuesday at the tutoring center, heard it just now when she was talking to Ryder about content strategy—and this wasn’t it.
This was the version of Josie that existed for Marcus’s benefit.
From across the room, Ryder caught my eye. He didn’t say anything. But he hated Marcus almost as much as I did.
When Josie was done micing up the rest of the team, we all headed out. Me first because I couldn’t stand to see Marcus with his hands on her.
Stay in your lane, Johnson. Head down. Draft. That’s the plan.
Josie was not the plan. I repeated it the whole way to the ice, like repeating it would help.