Chapter 12 – Waylon
chapter
twelve
Waylon
Had it occurred to me to mind my own business?
Sure.
Had I done it? No. This fucking girl was a compulsion.
I’d packed a care kit for Marcus Kane’s girlfriend.
Last night, instead of watching tape or doing literally any of the things a man with a first-round draft to protect should be doing before a home game, I was in my cottage stuffing hand warmers into a Tigers vest because Josie had mentioned how cold she found the games.
Okay, yes. I’d packed a few other things too.
Fuck me. If she had to be there, I might as well make her comfortable.
Isn’t that Marcus’s job?
Sure, the idiot. He didn’t seem to give a shit.
Mom had always said nothing short of saving lives would stop her from making it to a game. But she’d always come prepared.
Make all the excuses you want.
I also wanted to impress her.
What I couldn’t wrap my head around was why she was even with Marcus.
She seemed too smart for that. Hell, why was Marcus with her?
The dirtbag was a pussy hound. I could have sworn I’d seen him last night with his tongue down Cristal’s throat.
Cristal Ambrose. That puck bunny who wanted to be an NHL WAG so bad, she’d hooked up with half the team.
Maybe they have an arrangement?
If they did, she had no idea.
I hadn’t thought about that until I was already zipping the bag. After that, I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
But fuck, I wanted so bad for him to fuck up.
Let’s talk about that in therapy someday.
Game day. Two hours early for warm-ups. The bag sat in my stall, and every time I looked at it, I felt like I was getting away with something. And of course Ryder, the observant fuck, saw it.
“Date-night supplies?”
“Mind your business.”
He grinned and went back to taping his stick, and I sat there thinking about the way her knuckle had grazed the crease of my hip yesterday during the mic-up and how fast I’d gotten hard. It’d been twenty-four hours since she’d touched me, and I could still feel it.
New personal record for pathetic.
I found her near the concession hallway before warm-ups. She was heading toward the student section, alone, and I spotted her from forty feet away.
She was in Marcus’s jersey. The team logo across her chest. His number on her back. I flexed my jaw but said nothing. After all, she wasn’t mine. What was I going to say? Take that off because his name on your body makes me want to put my fist through the boards?
That was going to go well.
I crouched and opened the bag instead. I gave her the cushion, the warmers, the hat with the pocket in the lining, the vest, the blanket. I kept my voice casual, like this was nothing, like I hadn’t spent an hour the night before making sure every pocket had a warmer slot.
“They’ll last four hours at least.”
The smile she gave me was soft. “You didn’t have to do all this.”
When she asked about the mic, I grabbed my warm-up jersey and lifted it to show her the transmitter Ryder had helped me clip earlier. I’d pad up soon and reinforce it with tape.
Swear to God, my cock went rock hard as she stared at my abs.
She looked at my stomach. Her eyes tracked down the center line of my abs like she was counting them, and she parted her lips as a flush climbed her neck, the same one from yesterday when I’d said steady and she’d pulled away so fast. I held the jersey up two seconds longer than necessary because I was a terrible person, and I watched her breath come in short puffs.
Her voice came out too high when she said the placement looked good. She knew it. I knew it.
Down. She has a boyfriend. Who is your teammate. Who you are about to play hockey with. Drop the jersey, you degenerate.
“Thank you. I’ll accept the bribery.”
“Anytime, Flash.”
She grabbed the gear and left. I could still feel the ghost of her hands from yesterday, the heat of her fingers at my hip, the tremor she’d tried to hide. I was never going to forget any of it.
Then I went to play hockey.
Playing a contact sport while the woman you want is sitting in the third row wearing another man’s name is a different experience. I wanted her to have a good time. I wanted to impress her. Every hit landed different, and I knew exactly where she was, every shift, all night.
First period, I played clean, ran my routes, and hit my marks.
Trace fed me a gorgeous pass on the breakout, and I cycled it low and won the puck battle in the corner.
I did not once think about whether she could see me from where she was sitting.
That was a lie. I thought about it on every shift.
Whether she was watching Marcus or watching me.
Focus on the game, Johnson. The draft doesn’t care about the girl in the third row.
In the second period, their defenseman collected a bad bounce along the near side, and I closed the gap in two strides and drove him into the glass with everything I had.
Full weight, full speed. The boards shook, and the sound cracked through the lower bowl with a roar from the crowd.
I came off the hit and did not look at the third row.
Liar. You looked.
Fine. For half a second. And I caught it. She was watching me. Knees pressed together. Wearing the hat I’d given her, the vest over Marcus’s jersey. My stuff over his name. That image got to me, and I was going to be thinking about it for a while.
The third period was tough. Marcus scored on a power play and skated a lap and pointed at the third row. Show-off. From the bench, I watched her stand with everyone else. I watched her smile and wished it was for me.
I could see what Trace was talking about, and I still couldn’t shake the emptiness. I wanted her. You can’t have her.
I forced myself to loosen my grip on my stick.
Stay in your lane, Johnson.
Once I found the game again, it was over for the other team.
I got the primary assist on the game-winner with four minutes left. Ryder buried my feed from the half wall. The arena came apart. Guys hit me from three sides, and I caught them and grinned because, for three seconds, the building was noise and pure fucking joy.
Then the noise settled, and she was still there, like she always was.
After a round of congratulations from Coach and everyone, I got dressed fast and went out the tunnel exit into the cold with my bag over one shoulder and my hair still damp. I was not looking for her. That was a lie, and anyone watching me could have seen it.
When I finally saw her, she was with him. His arm over her shoulders. Moving her toward the parking lot. He was talking to her about the third period, and she nodded along, but her eyes seemed hollow. She still had my hat on. My vest. My warmers in her pockets.
She looked back.
Over Marcus’s arm, across the cold parking lot, her gaze caught mine, and she gave me a soft smile.
This was a problem. She was his. I needed to get a grip.
You know what you need to do. Get under the record. Beat Gretzky and let it go. Obsessing over Josie isn’t a good look.
And I stood there with my hands shaking, wanting to do something reckless.
She was becoming the plan.