45. Dylan #2
“All right, listen up!” Coach raises his voice over the noise, waiting until the chatter silences.
“Come collect your keys from me. You’re doubled up, two to a room.
Swapping is not optional, so I don’t want to hear your whining.
You’ve got two hours to unpack, settle in, do whatever you need to for your pre-game routine.
Be back down here at six sharp. Don’t be late. ”
A chorus of “Yes, Coach,” echoes through the lobby as guys gather round to get their room assignments and keys.
When it’s my turn, Bear hands it over, saying, “You’ve got your own room.
It’s across the hall from mine, and I’ve put these guys on the same floor.
” He gestures to Griffin, Finn, Ethan, and Jax surrounding me.
“Thanks, Bear. I appreciate it.”
He nods, before fixing each of the guys with a stern look. He holds their keys hostage for a moment. “I don’t want any shenanigans,” he half growls. “No banging doors or switching rooms in the middle of the night. We’re here to play a game. To win. That’s it, got it?”
With serious expressions and backs straight, the guys murmur, “Yes, sir,” before Bear surrenders their keys. With a roll of his eyes and a soft smile directed my way, he dismisses us.
“Bear, huh?” Finn says when we’re all inside the elevator. “Because he’s growly like a grizzly?”
I shake my head, grinning. “Because he’s cuddly like a teddy bear.”
His face scrunches into the most hilarious expression. “I don’t see it.”
“Same,” the others chorus .
“I’ve not once ever gotten that vibe from him,” Jax states as the elevator rises. “I’d rather attempt to hug this one than Coach.” He flicks his thumb Griffin’s way, and Griffin gnashes his teeth savagely.
“I’d sooner rip your head from its shoulders. Only person I want touching me is Hurricane.”
Jax fixes me with an arched brow and thinned lips. See?
“What do you reckon the chances are of my balls remaining attached to my body if I called him Bear?” Finn muses aloud.
“Zero,” Ethan says without missing a beat.
“Nil,” Jax adds.
“He’d probably ram them so far down your throat, you’ll never speak again.” Finn visibly pales at Griffin’s graphic image.
“I dunno, I think you should try it,” I say with faux innocence. Turning toward him, I flutter my lashes before dragging the tip of my index finger down the front of his shirt, noting the hardness of his muscles beneath. “I’ll make it worth your while, if you do.”
For a second, his eyelids droop, pupils becoming hazy with lust, before he blinks it away. Instead, a lascivious smirk transforms his face into something mischievous.
“Careful, Hellion. You’re playing with fire.” He steps closer, seemingly bringing the walls of the elevator with him, until it feels as though all the oxygen has been sucked out of the air, leaving only a hint of his aftershave—something rich and oaky—behind.
I forget about the others’ presence as he reaches up, tugging on a loose strand of hair before tucking it behind my ear.
It’s a strangely intimate gesture, especially from Finn.
Especially after he’s worked so hard to stay away from me these past weeks.
For him to suddenly touch me so effortlessly feels…
strange, and yet, my insides rejoice at the contact.
At the breaking down of barriers. At the realization that we’re moving beyond secret back ro om kisses laden with guilt and shame and moving into the light.
Into something real. Something we both acknowledge and accept. Something that could last?
Only time will tell.
“As tempting of an offer as that is,” he murmurs, voice flowing over me like warm whiskey, “I like my balls where they are.” His lips skim the corner of my jaw. “And I think that’s where you’d prefer they stay too.”
The ding of the elevator announcing that we’ve reached our floor saves me from melting into a puddle of steaming goo.
Still, the guys give me knowing, heated looks as they file past me.
However, there is no jealousy, no sharp barbs, or cutting remarks.
Only mirrored expressions of lust. Want. Need .
Fucking hell, what have I gotten myself in for with these guys?!
Taking a moment, I fan my heated face before following them off the elevator. As a group, we head down the hall in search of our rooms. We come across mine first, and the guys all wait while I drop my bag off.
Grabbing my phone, I do a quick scan of the basic room—king-size bed, TV on the wall, window overlooking the street below—before I lock my door behind me and follow the guys to their rooms.
Just like before we got on the coach, I can see the argument coming before it unfolds. So can Finn. We’ve no sooner slowed to a stop in the hallway outside their rooms when he grabs my arm and drags me through the door on the left.
Protests start up behind us, and glancing over his shoulder, he calls, “You got her on the bus. Only fair we get her until the game.”
“I didn’t—” The door slams closed behind us, cutting off Jax’s protest.
Glancing around the room, it’s similar to mine, with plain white walls and artwork typical of that found in generic hotels. A TV hangs on one wall, and a window overlooks the parking lot. The primary difference is the two double beds instead of the one large king in my room.
Dropping his duffel, Finn launches himself onto the bed by the window with a loud sigh, starfishing so he’s taking up the whole thing.
My lips twist in a semblance of a smile as I watch him.
A click from behind has me turning as Griffin slips into the room.
“We’ll meet up with them just before six and go down together. ”
Nodding absently, I find myself feeling strangely awkward alone with the two of them.
Finn is scrolling on his phone while Griffin moves to the other bed and begins lifting things out of his duffel.
I’m an interloper in their usual routine, and I find myself shuffling my feet, unsure of what to do.
My skin still tingles from Finn’s flirting in the elevator but now is not the time to fall down that rabbit hole.
I need to be getting myself in the mindset to crush the Krakens tonight.
“So, umm, what are your pre-game rituals?” I ask, already going through my mental to-do list.
“Nap. Chill. Eat.” Finn waves a hand in the air lazily. “I wouldn’t call it a routine per se. Not like the insanity this guy does. Superstitious asshat.”
Cocking a brow, I shift my attention to Griffin.
“It’s not about superstition,” he states simply, like he’s explained this a hundred times before.
“It’s calibration. Control. The routine strips it all down—thoughts, nerves, bullshit.
I clear the noise, focus the mind, get my body in sync.
By the time I hit the ice, I’ve already been in the net for hours.
” He taps the side of his head. “Up here.”
“And what exactly is this insane routine?” I tease curiously.
Griffin shrugs casually. “Thirty-minute steam shower. Then I eat a meal of two hard-boiled eggs, a bowl of plain oatmeal, and half a banana.” He lifts out a stack of Tupperware containers as my eyes go wide.
“Plus twelve ounces of room-temperature water.” He shakes his water bottle.
“Then forty-five minutes of stretching while listening to The Rite of Spring by Stravinsky.”
“That’s it?” I question. “That’s not so bad.
” I’ve heard of players doing far worse—crazy pre-game dances, wearing the same pair of underwear for every game.
My dad had a teammate once who shaved his head before every game because the first time he won a championship game, he’d lost a dare and had to shave all his hair off.
He literally spent the entire season with a buzz cut, then grew it out in the off-season, only to shave it all off again.
“Except he left out the best bit,” Finn says with a shit-eating grin. Before Griffin can fill me in, Finn blurts, “You can’t speak to him the entire time. He nearly knocked out a freshman last year who shared a room with him and had the audacity to ask him a question.”
“How dare he,” I tease.
“He had it coming,” Griffin grunts, unrepentant. “He knew the rules.”
Finn throws his head back, laughing.
Shaking my head, I wave my hand toward the attached bathroom. “Well, go get your shower on. I promise not to breathe in your direction until after the game.”
Growling, Griffin stalks over to me, a white towel now thrown over his shoulder. He looks sexy as hell, dressed in a tight black tee and loose matching sweats that enhance the sky blue of his eyes.
When we’re standing toe to toe, he reaches up to trail the tip of a finger along the seam of my lips. The backs of his knuckles glance along my skin, eliciting shivers and making my heart trip over itself. “Hurricane, you’re the only variable I’d rewrite every routine for.”
I stand frozen, stunned by the gravity of his words as he disappears into the bathroom, the door closing with a soft click behind him. With my pulse a riot, my breathing is caught somewhere between disbelief and something far more dangerous.
The only variable.
What the hell am I supposed to do with that? Other than fall headfirst in love with Griffin Price and never recover.