3. Rowdy
THREE
ROWDY
The click of Jett’s camera is already grating on my nerves as I push the door to the locker room open, fully expecting her to wait outside like most normal people would.
She doesn’t.
Jett walks in right behind me, her camera held ready at her chest. She doesn’t look flustered, awkward, or even remotely out of place in a room that usually smells of sweat, damp gear, and heavy leather.
She just tracks me with those dark, analytical eyes, her short hair swishing slightly as she moves with an easy, unhurried grace.
“You’re really taking the whole being-my-shadow routine seriously, aren’t you?” I say, opening my gear bag I placed on the bench in front of my locker before meeting with Mitch.
“I don’t waste time. Your coach gave me full access, and this is what that means. I document your day, your entire day.” She steps around a rack of jerseys, surveying the area.
I grunt, reach down to grab the hem of my shirt, hook my fingers in the fabric, and pull it over my head.
I bare my chest, shoulders, and the faint scars on both sides of my left upper arm from the laparoscopic surgery from a torn rotator cuff tear.
Usually, this is the part where soft-spoken reporters suddenly find the floor tile fascinating, or they politely step out of the locker room to give a guy some privacy.
Not Jett, though, she doesn’t move an inch. Her eyes sweep over my torso, taking it all in with the cool, detached precision of an artist. No blushing, no hesitation, only complete composure.
“Do you mind?” I clear my throat, the words coming out harsher than I intended. A wicked little grin touches her lips.
“Not at all,” she replies, bringing her camera up and snapping a quick shot before lowering it again. “Don’t worry. Keep your pants on. I’m only getting a few of these before I head out to wait. Where am I meeting you?”
“On the ice,” I grunt, staring at her, my jaw clenching as I toss my shirt onto the bench.
The sheer boldness of this woman is un-fucking-believable.
Where others tiptoe around me when I’m in a mood, she treats my irritation like a passing breeze.
“Got any skates?” I ask, reaching for my padded compression shorts and gear.
“Nope, but I guess it looks like I’ll need to invest. For now, I’ll stay on the sidelines, not the penalty box.” Jett shakes her head.
“Good, because you wouldn’t last five minutes,” I growl.
She gives me a cool, amused look that makes my pulse go fucking haywire, then turns on her heel and glides out of the locker room.
I stand there for a long second, staring at the area she vacated, inhaling and exhaling, and that screws me up further.
Now I’m left with her lingering scent of warm cinnamon and vanilla. Unbelievable.
Less than ten minutes later, I step onto the cool, crisp ice of the empty arena.
The chill hits my skin, sharp and familiar, and the lingering frustration from Mitch’s office dissipates.
This is where I belong, in the arena, in the silence, the bright white glare of the overhead floodlights reflecting off the rink.
My sanctuary.
Out here, there’s nothing—no cameras, no scripts, no coaches, no general managers threatening to tear up my contract.
The ice, the puck, and me, that’s it. Or so I wish.
Beyond the glass near the home bench stands Jett.
A better man would have thought to give her something to wear: a jacket, a hoodie, a shirt, anything to ward off the chill.
My nostrils flare when I notice her pebbled nipples beneath her white top and what must be a thin-as-fuck bra for me to be able to see the outline.
I grip my stick, dig my blades into the ice, and push her completely out of my mind, or try to.
My cock lengthening beneath the layers does little to help as I start my warm-up routine.
I drop the puck onto the ice, sweeping it back in forth in rapid, fluid motions.
My body moves with ease, the wind biting at my face, and I feel the familiar burn in my thighs and the stiff pull in my repaired shoulder.
I run a few drills, take heavy slapshots that shatter the quiet as the puck slams into the plexiglass, and push my body until I’m sweat-soaked.
When I look up at the clock, I realize it’s been hours of burying myself in physical exertion. And every time I completed a lap, I could see Jett, camera up. Whether she was taking videos or pictures, I’ve got no idea, but she stayed on the sideline the whole time.
She’s relentless.
She didn’t check her phone.
She didn’t sit down.
All she did was track me with her eyes and camera lens.
I gather speed one last time, digging the edges of my skates deep into the ice as I charge toward the boards where Jett’s leaning against the half wall.
I don’t slow down, not until the very last second, slamming my blades sideways into a hard, sudden stop right where she stands, testing her resolve.
A massive spray of crushed ice erupts from under my metal, flying over the top and showering Jett in a dusting of fine, frozen white powder.
Ice speckles her dark hair, dots her skin, and rests on her eyelashes.
I lean on my stick, breathing heavily, chest heaving, and wait for her to get annoyed.
Instead, she stands there, unbothered, as she wipes a fleck of ice from her cheek with the back of her hand.
“That was perfect. The lighting on the spray was incredible. Do it again.” If I’m not mistaken, she’s turned on. I stare at her, completely caught off guard. An unexpected bark of laughter nearly escapes my chest before I catch myself and clear my throat.
“You’re insane,” I mutter, shaking my head as I glide toward the gate to step off the ice.
Once I unclip my helmet, the cool air hits my damp hair and I walk on my guards to where she’s standing.
My muscles are sore, my shoulder is unimpressed, and I’m ready to call it a day, grab some food, and crash.
“Ready for the next stop?” I ask, fully expecting her to tell me she’ll see me tomorrow and head back to her hotel to do whatever she needs to manage this bullshit.
“Lead the way.” Jett adjusts the strap of her bag over her shoulder, smokey eyes looking up at me with a steady, unshakeable focus that makes my cock throb.
“You’re not done?” I blink, stopping in my tracks.
“Bouchard, it’s barely one in the afternoon. I still want to do a ten-second clip of you answering fan questions for the team’s Instabook page. I told you, I don’t waste time.” I’m dripping sweat, holding my helmet, and completely taken aback.
Apparently, this woman is a workhorse, and I’m going to be stuck with her for the foreseeable future.
I notice the way her chest rises and falls, pushing her tits up, showing me more of the tantalizing curves of her cleavage.
She isn’t just managing my image. She’s invading my space and all of my senses.
I growl under my breath and turn to move in beside her, trying like hell to ignore the way my body responds to her.
I’m stuck with her, alright—and my cock doesn’t seem to mind one damn bit.
“Fine,” I grunt, licking my lips, keeping my eyes fixed on hers. The pads and gear are the only thing hiding the way I’m responding to the fiery vixen. “Try to keep up, sunshine.”
“Don’t worry about me, Rowdy.” Her voice trails behind me as I walk back to the locker room. She’s cool, confident, and too fucking close. “Try not to pull a muscle trying to impress me.” Fuck, this woman is going to be hell on my balls, busting them and turning them blue.