Page 8 of The Off Limits Captain
The hallway has no business making him look like this. All hard lines and bare throat, damp hair curling at the nape. It is not a story detail. It is not useful. My body records it anyway.
His eyes open.
They are not jumbotron blue up close. They are sharper. Darker. Annoyingly alert.
The unguarded man disappears so fast I almost believe I imagined him.
Almost.
His gaze drops to my notebook, my recorder, my press badge.
“You lost?” he asks.
“Not anymore.”
His eyes narrow a fraction. “That is not an answer.”
“It was not meant to comfort you.”
“Reporters usually start with their names.”
“Hockey players usually start with quotes someone else approved.”
His mouth curves. “You always this friendly?”
“Only when trespassing.”
That gets me a real look.
A heartbeat. Enough.
He pushes off the wall and steps closer. Not aggressive. Deliberate. The hallway narrows around him.
He smells like ice, sweat, and soap. I hate that I notice the soap.
“Careful,” he murmurs.
The word lands low.
My pulse betrays me before my face does.
His gaze drops to my mouth. Comes back up.
He notices too much.
So do I. The faint nick at his jaw. The water caught in his lashes. The way his hand tightens once around the laces of his skates and then deliberately loosens, as if even wanting something is a habit he can correct.
“Do you say that to all reporters?” I ask.
“Only the ones who look pleased with themselves while breaking rules.”
“I am not pleased.”
“No?” His gaze drops to my mouth again. “Could have fooled me.”
“That sounds like your problem.”
“Probably.”
