Page 61 of Don't Fall for the Goalie
My eyes meet his in the mirror. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He unzips the jacket, then helps me out of it.
Tossing it over his arm, he says, “Come on. You need a hat and some boots.”
I roll my eyes. “This is excessive.”
“Practical, Pey. Not excessive.”
I grin, trying to pretend the way he just called me Pey doesn’t affect me. Even though my belly is full of butterflies, and my pulse is beating against my neck.
Fine. I’m a damn liar.
Even if it’s only to myself.
18
PEYTON
Daltyn tosses the bag full of gloves, two beanies, earmuffs, two pairs of fleece-lined leggings, a pair of fur-lined boots, and a jacket into the trunk. I make a face at the bag with the boots. At least if I get stranded in the Arctic, my feet will survive.
“This is excessive,” I mutter as he helps me into his Escalade.
“Practical,” he corrects, shutting the door. “There’s a difference.”
I roll my eyes, but warmth still spreads through my chest. Not from his hoodie. From him.
He leans over me, fastening my seat belt, checking to make sure it’s tight enough.
“I don’t think you need to worry. You drive like a grandpa, so it’s unlikely I’ll get thrown through the window if we’re in an accident.”
He scowls. “Not funny.”
I smirk. “I think it is.”
He rolls his eyes, then heads to the driver’s side.
“You are such a contradiction. On the ice, you move atthe speed of light to guard the net. But put you in the driver’s seat of a vehicle and the Flintstones could pass us.”
He smirks, then reaches over and pokes me in the side. I squeal and squirm away.
“Ohhh. Someone’s ticklish.”
I hold my side protectively. “Don’t you dare.”
He laughs and starts the vehicle. “You ready to stick your foot through the floorboards and go to the rink?” He glances at my boot. “That one won’t get much traction. Plus, it’ll slide too much when we try to stop.”
I laugh and flex my uninjured foot. “I’m ready.”
The drive to the rink is quiet, but not awkward. Music hums softly through the speakers while sunlight filters through the windshield.
I glance over at him as he drives. One hand rests loosely on the wheel while the other taps lightly against his thigh to the rhythm of whatever song is playing.
He’s Relaxed. Comfortable. Beautiful. Dangerous to my emotional well-being.
“I thought training camp didn’t start for two weeks?”
“It doesn’t.”
