Page 21 of Oh, Puck!
And it’s not just about him being rude. It’s not even about him being the same man who I had in my bed three nights ago.
This is him striking directly onto a deeper wound. An older one that I thought was well hidden, yet Declan Morrison has just exposed it within five minutes of knowing who I am.
Somehow, that infuriating man has seen into every family dinner where my mother would sigh and say,“Josie, must you talk about sports at the table?”Or every time my sisters, soft and feminine andeasy, were held up as the ideal while I was treated like a problem that needed solving. A phase that I needed to outgrow.
Even my friends in high school said it was too much.
I was too sporty. Tooguy-ish.
“Um. Ms. Whitfield?”
Corbin Cole’s voice is a nervous squeak beside me. I drag in a breath, force my shoulders to relax, and turn to face him with a smile that feels carved from ice.
“Sorry, Corbin. Let’s start the tour.”
He leads the way with a bounce in his step, and pretty soon, I learn that Corbin Cole is a human puppy trapped in a twenty-year-old hockey player’s body. He walks beside me with a nervous energy that makes me want to pat him on the head and give him a treat.
“So, this is the main concourse,” he says, gesturing wildly with the hand not clutching his protein shake. “All the food vendors are here. The nachos at ‘Claw & Order’ are killer. And the pretzels? Oh, man. They’re like… the size of your face.”
“Fascinating,” I murmur, my eyes scanning the empty, gleaming space. My mind is still back in that conference room, watching Declan’s back disappear through the door.
What a jerk. Total jerk.
“And over here,” Corbin continues, swiping a keycard at a heavy door, “is where the magic happens. The locker room!”
He pushes the door open with a flourish.
The smell of antiseptic cleaner, sweat and leather hits my nose. It’s a cavernous room lined with dark wood stalls, each with a nameplate above it. Equipment hangs neatly in some of the cubby's, while spilling out of others.
The floor is rubberized, and dotted with drains, but overall, it's pleasant enough.
My gaze lands immediately on the stall third from the end.MORRISON, D.is engraved on a polished brass plate.
My face heats. I can practically see him there, peeling off his gear, that focused scowl on his face. The same scowl he wore when he was buried inside me, driving with an intensity that I've been craving ever since.
Stop it. He just insulted you. You arenotinterested in that disgusting human.
“Oh yeah. That’s Captain Morrison’s stall,” Corbin says, his voice dropping to a whisper. “He’s, like,insane. He's so organized. Everything has a place. It’s kind of terrifying, actually.”
“I can imagine,” I say, my voice steady.I can imagine a lot of things about Declan Morrison.
“And Beck’s is over there.” Corbin points to a stall that looks like a tornado hit a sporting goods store. Jerseys, tape, and what looks like a half-eaten burrito wrapper are strewn everywhere. The nameplate is even crooked. “He’s… less organized.”
“Shocking.”
Corbin leads me out of the locker room and down another hall. “Gym’s next! There are two in the building, but this is the main one and where most of the guys hang out."
He pushes through another set of double doors.
The gym is massive, filled with the clank of weights and the grunt of effort. Three players are in various states of undress, drenched in sweat.
One of them, a huge defenseman with a neck tattoo, looks up from the bench press as we enter. His eyes travel over me, head to toe, and a slow grin spreads across his face.
“Well, hello,” he says, letting the bar rest on the rack. “New face.Prettyface.”
Corbin immediately steps slightly in front of me. “Respect, Finn. She’s our new boss. Ms. Whitfield. Head of Marketing and PR.”
Finn’s grin doesn’t fade. If anything, it widens. “Even better.” He gives me another once-over. “Welcome to the jungle, boss.”
