Page 39 of Grizz

I wrap my legs high around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back.“Harder, McAvoy.Harder!”

He follows instructions.Long, deep strokes at first, then faster, harder, the headboard knocking against the wall in a rhythm that matches the slap of skin on skin.Every thrust nudges that spot inside me that blurs my vision.I rake my nails down his back and he hisses, hips snapping harder.

I come again with his name muffled against his shoulder, clenching around him so tight his rhythm stutters.Two more thrusts and he follows, burying himself deep and groaning my name as tender as it is animalistic.

We stay tangled for a minute or two, sweat cooling, hearts hammering against each other.“Well… that happened,” I murmur with a lazy smile his way.

“Yeah… that happened.”He presses a lazy kiss to my temple, then carefully pulls out and ties off the condom, dropping it in the trash by the bed.

The silence stretches, comfortable and terrifying all at once.

Eventually, he rolls to his back, one arm flung over his eyes.“I gotta go,” he says, voice rough.“Early meetings before our pre-game skate tomorrow.”

I nod against the pillow even though he can’t see it.“Right.”

That one word of affirmation and he bolts from the bed.Bending over, he finds his boxer-briefs, steps into them.I watch the flex of his back muscles and try not to feel anything about it.

“So,” I say, pulling the sheet up to my chest.“That was fun.”

“I figured a little release would do us both some good.”

“Think you might be right.”I slowly twirl a lock of my hair around my index finger as I consider the implications.

“I’m rarely wrong,” he says, grinning, his eyes raking over me with appreciation.

“This was just a mutual release,” I say, half question, half statement.

He exhales, drags a hand through his hair.“Yeah, nothing more.More like a much-needed moment of weakness.Temporary insanity.Pick your label.”He glances over his shoulder, expression unreadable.“I’m not a relationship guy, Turner.You know that.”

I force a laugh that doesn’t quite land.“Good thing I’m not a relationship girl.”

His mouth quirks.“We should probably… not do this again.Keep it professional.”

“Agreed,” I say quickly.Too quickly, and I ignore the pang of sadness that punches through me.

Grizz pulls on his jeans, zips up, finds his T-shirt.I stay in bed, clutching the sheet.When he’s fully dressed, he pauses in the doorway, one hand on the frame.

For a second he just looks at me—hair ruffled, lips swollen.

Then he gives a short nod.“’Night, Turner.”

The door clicks shut behind him.

I stare at the ceiling for a long time, listening to the city outside, wondering how the hell I’m supposed to keep anything professional when my body is still buzzing with the memory of him inside me.

Chapter 12

Grizz

I’minthehallwaythat runs along the basement perimeter of the arena, doing what I always do on game days… trying to outrun my own brain.

Country music pours into my ears.The stuff I grew up on—small-town tunes by Chesney and McGraw, the same order every time.I’m in my warm-up sweats, kicking a soccer ball against the wall, letting it rebound at just the right angle.I juggle it with my feet, keeping it airborne for as long as possible.

Right foot.Left.Knee.Shoulder.Back to the right.

The repetition keeps me focused, and once I get locked in, I can slip into a trance that becomes meditative.The touch, redirect, control, repeat.Junior hockey habits that stuck with me longer than anything else in my life, my routine before every game.The mental preparation is as important as the physical.

But today my focus is shit.Every touch is too hard.Every rebound is off by an inch.I stop the ball under my foot, chest rising and falling, and I already know why I can’t get into my rhythm.