Page 88 of Risking the Pucking Defense

“What if I don’t travel with you for a road game?”

“Then I guess we’ll have to get creative,” I tell her, wiggling my brows and making her smile despite trying to remain serious.

She shakes her head as I take the final turn toward her apartment.

“You can go into the garage, I have a guest space,” she tells me before passing me a fob that will allow me entry.

I follow her directions, and in only a few seconds, I’m pulling up next to a pristine BMW.

“Is that yours?” I ask, admiring how shiny the red paint is.

“Uh, yeah.”

“Do you drive it or just polish it?” I tease, but she pushes her door open and climbs out before she answers, and I follow her in a rush.

She gasps the moment I press my hand against the small of her back once I’ve caught up to her, but she doesn’t jump ahead or twist away like I fear she might. Instead, her shoulders drop, and she looks back at me coyly.

“Are you ready to step into another elevator with me?” she asks, her tone teasing.

“More than ready,” I tell her, guiding her forward as the doors open for us.

She presses the button for her floor, and I swear the air turns thick the second the doors close.

My breath catches as the elevator jolts, moving us upward. The warmth of Hailee’s arm right beside mine burns through the thin fabric of my shirt, and it takes everything I have not to turn toward her, back her up against the side, and kiss the fuck out of her.

Later, I tell myself.

You promised her you’d talk.

I don’t realize I let out a pained sigh until she turns to face me.

“Is everything okay?” she asks.

For a moment, I think it’s a serious question, but then I notice the twinkle of mischief in her eyes.

“Just thinking of the last time. You didn’t fancy wearing that dress tonight then, huh?” I ask, letting my eyes drop down her body.

She still looks hot in her fitted black dress. But it’s not that dress.

“Thought it was a bit much,” she mutters. “And the wrong color.”

“Ah, yes. You don’t want anyone thinking you’re supporting the other team. You know, really, you should be wearing a jersey.”

“It’s not my style,” she says as the elevator comes to a stop and allows us to exit.

She races forward, unlocking her door and slipping inside her apartment before I can say another word.

No sooner has the door closed behind me than I reach for her. My fingers circle her wrist, and I pull her to stop in front of me.

“You need to have a jersey,” I state, tugging her closer.

“Who says I don’t have one?”

My eyes bounce between hers.

“Whose number?” I ask, trying to picture what she’d look like with ninety-six on her back, and Monroe written across her shoulders.

Goddamn, it would be a sight.