Page 16 of Body Check

eight

. . .

Jason

The team jet is decked out in black and gold. The boys are buoyant tonight after a 3-1 win over Carolina. We're off on a three game road trip to the Midwest. This is the best time of year to hit Detroit, Chicago, and St. Louis. I'd much rather go in October than February.

Amelia is at the back of the plane with Zac and Derek. Graham stayed home with the injured players, working on their recoveries. I never paid attention to the physical therapists’ rotation before.

I overheard Trevor, the director of rehabilitation, talking about how they switch shifts so that one person is always home and the other two get to travel. Zac has young kids, but he's also been on road trips in the past. It helps to have a deep enough bench that you can rotate. I know all about that approach. I do it every day on the ice.

In the first three weeks of the season, I notice Amelia everywhere. It's like I can't escape her. Every morning, I wake up, and I see her empty bed. When I go to sleep, it's only after checking on her, asleep in her own bed, to make sure she's okay. I don't know why she doesn't draw her curtains, but I can't bring myself to close my blinds, either.

There haven’t been any more shows or glimpses. At work, we keep things strictly PG. Not even PG-13. It's all completely aboveboard.

So, why do I hate it so fucking much?

I watch her brother with the baby. Occasionally, there's another man with him. I rarely see the three of them together. I feel like I should go over and introduce myself. After all, I stare into their apartment every night. Still, what her brothers don't know won't hurt them. The last thing I need is to get in a fistfight with those clowns, thinking I'm taking advantage of their very much consenting little sister.

At least, I think she's a little sister. She could be the older one. I don't get that vibe, though.

There's something about Amelia that says she's a scrappy little fighter, the kind that stuck up for herself as a kid. Not that her brother wouldn't protect her. More like, it was the two of them against the world.

I want to get to know her. I want to learn what makes her tick. And fuck, do I ever want to watch her fuck her fingers again.

But I don't get to. I don't have that right. We're coworkers and nothing more. I'm not cut out for a relationship, and it is a supremely terrible idea to fuck around at work.

Especially as a captain. The team counts on me to hold myself accountable, to set a good example. I can't do that if I'm screwing the staff.

Even if our first time together occurred before she joined the team. It doesn't matter. I have to hold myself to a higher standard.

Our flight lands, and two buses arrive to bring us to the hotel. One bus is reserved for players and coaching staff, the other for support staff. I don’t usually pay attention to who gets on which bus.

But then, Amelia steps onto our bus, and everything goes fuzzy. She sits in the front with Zac, three rows ahead of me on the opposite aisle. Her dark hair is pulled into a ponytail, showcasing the long column of her neck. What I would give to bury my face there, to lick and suck at her sensitive skin.

It’s the middle of the night. That’s why everything is suddenly on fire, why my cock surges in the confines of my suit pants. I’m sleep-deprived. When I get to the hotel, I’ll rub one out and hopefully crash.

Except when we get to the hotel and receive our room keys, she’s in the elevator, too. I can’t escape her. Somehow, she ends up right in front of me, and when Jenkins climbs aboard, she moves back, nearly stepping on my toes to give him room. Her back is plastered to my front, her ass brushing against the tops of my thighs. She’s nearly a foot shorter than me, which means she’s average height.

Even after working the game and then the flight, I can still smell a hint of her perfume. Something sweet. It’s not overpowering, not like the stench of the other guys’ colognes in the tight confines of the elevator. The subtle scent of hot cocoa and marshmallows washes over me, settling the nervous churning in my gut.

The elevator chimes, the doors open on the fifth floor, and all the guys pour out.

“You coming, Cap?” Sinclair asks, holding his arm between the doors.

“Nah, I’m on seven,” I tell him. “Goodnight. Get some sleep.”

“You, too,” the defenseman says. “‘Night, Amelia.”

“Goodnight,” she says. Exhaustion colors her voice, and when the last person files out, she moves away from me.

“So, you’re on seven, too?” I ask, trying (and failing) to keep my voice neutral. Instead, it comes out rough as gravel.

“I’m on eight,” she says, without looking at me.

I let out a soft hum. “Too bad.”

She glares at me, and then lets out a loud, long yawn. “Why is it too bad?”