Page 68 of Body Check

twenty-four

. . .

Amelia

Jason is gone when I wake up, the only evidence he was here a hastily scribbled note on the hotel stationary.

Last night was risky. It can’t happen again.

We have the day off, so even though breakfast is optional in the team room, I take myself out to a nearby diner with my Kindle. I would kill for some migas right about now.

Except it seems the team had the same idea, because half the players are seated at a table near the window.

“Amelia!” Sinclair says. “Sit with us!”

“Oh, I couldn’t⁠—”

“Come on, we don’t bite,” Jenkins says, waggling his eyebrows. “Unless you ask us to, that is.”

Despite myself, I laugh, and I allow the waitress to pull a chair over. So, my quiet morning to myself turns into breakfast with seven hockey players, two assistant coaches, and the statistical analyst. I’m the only woman, but I don’t feel unsafe or unwelcome; if anything, I finally feel like I belong.

Halfway through the meal, MacGregor, Logan, and Gonzo enter the restaurant, Jason on their heels. His eyebrows go up when he sees me sitting with his teammates, but he doesn’t otherwise react.

They’re seated at another table on the opposite side of the diner. My phone buzzes in my pocket, but I don’t dare pull it out, not when the other guys can see the screen.

Excusing myself to the restroom, I duck into the stall and check my phone, half-expecting the worst.

But there’s no jealous rant from Jason. There’s only a quick message: Sorry to sneak out this morning. Miss you already. Have a good day off.

I should give him more credit. He’s a grown man, not an immature fuckboy. He knows where we stand.

As much as I want to go by their table to say hi, it’s not a good idea. So, after washing my hands, I return to my meal. Sinclair, Reynolds, and Jenkins keep me laughing with more and more outlandish jokes, feeding off each other’s intensity. It’s all harmless fun.

Easton pays for the meal—he pays for everyone, despite my insistence I can cover my own food—and I walk back to the hotel with Jenkins and Sinclair. It’s in the low fifties, a welcome respite from the frigid temperatures of the Northeast in late February, but it’s still not exactly pool weather.

Luckily, this hotel has an indoor pool.

After a quick change into my suit, I head for the pool, intending to get some laps in. I don’t mind other form of exercise, but swimming is my favorite. There’s something peaceful about the weightlessness of the water.

Nobody else is around while I do my laps for the better part of an hour. I’m almost done when a person gets into the pool on the other end. I do two more laps before popping up over the side wall, breathing hard.

The man in the lane beside me is an impressive figure cutting through the water, the muscles in his big, broad back flexing with every movement. I appreciate his athleticism. He’s strong and in great shape.

But I have no interest in him, aside from academic fascination. When I was in grad school, I worked with a few members of the university’s swim team.

Shaking my head, I pull myself from the water. I dry my hands and face with a towel, and then pick up my Kindle and water bottle, bringing them to the hot tub at the other end of the cavernous room. The hot water is amazing on my sore and jet-lagged body. I don’t even need the jets; the heat is enough to relax me.

Lost in my book, I hardly notice when another body joins me in the hot tub. Forcing myself to look up, I nod at the person—and then I freeze.

Because Jason sits across from me, his muscular arms spread across the cement ring on the outside of the tub. The water line hits him directly on the solar plexus, highlighting the curve of his pecs and his strong shoulders.

“Hey, stranger,” he says, giving me a teasing grin.

“What are you doing here?”

His grin curves into a self-satisfied smirk. “You mean you didn’t notice me doing laps?”

I swallow. “I didn’t realize it was you.” I have no interest in checking out any man other than mine.