Page 86 of Offside Rules

She laughs, slipping her coat back on, and I reach for her hand before nodding toward the parking lot.

"Everyone around us noticed too," she says as we start walking. "The man behind me asked if you were injured."

"I had an assist and four hits."

"I know. I was there… in your seats."

She says it without making a joke, and I like that more than I probably should. She watched me play. Now she’s walking beside me in my jersey, her hand in mine, and I get to spend the rest of the night with her.

"I already picked the episodes," she says.

"Episodes?"

"It’s a marathon, Wolf. Did you think we were watching one?"

"No. I’m prepared."

"And I have snacks."

"You’re very organized for someone who thought I’d lose."

"I was going to need snacks either way."

I laugh as we reach the car. When I open the passenger door, she pauses beside it.

"TV only," she reminds me.

"I remember."

She studies my face for a second, then smiles. I meant what I told her when we made the bet. She can climb into bed beside me, eat her snacks, and explain whatever the hell is happening on that show. I’ll keep my hands to myself, even if she looks as good in those pajamas as she does in my jersey.

"Ready for our marathon?"

Chapter Fifteen

Baylor

I have a flatbread waiting in Wolf’s fridge, popcorn in his cupboard, and Hello Kitty pajamas downstairs.

Apparently, I’m a woman who prepares thoroughly to lose a bet.

In my defense, I was going to eat all of this by myself if he lost. Although making enough flatbread for two might have been a little ambitious, even for me.

I turn on the oven and take the container from the fridge while Wolf changes out of his suit. The whiteboard is still beside the fridge, exactly where I put it.

Fully dressed.

No eating without permission.

The rules seemed perfectly reasonable when I wrote them. Of course, I wasn’t planning on spending the night in his bed at the time. Now I’ve agreed to do exactly that.

Not that it matters. We agreed to no sex.

Wolf comes back wearing a loose black T-shirt and gray sweatpants, holding the wrap for his ice pack in his good hand. His hair is still damp from his shower at the rink, and without his suit, I can see how carefully he’s keeping his arm close to his body.

"Sit," I tell him.

He takes a stool while I get the ice pack from the freezer. He shows me how the wrap fastens, and I help secure it without lifting his arm more than necessary. He’s quiet while I work. So am I, mostly because standing this close gives me an excellent view of his mouth.