Page 48 of Icebound

He snaps his mouth shut as soon as he finishes talking like he doesn’t want any more words to slip out.

I blink. He got my eight piercings right. One of those earrings is a tiny stud. “You noticed all that?”

His shrug is stiff enough to creak. “I pay attention, but I’m a goalie. It’s my job to watch and observe people. Alright, you ready? This’ll burn.”

I’m reeling from Rhode’s admission, but he’s got a good point. Watching people is ingrained in his goalie psyche.

I give my head a hard jerk, steering my thoughts back to the moment because I do not need to be fantasizing about a man who wants nothing to do with me. “Do it. I can handle pain.”

“I figured. You’re a strong one.” He dabs it on my back, and I hiss. It really burns, but at least physical torture ends faster than emotional pain.

“Sorry. I know it stings,” Rhode whispers. “What can I do to make it better?”

For some reason, I don’t think asking him to give me an orgasm would go over well, but that’d be a nice distraction at the moment.

I pinch my eyes closed to combat the warmth burning on my skin that rivals the heat in my body. “Distract me. Tell me something. Anything.”

Rhode launches into a story about the season Wyatt bet him they wouldn’t make it to the playoffs, so he had to shave his head when they did. His eyes never stray from my back, but his jaw is tight as he speaks like he’s the one in pain. There’s a tiny muscle that won’t stop twitching in his cheek.

As he rubs slow circles on the scrapes, covering every inch with antibiotic ointment, my mind drifts to some dirty places, wondering if he’d use his fingers to circle my clit in that same motion. I sigh at the pointless thought.

He wants to give someone a ring, and I want to give someone a condom.

As he meticulously patches me up, my grip on his sweatshirt goes lax, slipping down to reveal the swell of my breasts. I catch Rhode's gaze drifting down, lingering for a split second before darting up.

As he places a Band-Aid on my wound, the sharp, sudden sensation pulls me back from the brink of my fantasies.

“There.” He coughs. “Our good luck charm’s good as new.”

I grip his sweatshirt. “I’m not your good luck charm. That was all you. You guys were amazing out there. Have you not seen all the post-game highlights?”

He tosses the antibiotic tube back into the first aid kit, crossing one leg over the other as he leans against the sink like he’s casually talking to one of his teammates. “Yeah, but they still won’t stop bringing up my retirement because it’s my contract year.”

“What does that mean?”

“Means I have to decide if I’m going to renew for another season, be a free agent with another team, or retire from the League. If I want to stay, I have to play my hardest so our general manager thinks I’m worth keeping.”

I let the sweatshirt slip a fraction, only to see if his eyes drop again. They stay on my face. “That sounds like a huge decision. Have you thought about retiring?”

He rubs his jaw like he’s got the weight of his team on his shoulders, and I wish I could say something to ease the pressure, but the only thing I know about hockey is that there are three periods. Though, I’m learning. “Yeah, but I don’t know what I’d do without hockey.”

“Anything. You could do anything. You still have your whole life ahead of you.”

He sighs loudly. “It doesn’t feel that way. I feel so old compared to the younger guys, and I swear it’s the only thing the media’s been asking me, even with our wins.”

I study his reflection in the mirror, but he keeps his focus on my scratched back. “You’re not old, and age doesn’t matter. You can be ninety and have the youngest soul, and you can be eighteen and be a crotchety curmudgeon. Stop worrying so much about what you can’t control, like your age, and show them how talented you are on the ice, because you are.”

His gaze latches onto mine in the mirror. He needs to be careful with those baby blues because a woman could drown in that look and never come up for air.

I clutch the sweatshirt to my chest. “What?”

His eyes never wander from my face. “Nothing. It’s just nice to talk to someone about all this. I have to be strong for my team, but I don’t have to fake it with you.”

“You can talk to me whenever you want. I’ve got big ears, too.”

“You’ve actually got really small ears.” He leans forward with a tender smile, tugging my earlobe like I’m a kid, which has me wanting to drop this sweatshirt on the floor.

The warm whisper of his breath caresses my skin like a summer breeze, smelling of mint and smoke. The scent of him is subtle, nothing like the overpowering fragrances of other boys.