How is this man’s throat so damn hot?
“I can’t. It’s just… I don’t know. Something I have to do.”
He walked toward his bedroom then, which confused me, since we needed to head downstairs. I followed him, and when he turned on his closet light instead of flicking it off like a normal person would do before they left, I laughed.
“Don’t tell me this is part of it, too?”
He didn’t answer, but the muscle in his jaw ticced.
I shook my head on another quiet laugh, jotting it all down in my notes. “What’s next? Going to hop on one foot, rubbing your belly and patting your head at the same time?”
At that, Vince gritted his teeth, the muscle of his jaw flexing under his skin. “Can you stop being such a bitch?”
My jaw fell open at that.
“What did you just—”
“A bitch. That’s what I called you. Because that’s what you’re acting like.” He stepped into my space, sucking all the air out of the room when he did. “Maybe this isn’t important to you. Maybe all you can focus on is getting your little photos and videos and likes and shares. But just like that’s your career, this is mine, okay? It’s my whole fucking life.” He stepped even closer. “It’s important to me. And if you can’t respect that, then we can’t work together.”
We were chest to chest now, and his was heaving almost as hard as mine.
“You’re such a bastard,” I said, lifting my chin to let him know I wasn’t backing down. “So, what? I’m a bitch because I didn’t smile and tell you how adorable you are when you do idiotic, superstitious stunts before a game?”
He puffed his chest even more, and that scarred eyebrow dipped low and menacing.
I couldn’t explain it, the electricity buzzing through me then. He was angry. He was staring at me like he wanted to wring my neck.
And something inside me was giddy about it.
“Fine,” I said after a moment, dragging the word out. I knew I sounded like the bitch he’d accused me of being even as the words came out of my mouth, full of sarcasm and not genuine in the least, but I couldn’t help it. I wanted to test him, to see just how far I could push. “I’m sorry. How dare I not understand why it’s so important to turn on your closet light before a game? I promise to be more respectful of your precious little rituals.” I smiled sweetly. “Okay, Tanny Boy?”
His hand shot out so fast I couldn’t register it.
One minute, I was smiling up at him with my little jest.
The next, he had my chin gripped tight between his thumb and forefinger, his knuckle guiding my chin up even farther so he could properly look down at me. He was just above me, his lips maybe only an inch from mine, so close I could smell the mint on his breath when he spoke.
“If only you had something better to do with this smart mouth of yours.”
He spat the words like a curse, like he wanted to throw me to the ground and leave me there. Instead, he held my chin in place, dark hazel eyes flicking between mine before they fell to my lips and stared hard and long.
Shock zipped through me from where his bruising grip held my chin, but it was quickly washed away by the stronger, more prevalent sensation I couldn’t quite name. It was hot and charged, reckless and consuming.
I should have been appalled. Intimidated. Scared, even.
Instead, I was aroused.
I didn’t have a single ounce of fear in me that he would hurt me. I wasn’t afraid of how hard he gripped me, or how he was so close I could feel his breath on my lips.
All I could focus on was his hazel eyes and how they darkened the longer he stared at my mouth.
He blinked, three times in rapid succession, like he was waking up from a sleepwalking dream. His expression softened, along with this grip.
Vince released me, tilting his chin a bit higher before he turned and took all the heat with him.
He grabbed his bag without another look in my direction, tossing it over his shoulder and barreling out of the suite with the door clicking shut behind him.
And I just stood there, blinking, sucking in a breath that burned as my hands floated up to trace where his had been.
What the actual fuck was that?
Extra Credit
Maven
Am I crazy?
Those were the words on repeat in my mind as I loaded up onto the bus with the team. They grew even louder when we arrived at the stadium, the guys much more subdued now than they were on the plane ride or even during the morning skate. Now, they were all quiet and focused like Daddy P had been, whether they were taping their sticks or watching film or stretching in the corner of the locker room.
Meanwhile, I was pretending to focus while my brain turned over what had happened in Vince’s room.
I should report that, I thought. But that notion only lasted for a split second before the more pressing one took its place.
That shouldn’t have turned me on.
I knew it was true, and yet, my body was still tense in the most exhilarating way from the exchange. I could close my eyes on a blink and see the whole scene play out again — him standing over me, his hand gripping my chin tightly, his eyes hard on mine before they fell to my mouth.
I shivered, and then my skin crawled like a cold front had just blown in. I looked across the room at where Vince was taping his stick.
His hands were at work, but his eyes were on me.
He watched me for a long pause before he tore his gaze away, his jaw tight, and continued working on his stick.
That was the last time he looked at me the entire game.
It wasn’t my first time watching an NHL game, but it was my first time watching one live. And, to be honest, it was my first time where I actually paid attention. Hockey was big in Tampa. As a life-long resident, it was impossible to escape the big playoff parties hosted all around the city. I’d gone with friends or even watched with my dad a time or two, but the games were mostly background noise while I talked to my friends or scrolled on my phone.
Tonight, I was standing behind the glass at the mouth of the tunnel, right next to where the players lined the bench. I had chills lining my arms and my phone clamped in shaky hands.
The rush of adrenaline I felt was like riding a rollercoaster without a seatbelt.
From the moment the puck dropped, I was in a trance, taking photos and videos while also frantically writing out notes in my phone — and questions. So many questions I wanted to ask Vince later, like how they were able to change lines so seamlessly, how they were able to skate so hard for minutes at a time, how they were able to catch their breath before being put back on the ice. Also, what were those salts they smelled? And why did they do it? Why was tripping a penalty, but being shoved hard into the boards was seemingly fine?
The energy from the crowd only amped up my buzz more, and this was an away game. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like at home, and I couldn’t wait to find out.
At the end of the first period, no one had scored, but it wasn’t because the teams weren’t playing well. It was the opposite, actually, Boston and Tampa duking it out like they’d sooner get nut tapped than let the other one score.
In the locker room, Coach McCabe gave a few words of encouragement, telling the guys to keep doing what they were doing but to fight harder.
“You want this,” he reminded them. “But so do they. Wanting it isn’t enough. You’ve got to need it. You’ve got to need that win so badly you will fight like it’s win or die.”