Coach let me sit at the edge of the bench the next period after I’d begged him for a glass-free video. I had a helmet strapped to my head, just in case.
As the puck was dropped, I thought about what Coach had said to me yesterday, about how they had a real shot this season. I knew Vince Tanev was a big part of why he believed that, and when Vince scored a goal within the first minute of the second period, I understood why.
He was a beast.
Or, as I heard a couple of guys on the bench call him, a beaut.
That one goal seemed like a match that lit his fuse, and he went off like a bomb after that. He had an assist to the center in his line, bringing them up by two, and then when Boston caught up and the game was tied in the third period with just four minutes left to play, he scored again, rendering the arena completely silent while he and the team celebrated.
It was after that goal that he finally looked at me.
His eyes sparkled behind the shield of his helmet, and he skated over so fluidly to where I sat, it was like he’d been born on those blades. I took my phone out and focused the video camera on him, and a little smirk climbed on his lips.
“Sick celly, Pigeon,” a player yelled from the bench beside me, and Vince lifted his head in a little nod of acknowledgement before hopping over the boards.
But he didn’t sit on the bench.
Instead, he sat right there on the ledge, right in front of me, all padded up and sweaty and hot as hell as he leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. I had the camera trained on him, but he wasn’t looking at the lens.
He was looking directly at me.
Vince didn’t say a word, just sat there, smirking, his eyes zeroed in on mine with some sort of challenge lying behind them. Slowly, I dropped the camera, meeting his gaze with my own instead of watching him through the screen.
His smile climbed higher.
“Alright, Tanev,” Coach McCabe said from where he stood against the glass. “There’s still a game going on. Ass on the bench.”
Vince kept his eyes on me as he stood, and then he winked, wetting his lips a little as he strode to the end of the bench to take a seat.
My heart was hammering in my chest when the puck was dropped, and my phone buzzed so hard in my hand I jumped. When I checked the text, it was from Livia.
Livia: Ohhhh, girl. You are in trouble.
Me: What? What happened?
Livia: They just showed that whole exchange between you and Vince on TV, that’s what happened.
I swallowed.
Me: I don’t know what you’re talking about.
Livia: Sure. Let’s go with that.
Livia: But be honest… you need to change your underwear, don’t you?
Me: You’re disgusting.
Livia: And YOU are lying to yourself.
Me: This is an assignment, Liv. Nothing more.
Livia: Uh-huh. Looks to me like you might have an extra credit opportunity. ;）
Me: Goodbye.
I couldn’t help the little laugh that left me when I saw the string of emojis my best friend responded with, but I exited the conversation and pulled up my video camera just in time to catch the last ten seconds of play. Our team celebrated on the ice while the home team skated off silently, and only a handful of fans cheered in the crowd while the rest were hanging their heads on the exit.
After a quick celebratory skate around the rink where all the guys hammed it up, I followed them back to the locker room — the very, very smelly locker room — halfway listening to their celebrations while I posted Vince’s goal and the final score.
Just because I was curious, I refreshed the app after thirty seconds.
And the post already had more than ten-thousand likes and hundreds of comments.
I shook my head. It was just… ludicrous, the amount of people who were invested in him, in his life, in his body. I absentmindedly wondered what kind of pressure that would put on a person as I tucked my phone into my purse.
Once it was put away, I kneaded my temples with my fingers. So much screen time was giving me a headache, along with the insanity of the past week and wearing a helmet not made for me. And we still had to pack and fly home.
I understood the appeal of flying after the game, of being able to go to sleep in your own bed back in your own city, especially since we had a home game in a couple days. But I hoped it wouldn’t be too loud on the flight. All I wanted was to catch some Zs.
“Aw, come on, it can’t be that bad.”
I opened my eyes to find Vince standing over me. His hair was soaking wet, sticking to his forehead and neck just like his t-shirt was sticking to his chest. I assumed he wore that under his pads, because it was completely drenched. He also wore a pair of equally wet shorts and still had his shin pads on.
“Oh, are you talking to me again?”
“For now.”
I smiled, my skin still buzzing from our earlier exchange. But that menacing gaze of his was gone, and he was the Vince Tanev I knew again. Playful. Charming. Annoyingly so.
“Congratulations on the win,” I offered.
“Thank you. Still think my pre-game rituals are stupid?”
“I never said they were stupid,” I defended. “But… does this mean we have to fight before every game now? Because we did, and you won, so…”
He scrubbed a hand over his jaw with a devilish grin.
“Sounds like fun to me,” he said, his eyes following the line of my necklace where it dipped under my blouse. “But only if we get to kiss and make up afterward.”
He waggled his brows as I flattened my lips.
And then he was tackled from behind by Carter before I got the chance to tell him that was never going to happen.
Good Morning to Me
Vince
I woke up bright and early Sunday morning in Tampa with a raging hard-on.
I had so much testosterone flowing through me after winning an away game against one of the best teams in our division, I felt like I could pick a car up over my head and throw it a hundred yards. Add in the fact that I’d now spent forty-eight hours with Maven King invading every inch of my life, and it didn’t surprise me to wake up with morning wood.
My eyes closed on a groan as I palmed myself, and the first thing I thought of was her rubbing her ass against me on the plane in those tight-as-sin jeans. I kicked my sheets off, not even a little ashamed as I gave in and pumped myself to the memory. I saw her in that yellow dress from the gala, pictured her daring eyes and that sweet mouth of hers that loved to sass back when I challenged her.
When I thought of how those honey eyes had widened when I took her by the chin, when I forced her to look at me while I stared at her mouth, I came.
It was a memory I’d store away for life, how her delicate neck had been exposed for me, her pulse thrumming under the surface and begging to be kissed, to be licked, to be bitten. I could replay the way her eyes dilated for years, how all that gold had been swallowed up, her chest rising and falling in a hypnotizing rhythm as she stared up at me and waited for a command.
She liked it, when I took control of her like that, when I shut her up.
Whether she’d ever admit it or not was another story entirely.
After I cleaned up, I ran a hot shower, and my thoughts of Maven turned less sexual and more guilty. Not that I felt guilty for fucking my hand at the thought of her, because I didn’t, but rather that I felt bad for snapping at her before the game, for being the asshole she already thought I was.