“Easton. How does it feel to win your second game with the Revolution? Do you think the team is gelling?”
“Yeah, man. We’re gelling, and it feels great. I’m just trying to find my place among the incredible players on this team. So far, so good,” I tell him and reach for my bag, ready to get dressed and get out.
“There have been rumors that you and the captain, Jace Kingston, have some bad blood between you. Any truth to the rumors?”
Before I can answer him, Jace joins in and throws an arm around my shoulder. An arm I can’t shrug the fuck off in front of a camera. The two of us stand there—me with a still noticeable bruise from my black eye and him with a fresh blueish-purple bruise on his jaw from earlier.
“Alex, Alex, Alex,” Jace placates the reporter. “I’ve known Easton since he was in high school. He’s a damn good goalie. Pretty sure tonight speaks for itself. There’s no bad blood between us.”
“So, Jace, tell me. What did you get Easton and your sister for their wedding then?” Alex pushes with a slight edge to his voice. He knows we’re full of shit. And he wants to be the reporter to prove it.
Jace laughs and looks at me, suddenly serious.
“I gave them my blessing, Alex. Now get out of here so we can get dressed and on the bus.”
Alex turns around to his camera man. “You heard it here first, folks.”
As soon as the camera is off, Jace yanks his arm away and shoves my shoulder. “You fucking hurt her, and I will kill you, Hayes. You hear me?”
“Oh, right,” I mock him. “Something new. Gee, thanks.”
Jace stomps away like a bratty toddler, and I get dressed as fast as possible, then grab my shit to get on the bus. Traveling after a game sucks. My body aches, and the last thing I want to do is sleep on a plane.
I’m expecting the reporters and fans when I walk out of the locker room. What I’m not expecting is to nearly get tackled by a five-foot-two, hundred-pound blur as she throws herself at me.
I drop my bag and grab Lindy as she wraps her legs around my waist and her arms around my shoulders. “You were so good out there tonight, hockey boy.”
Her mouth crashes over mine, and our tongues collide. I take two steps forward and lean her against the wall as loud clapping starts thundering in the background. I pull my head back and rest my forehead to hers. “Damn, princess. I might need you to come to every game if you’re gonna greet me like that.”
She nibbles her bottom lip, then kisses me again, softer and slower. “I have to fly home tonight, but I’ll be watching and waiting tomorrow.”
“Waiting for what?” I ask, intrigued. I’m not ready to let her go. Not when she feels so right.
“For you to come home,” she whispers like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and damn, I like the sound of that.
“Come on, Hayes. The bus is leaving,” Boone tells me as he walks by.
We don’t get so lucky with Jace.
He stops next to us and clears his throat. “Can I talk to you for a sec?”
Lindy looks around, playing dumb. “I’m sorry. Are you talking to me?”
“Madeline . . . please.” The words are quiet but strong.
She looks at me, and I lower her legs to the floor. “Go talk to your brother, princess. And call me when you land.” I drop a kiss on her head, and I hold her close as long as I can, then glare at Jace. “Don’t fucking hurt her.”
He gives me a quick nod, then wraps an arm around Lindy to guide her through the crowded hall.
Goddamn. I love that woman.
Lindy
I look over my shoulder to find Easton watching me walk away, and okay, maybe I add an extra little sway to my steps. Then I laugh at myself. Who am I kidding? He’s not watching my ass. He’s staring at his name and number on the back of my jersey.
Oh, I’m so cashing in on my promise to greet him in this and nothing else tomorrow night.
“Madeline. Watch where you’re going,” Jace snaps as he opens the door to a small room off the locker room they just exited.
I turn around once the door closes behind us and shove my brother. “Twice my size or not, Jace Kingston, I will kick your ass if you ever lay a hand on my husband again.”
“What the hell, Lindy?” He takes a step back and eyes me like I’m a feral cat.
And you know what? Maybe I am.
“You hit him,” I whisper-shout, not wanting the rabid press outside those doors to overhear us.
He points to his face like a little tattletale. “He hit me too.”