The kiss steals the breath from my lungs. It makes my pulse hammer, my blood burn, my?—
Footsteps.
We freeze.
The footsteps get closer. Louder. Too loud.
Shit.
I stumble back, nearly tripping over my own feet as Ryan jerks away, his hands already halfway in his pockets, face flushed. My pulse is a wild, erratic mess. The heat of his mouth is still on mine when?—
The door swings open.
Dad steps in. Nathan follows right behind him. Both of them stop, their eyes flicking between us. “You’re still here?” he asks Ryan.
Ryan freezes for a split second. He clears his throat. “Uh, well, she wanted to go over some things with me before I head out. Practice stuff. For next week’s game.”
Dad gives Ryan a brief nod, buying the excuse without a second thought. “Alright, we’ll go over that now,” he says, walking into the office and settling into his chair. “We’ve got a lot to do before next week’s game.”
“Let’s go, man,” Nathan says, standing by the door. “Austin’s probably hoarding the showers by now.”
Ryan nods and looks at me one last time before following Nathan out of the room. The door clicks shut behind them, and I’m left standing there, my heart still racing from the close call.
We can’t keep doing this—sneaking around, dodging close calls, pretending like this thing between us doesn’t have disaster written all over it.
But when he looks at me like that, when he kisses me like I’m the only thing he wants in the world?
Stopping doesn’t feel like an option.
It feels impossible.
27
RYAN
The bus ride to an away game always smells like sweat and way too much Axe. Same cramped seats. Same idiots yelling over each other the entire ride.
Honestly? I kinda like it. It means game day. It means I get to hit the ice and stop thinking about everything else for a few hours. Westbrook plays fast and loose, which means we just have to hit harder and outskate them. Simple plan. Just gotta stick to it.
But there’s something different about the team bus this time.
Because she’s here.
Isabella climbs onto the bus, her hair pulled into a ponytail that I want to tug and—Jesus. Focus. She doesn’t even glance my way at first, scanning for a seat near the front.
Still, my eyes are on her.
Can’t help it.
She finally looks up, and for half a second, our eyes meet. That’s it. That’s all I get. But it’s enough to make my chest tighten and a dumb smile tug at the corners of my mouth.
I look away before it becomes obvious. Before someone—anyone—picks up on something they shouldn’t.
Fuck, she looks good. Always does. But today? She’s wearing that fitted jacket that hugs her waist just right, and those leggings—Jesus. Tight enough to short-circuit my brain. Nope. Not going there. Last thing I need is to sit through a four-hour bus ride with a boner surrounded by sweaty hockey guys.
She’s always at practice, but this is the first time she’s traveling with us. First time she’s taking the lead on anything big. Coach handed her the plays for Westbrook, which is kinda huge. And I know she’s nervous, but she’s ready.
I’m so fucking proud of her. I have no doubt that she’ll do great.
