Ryan’s eyes meet mine and he steps closer, his scent messing with my head in the best way. He lifts his hand, his fingers brushing against my jaw, slowly.
A grin breaks out onto his face, enjoying the effect he has on me. “Baby,you’rehere. I’m already lucky enough.”
I smile before I can stop myself. He’s being ridiculously, annoyingly cute, and my heart hammers against my chest so hard it feels like it might actually explode.
For a second, I let myself enjoy the way his words make my chest flutter, the warmth bubbling up in my throat.
But then my brain catches up.
The smile falters, just enough for the truth to sneak back in. This is supposed to be fun. Casual. No strings. No feelings.
So why does my stomach twist like I’m seventeen and falling for the first time?
I shake my head, trying to clear the fog and snap myself out of it.
But Ryan catches the movement.
His eyes narrow, sharp and curious, like he can read every thought I’m trying to bury. “What was that look?” he asks.
“Nothing,” I say too quickly, stepping distance might help the churning in my stomach. “Let’s just… focus on the game first.”
Ryan’s grin widens, that cocky tilt to his mouth making it almost impossible not to smile back. “You gonna wear my jersey, Curls?”
I lift a brow. “That would be a little obvious, don’t you think?”
Something flickers in his eyes—disappointment maybe—but it vanishes as quickly as it came, masked by a hand dragging through his hair.
“Yeah, yeah. I know,” he sighs, glancing away for a beat. “I just… wanted to see you wear my name, I guess.”
The flicker of vulnerability in his eyes punches straight through my chest.
I hate it.
Because the truth is, I want that too. I want to wear his jersey, to cheer him on.
But I can’t.
So instead, I step in close. My lips brush his ear as I rise on my toes, hands splayed against his chest.
“I’ll moan your name instead,” I whisper.
I don’t wait for his reaction.
Just turn on my heel and head into my room, heat crawling up the back of my neck, fully aware of his eyes locked on me.
But the low groan I hear as the door clicks shut behind me?
Yeah… this weekend is going to be fun.
29
RYAN
The sweat’s already starting to bead on my forehead, but it feels good. The game’s moving fast, like every pass and every turn are charged with energy. The rink’s cold, but I’m burning up, muscles working overtime, eyes locked on the puck.
I drop back into position, eyes on their left winger trying to sneak in behind me. He’s quick, but I’ve seen this move before. He wants to slip inside, catch me off-guard.
Not tonight.
