chiseled-from-stone pectoral muscles. And flat, dusky nipples, which tighten as the air chills his damp skin. I try to avert my eyes, but they have a mind of their own, drifting lower and lower to his six-, no eight-, no—dammit, his a-lot-of—pack.
My swallow is so loud it practically echoes in the room. “I-it’s okay.”
Well, hello there, husky, sexed-up escort voice.
I clear my throat and tear my eyes away from his body. “No worries,” I tell him. “My fault.” Lifting my phone, I wiggle it side to side. “Serves me right for traipsing around, nose-deep in Twitter.”
Ren smiles which just spirals my mood even further south. The amount of dopamine that this guy’s brain makes daily is probably my annual sum total.
Smoothing a hand over his playoff beard, he then brings it to the back of his neck and scratches, which I’ve learned over the past few years is his nervous tic. His bicep bunches, one rounded shoulder flexes, and I try not to stare at his massive lats, which give his upper body a powerful “V” shape, knitting themselves to his ribs, and a long, trim waist.
The visual feast results in a temporary short circuit, wiping my thoughts clean but for a two-word refrain.
Wowy. Muscles.
It must be because whereas the rest of the team are practically nudists, Ren always disappears for a shower and comes back rocking a fresh suit, crisp shirt, and tie. I’ve never seen this much Ren Bergman nakedness. Ever.
And I’m riveted.
“You’re rather unclothed,” I blurt.
He blushes and drops his hand to his side. “True.” Leaning in, he lifts one eyebrow and says conspiratorially, “This is the locker room, you know.”
I resist the fierce urge to tweak his nipple. “Don’t sass me, Bergman. I wasn’t finished.” I take a step back because, holy hell, does that man smell good. Fresh soap and a warm spiciness chasing it. Something enticingly male. “You don’t normally waltz around naked like—”
Kris streaks by bare-assed on a high-pitched shriek, whipping his towel playfully at Ren as he passes. I lift a hand in the doofus’s direction. “Schar makes my point for me.”
Ren’s blush deepens as he glances away. “You’re right. I don’t normally traipse around like this. I just forgot something I needed.”
“What did you forget? Your suit’s right back there.” I can see it from here, hanging near the showers. Smart man. Steamy air takes out the wrinkles.
Dammit, now I’m thinking about Ren taking steamy showers.
“Well, uh…” he says. “I forgot what goes underneath the suit.”
“Oh.”
My cheeks heat. Good grief. Of course. The guy forgot his boxers—Ooh, or maybe briefs? I need to stop thinking about this—and here I am holding him up like it’s the Spanish Inquisition.
As if he can read my dirty thoughts, Ren pins me with those unnaturally intense eyes—catlike and pale as the ice he skates on. “I’ll just go get them, then…”
“Great idea.” I step to one side, as Ren goes the same way. We both laugh awkwardly. Then Ren tries for the other side, just as I do, too. “Jesus,” I mumble. So mortifying. Were the earth to open up and swallow me whole, this moment would be significantly improved.
“Here.” Ren’s hands land warm on my shoulders again, his touch gentle, unlike most of the guys on the team, who seem incapable of not knocking into me like they’re the Hulk. While I flinch before incoming contact with them, there’s something graceful and controlled about Ren.
“I’ll go this way,” he says. “You go that way.”
Like a revolving door, we finally manage to move past each other. Once Ren’s strolling away, I’d like to say I don’t glance over my shoulder to ogle the guy’s backside from the revealing contours of a locker room towel, but I’m not in the habit of lying.
“Fraaaaankie,” an obnoxious voice yells.
That’s Matt Maddox. Evil yin to Ren’s pure-goodness yang.
“Jesus, keep me strong,” I mutter.
In our little nature metaphor, in which I’m the thundercloud and Ren’s the sun, Matt’s the reeking sulfurous geyser that everyone runs away from. While Ren is warm and always gentlemanly, Matt is, in short, a natural disaster of grade-A douchery.
Matt crosses the locker room and closes in on me, not for the first time. Not by a long stretch.
Bracing myself for impact, I pocket my phone and prepare to mouth-breathe. I’m used to the stank of our locker room, but post-game, the guys smell extra ripe, and I have a sensitive sniffer. I gag in here regularly.
Slinging a stinky arm around me, Matt jars my whole