is without turning. Hell, I can feel the tension crackling in the air around us.
“Of all the teams to choose from, you went with this one. Are you kidding me?” His frustration is clear in his tone. Hiking the strap of my purse on my arm, I shoot a glare at him over my shoulder.
“If you think for one measly second that I followed you here instead of my brother’s team, you’re dead wrong. Just stay out of my way, and I’ll stay out of yours. We good?”
“Far from it, princess.” He snatches his duffel off the bench and storms away. Meanwhile, my heart is tripping over itself in my chest at the use of his old pet name for me.
TWO
IF I’D KNOWN working so closely with Reeve was going to be this hard and cause this much stress, I would’ve turned it down. He’s a nightmare. The past two weeks have been absolute hell. If any of his teammates so much as talk to me or even look my way, Reeve is there, like the knight in shining armor that I certainly do not need. Then, he has the gall to get pissy at me as if I asked him to come to my aid.
He’s driving me nuts. Point, blank, period.
I try to focus on the game, my craft, and any other players on the ice instead of him, but it’s hard not to since he’s in the middle of every play, every pivotal moment. Even with his helmet hiding most of his face, I can imagine the concentration there, written deep in those lines marring his features and the focus in his ice-blue eyes. I’ve never had the privilege of being this close to the ice, but being a part of the team changes that. Every time Crew invited me to his games, I sat in the suite with the families of the team. It’s a great view, don’t get me wrong, but nothing, and I truly mean nothing, can beat this.
Sitting on the bench with the rest of the second-string players, I have my bag of supplies on my lap in case I need it. The sounds of blades scraping against the ice and hearing the trash talk of the players are incredible. Hell, I can even feel the shaved ice spray my face during certain plays. It’s thrilling.
I let out a gasp when one of the other team’s players from the Calgary Flames crashes into the glass right next to me. I swallow. Hard. My eyes widen when I realize who it is.
Beau Crosby.
Three-time Stanley Cup winner.
Ice god.
Our eyes lock, and my breath catches as he grins at me. It only lasts a few seconds, but it’s long enough that the crowd notices. An over-the-top “oooh” reverberates around the stadium, and I feel my cheeks redden. When he skates off, diving back into the game, I’m left breathless. Glancing around, I suddenly feel feverish, even sitting next to the ice.
During the next play, when Beau gets slammed into the glass again, he doesn’t immediately skate back on the ice and resume playing. Instead, he pounds his hand on the glass to get my attention.
“Dinner after the game?” That’s what it sounds like he yells, and my mouth drops open in shock. He’s not asking me this in the middle of a game, is he? Sure enough, he is. He skates away, to help out his teammates, but comes right back, waiting for an answer. My mouth is gaping as I fumble for an answer. I’m just about to do something crazy and respond when Beau is gripped from behind and dragged away by none other than Reeve Bennett. Reeve shoves him. Beau shoves back. And yup, that’s how the first fight of the night breaks out.
Once both guys have served their timeouts, and they’re back on the ice, the game is tied 2-2. But Beau is persistent. Whenever he gets the chance, he skids to a halt in front of me, awaiting my answer, and each time, Reeve looks murderous. So murderous and worried about Beau that he doesn’t have his head in the game. He collides on the ice with an opposing player, and when he hits the ground, clutching at his knee, I shoot to my feet, my eyes growing wide.
Shit. If he’s hurt, I’ll never hear the end of it from him.
• • •
He’s hurt.
That was the first thing out of the medic’s mouth when they took the reigning MVP, Reeve Bennett, from