My nose wrinkles. Hayden’s a lovable goofball with a heart of gold and probably my favorite player on the team, but he has a “friend” in every city. His type skews tall, dark haired, and curvy, and I’m pretty sure by “‘friend’” he means “‘fuck buddy’.”
Hockey players. Even the good ones know they have unlimited options.
Hayden looks to me with a beseeching expression. “Hazel. Come on. People don’t wear underwear in your classes, right?”
I burst out laughing. “I don’t go around checking.” Rory chuckles, shaking me, and I’m grinning ear to ear at Hayden. “You’re so weird.”
The conversation moves on, and I’m trying to listen, but Rory’s hand keeps moving on my thigh with firm strokes over my leggings. I’m overheating. My face is warm, and I take a long drink of my beer to cool myself down.
God, I love beer. I love the cold, crisp taste. I love the bubbles, and I even love how filling it is. When I set my drink down, Rory’s eyes linger on my mouth as I lick the foam off my lips.
“Yes?” I ask lightly.
“I’m just enjoying watching you enjoy that beer.”
Heat blooms between my legs, and I shift on his lap. His hands tighten on my waist like his reflex is to keep me from getting up.
“You don’t have to hold me down, you know. I’m not going to float away.”
His eyebrows lift, and his gaze pins me in a determined, interested way. “I don’t have to hold you down, but what if I want to?”
I huff, face heating at the images playing in my head. His hand on my wrist. His lips against my temple, but with his torso holding me down against the bed as he whispers all the dirty things he’s going to do to me.
Wow. Hot. That would be hot.
No. This is Rory. He’s a shameless flirt, just like Hayden. The word monogamy isn’t in his dictionary. I’m not having these thoughts about him.
“So what’s this I hear about you not wearing underwear in yoga?”
I hold back the laugh. “Wildly inappropriate, Miller.”
“Tell me.” His voice is a low murmur in my ear, and shivers run down the back of my neck. “Come on, Hartley. I’m dying to know.”
His lips brush the shell of my ear, and I scramble for a sharp barb to toss at him. “Fuck around and find out.”
He holds my eyes, the corner of his mouth twitching up, and there’s a thrum between my legs that I decide has nothing to do with him.
“Maybe I will.”
My eyes drop to his mouth, curved slightly up on one side. He has more stubble than when I saw him the other day, and I’m thinking about what that would feel like against my skin, under my fingers. Between my legs.
I clear my throat and look away. “Good goal tonight.”
“Thanks.” His tone changes, and when I glance back at him, he’s giving me a watered-down version of his lazy smile. The amusement doesn’t reach his eyes like when he’s teasing me.
If the Rory Miller who calls me a fire-breather and teases me about wearing his jersey is him in full color, this version of him is black and white, flattened, two-dimensional. It’s the same emotionally exhausted expression I caught on him during the game.
I don’t like it.
I poke him with my elbow. “What’s the deal?”
“What do you mean?”
“You won the game. The team is thrilled, but you don’t seem happy about it.”
He shrugs. “I’m happy.”
I’m not convinced, and I have a weird urge to pull him back to center. For once, I want the arrogant, teasing, smug version of Miller back.
“Hayden’s right,” I say without a second thought.
Rory offers me a questioning look, and I lean in, inches from his ear. I don’t know why I’m doing this.
“About wearing underwear under yoga clothes,” I whisper.
His eyes heat, and our gazes hold as his hand slides to my hip, stroking over me to feel for the evidence.
He won’t find it tonight. A voice in my head asks what the hell I’m doing, but we’re just playing. Nothing’s going to happen.
His eyes close. “Fuck. That’s so hot.”
Satisfaction courses through me and I smile to myself.
On the table, Rory’s phone lights up with a text, and his phone background snags my attention.
“Oh my god,” Pippa says, laughing and reaching for it, but I get to the phone first, staring in horror at the photo of Rory and me at sixteen and seventeen.
“No,” I tell Rory, shaking my head, glancing between him and the photo.
He grins. “Yes.”
I cringe. We’re in the library after school, books and papers spread out on the table. It’s a little grainy, and I’m wearing a small, guarded smile while he beams at me, his arm draped over the back of my chair.
“Where did you get this?”
“The yearbook.”
“I haven’t seen this picture in years.”
Rory transferred to our high school when he was starting grade eleven and sat behind me in Geography, putting tiny pieces of paper in my hair to get me to talk to him.
I had just started dating Connor when this photo was taken.
Sometimes, I wish I could go back in time and warn myself away from him, but then it would have been someone else who hurt me instead.
I set the phone down. “This isn’t going to be your background photo.”
“Sure it is. It’s cute.” He tilts the phone to see the picture, and a funny smile twists on his mouth.
“I’ll send you another one.”
“No.” His arms wrap around me again. “I’m keeping it. I like it.”
CHAPTER 9
HAZEL
I’m walking out of the washroom later when I bump into Connor.
“Oh.” The hallway seems to shrink. “Hi.”
I keep walking but he clears his throat. “Hazel.”
I really don’t want to, but I have to work with the guy all year. “What’s up?”
“So?” He gives me an expectant look. “This shit Miller’s saying about you being into him while we were together?”
It takes every ounce of my energy not to smile in satisfaction. “What about it?”
The innocence in my tone is Oscar-worthy, and I’m queen of the world. From the way his eyes harden, Connor is seething. I may not like Rory, but he knows exactly how to piss people off.
Connor’s jaw ticks. “Really?”
“Connor, it was years ago. Who cares?”
“Do you ever think about us?” he asks, watching me intently.
These fucking hockey players. They’re so competitive.
“No,” I lie.
He keeps watching me, and there’s a tight, nauseous feeling in my stomach. I pray he doesn’t know the truth.
“Hartley.” Rory’s in front of us, and I relax.
His arm goes around my shoulder, pulling me against him, and without meaning to, I inhale a lungful of his fresh scent.
“Let’s go home.” He uses a low, seductive voice in my ear. My blood feels slow and thick like honey when he uses that voice. “I’ll do that thing you like.”
Warmth spreads throughout me, zinging between my legs, as I picture what he could mean by that, if this were real.
I need to get out of the bar, out of Rory’s charisma splash zone, and then I can think again. “Yeah. Home. I’m getting sleepy.”
His hand slides into mine and he pulls me out of the hallway without another glance at Connor.