The guy shrugs. “Alright, just thought I’d ask.”
He steps onto the ice and skates away, and I lead Hazel to a bench so I can unlace her skates.
“Hold on.” She puts a hand on my arm, watching the guys skate laps around the rink before her gaze lifts to mine. “You should play.”
“Why?”
“Because…” She pauses. There’s something sweet in her eyes. Affection, I think. “You had fun tonight, skating with me.”
“Yeah.” I grin. “With you. Not with some middle-aged guy named Steve.”
She laughs, and I memorize it. “I’m serious. I think you might have fun out there.”
On the ice, they’re passing the puck, calling playful jabs at each other. One of them misses a shot and another one laughs, but not in a cruel way. Something strums in my chest.
“I let you teach me to skate,” Hazel says. “You owe me.”
“Oh, really?” I arch an eyebrow at her.
I think she’s trying not to smile, from the way her eyes glow. “Yes. Not everything is a competition,” she adds, softer. “Some things are just for fun.”
I think about what I decided earlier, how I don’t want to be anything like McKinnon. I want to be someone who Hazel’s proud to be dating, even if it is pretend.
Twenty minutes later, I score another goal to total silence. The back of my neck prickles as Hazel watches from the stands, and I skate with the guys back to center ice for the next face-off.
“What’s the score now?” one of the other guys calls to the ref.
“Twelve-zero.”
“Jesus fuck,” another guy mutters, and my gut tenses. “Miller, you’re steamrolling us.”
He’s joking, but there’s an edge to his words. These guys don’t play like I’m used to. They’re not nearly as competitive and cut-throat, and now there’s a downtrodden energy among them. A knot forms behind my sternum. This isn’t fun, and I don’t know what I’m doing wrong. I’m scoring goals. I’m playing like I always play. I don’t know why I thought this would be any different.
My gaze goes to Hazel, watching. A few feet away, Ward surveys the ice with his arms crossed, leaning on the wall with an unreadable expression. Our eyes meet before he turns and leaves.
Fuck. Some fucking captain I am.
“Guys, I need to go,” I tell them. “Thanks for letting me play.”
The mood lightens immediately, and they all say their goodbyes as I skate away, dropping the stick they lent me on the bench before I head over to Hazel.
“Hey.” Her eyes search my face when I approach. “You’re done?”
“Yep.” That kernel of shame and embarrassment that I felt earlier during our argument lodges in the center of my chest. I kneel and unlace her skates, aware of her gaze on my face.
“Are we still good for the team dinner on Friday?” I ask.
“Oh.” She blinks like she forgot. “Yes. We’re on.”
“Good.” I pull her other skate off. The tight, ashamed feelings in my chest fade away the longer I talk with her. “The stylist is going to contact you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You need a dress. It’s a black-tie dinner.”
I take her socked foot between my palms. She glances at my hands, distracted, and as I press my thumb into the soles, her jaw goes slack.
I grin. She likes that.
“I have a dress,” she says, still frowning at my hands rubbing her foot.
“You can’t wear an old dress, Hartley.” I work the ball of her foot and her eyelids droop. “Remember what I said? If you really were my girlfriend, I’d be spending money left and right on you. That’s what Streicher does for Pippa.”
I start on the other foot and she makes a noise that’s half protest, half sigh of pleasure.
“Um,” she says, blinking as I dig my thumb deeper. “Wow.”
“Say yes, Hartley.” Her eyes are hazy and soft. “Let me get you a pretty dress so you can feel good.”
The spot I’m working on must be sore, because when I press into it, her eyes fall closed. “You’re not going to make me wear something see-through, right?”
I chuckle. “No. I don’t think I could make you wear anything.” I picture her in something flimsy and transparent, looking hot and painfully fuckable as McKinnon leers, and sharp jealousy twists in my gut. “I like showing you off, Hartley, but no one gets to see your tits but me.”
Her eyes open. Is that a flush I detect across her cheeks? “You wish.”
My blood courses with pride and pleasure at seeing her flustered. I do fucking wish. “I’ll set everything up. All you have to do is be there.” My expression turns wicked. “And stand still when I make out with you.”
She rolls her eyes, and her cheeks are absolutely going pink.
CHAPTER 16
RORY
When I arrive for the team dinner at the old mansion in Shaughnessy, a notoriously wealthy, old-money neighborhood in Vancouver, I notice two things.
The first is that Hartley looks fucking stunning.
I stand in the foyer, slack-jawed and staring at her in her navy-blue gown while my heart races. Hazel Hartley is the most beautiful woman I know. My throat knots as I try to swallow.
Between that crystal dragon that she obviously liked but wouldn’t admit, the dress, and the envelope tucked in my tux jacket, I’m becoming addicted to spending money on her.
The second thing I notice is that fuckface, McKinnon, circling her like a vulture. He stands two feet away, talking to her while she looks disinterested. His eyes rake over her, lingering on the perfect swell of her cleavage.
He cheated on me the whole time. Everyone knew but me.
My tongue taps my upper lip as jealousy and possessiveness charge through me. Players greet me as I move toward her, but I hardly notice.
Our argument on Wednesday showed me how much I have to lose with her, and I’m not going to give up.
“Hazel.” My voice is low. Her eyes widen, either because I’m using her first name or because my hand now rests on her low back in a way that shows everyone in the room she’s mine. “You look beautiful,” I tell her, and my heart pounds as I lower my mouth to hers.
She inhales sharply, and for the longest moment of my life, I worry she might push me off, but she melts against me, kissing me back, and in my chest, something locks into place.
CHAPTER 17
HAZEL
Rory Miller kisses me, and the world tilts below my feet. His stubble scrapes my skin, making my breath catch. Kissing him is so different from what I expected.
His mouth is a gentle press against mine, his exhale is soft against my skin, and his fingers trail across my jaw before sinking into my hair. His movements are slow, unhurried. I’d say he was reluctant if it weren’t for the way his tongue slips past my lips and lightly strokes me.