He frowns. It’s unusual for me to skip a workout. “Why?”
I run a hand through my hair. I woke up to an incoming call from my dad but let it go to voicemail. I still haven’t checked it. “Hazel makes me go for runs sometimes with her and it’s, uh.” I shrug. “Nice. To not think about hockey all the time.” I swallow. “And just talk and stuff.”
He stares at me. “You miss her.”
I think back to the past few days, how often I wonder about her or have the urge to text her. How I can’t wait to see her again. “Yeah. I do.”
Streicher turns back to his phone, and I read over my conversation with Hazel. Before I think too hard about it, I send her the photo I snapped this morning, lying in bed with the light streaming in.
Stop teasing me, she texts a moment later, and I burst out laughing. Players look over and I clear my throat, stifling my laughter.
Your turn, I respond, grinning like a dumbass.
A photo pops up—she’s in her apartment, sitting on her yoga mat with her feet together, stretching, full lips curving up. She’s wearing a loose sweater and leggings, silky hair up in a ponytail, and no makeup.
My heart skips a beat. She’s gorgeous.
Not what I had in mind but still cute as hell.
I study the photo, desperate for any scrap of Hazel I can get. The dragon I gave her sits on her nightstand now. Does that mean she misses me, too? Her bed looks huge and comfy and I cannot fucking wait to get back to her and flop down on it.
My eyes land on Hazel again. The shoulder of her loose sweater has slipped aside while she stretched, revealing a pale purple strap.
The pale purple strap of one of the pieces of lingerie I bought her. Proud male satisfaction charges through my veins.
Hartley, are you wearing one of the lacy things I bought you?
Her response is immediate. Yes.
CHAPTER 40
HAZEL
I’m playing with fire.
I needed to make sure it fit, I text like a dirty little liar, closing my eyes and leaning my forehead against the bed.
First, it was the photo the other night of him in front of the mirror, looking smug and ripped and fuckable. I thought about that picture all goddamned day. I thought about it when I woke up this morning, aching between my legs, at work when I was trying to focus, and this evening during his game.
This fake dating thing? I suck at it, and my one-time-only rule? This is pushing it.
I’m not breaking the rule, though. I’m bending it. A shirtless picture of him isn’t sex. Wearing pretty lingerie isn’t sex. It’s fine.
I pull up the photo he just sent. He must have taken it this morning, because in the picture, he’s lying in a hotel bed, hair messy and eyes sleepy. The morning light makes his eyes glow, and he smirks like he knows I’ve been thinking about him. The sheets are rumpled, and I can practically hear the groan he’d make stretching out against them.
Pictures like this, where he looks intensely hot? They’re dangerous. I can’t look at them, but I can’t look away, either. Deep inside me, it feels like a new version of myself is waking up.
And does it fit? he asks.
Yes.
Prove it.
My eyes go wide and a thrill shoots through me. He wants another? No way.
Why are you wearing it?
I already told you. Plus it’s pretty. And I feel hot in it.
It’s not just that, though. I miss him. When I wear the stuff he selected, I feel closer to Rory.
I don’t know what to do about that, and I don’t know how it fits into this fake dating thing we’re doing or the one-time-only rule I have for myself.
Please, Hartley. Please send a picture. I’m begging here. Show me.
My breath catches, turning ragged, and heat spreads up my chest and neck. I’m quickly losing control of this situation, but the desperation in his texts melts my resolve.
A photo isn’t fucking. I’m still in control. We’re just playing around.
I let out a delirious laugh. I can’t believe I’m about to do this. I pull my sweater off and lie down on the bed, heart pounding as I open my camera app and lift the phone.
The photo doesn’t even show my face, just my shoulder, the top of my cleavage, and my hair spread across the pillow, but still, it’s the sexiest picture I’ve ever taken. Hesitation rises in me, but I picture Rory’s expression when he sees the photo—a slack jaw, pupils blown wide—and I send it.
His text appears immediately. Jesus Christ, Hartley.
I bury my burning face in the pillow, smiling.
The next evening, I receive another photo.
He’s shirtless in the mirror, clad in just those tight black boxer briefs. My eyes linger on the sharp V cuts above his hips, the trickle of hair into the waistband, and the toned flex of his arms. He’s smirking like he knows how hot he is.
Heat twists low in my belly, and I head to my closet to pull out another piece of lingerie—a baby blue balconette bra with a matching lace thong and garters.
It’s just a picture, I tell myself as I set my phone up and snap the picture of my back, hair draped across my shoulder, lacy strap visible. It’s just for fun. I’m always telling my students that they deserve to feel good, so why can’t I? Sending sexy pictures to Rory and seeing his admiration of my body makes me feel hot. That’s all.
I won’t let it get away from me. I know what I’m doing.
My pulse jumps when his response arrives, and I flush with pleasure.
Holy fuck, Hartley.
CHAPTER 41
RORY
Good game tonight, Hazel texts a week later while I sit in a bar with the guys, celebrating the game. She and Pippa are on their weekend away in Whistler.
We won the game tonight four-nothing, and not a single one of those goals was mine. I smile down at my phone. A half-full beer sits on the table in front of me after Owens shoved it in my face.
One beer isn’t going to ruin my career, and it’s so good. So fucking good.
You watched my game? I reply.
Her typing dots appear, disappear, and appear again. I hope she’s getting flustered on the other side.
It was on in the background.
My grin widens. You watched my game.
Christ, I miss her, but the photos we’ve been sending back and forth? My cock stiffens just thinking about them. Prickly, guarded Hazel, sending me glimpses of the lingerie I bought her. Every time my phone chirps with her text tone, my balls tighten in anticipation.
I haven’t jerked off this much since I was a teenager. I scroll up to the photo she sent this morning of her cream-colored lace panties stretched over the long line of her hip, and I scrub a hand over my face.
Hazel Hartley has me under her thumb, and I love it.
Something on the TV screen behind the bar catches my eye—my dad. He’s in the studio as a guest commentator. Replays roll of the Storm game, and a familiar weight settles in my gut. They replay me passing to another forward before he snaps it into the net.
That play was everything I love about hockey—speed, skill, and luck. Teamwork, too, I guess. Fuck, that was a nice goal.