“He’s going to apologize,” she continues, “and I’m going to move on.”
She’s just going to put up with him this year? “He’s an asshole.”
“So are you.”
She’s not wrong. I cover the ugly feeling with a cocky grin. “Yeah, but I’m the kind you like.”
She’s about to bite back a smart retort that I’m sure I’ll think about all day, but McKinnon walks in the door, and her demeanor changes. She tenses as he spots her, and a sick, predatory smirk stretches across his face.
I hate this. She’s stuck working with him and I can’t do anything about it.
“Rory.” She turns to me, pleading with her eyes.
My gut drops. We never use first names. Never. Not even back in high school.
“Please,” she says, holding my gaze, worry written all over her face. This version of her is so different from the competitive, confident woman I love to tease. “I just want to do my job right now.”
McKinnon’s walking toward us, but my gaze is locked on her face, searching her eyes. We could solve this so easily if she just let me help. I have the urge to haul her over my shoulder and walk her straight to Ward’s office, but she’d probably bite me, and I’d probably like it.
Intrusive thoughts, I think those are called. And I told her I wouldn’t interfere, even if I’m right.
“Okay.” I suck a deep breath in, and I can feel my teeth gritting.
“There she is.”
McKinnon greets her like an old friend, but her shoulders hitch. My protective instincts surge, and I bring myself to full height, wearing my signature smirk.
His attention drifts to me, and his grin sours. I’ve always been a couple inches taller than him, and it’s so primal and stupid, but I get sick satisfaction from it.
“McKinnon.” I tip my chin at him.
Hartley may have said no to my help, but my body’s beating with possessiveness. I suddenly have an ugly understanding of how Streicher must have felt last year when I was hanging out with Pippa.
His cold gaze meets mine, challenging me. “Miller. Still sniffing around Hazel, huh? Some things never change.”
I fucking hate this guy. Something competitive curls in my stomach, coiling and expanding through me, and my jaw tightens. I look down at Hartley, giving her one last opening to accept my offer.
Her gaze flares with emphasis, and she glances pointedly over to where my trainer waits. “Rory was just leaving for his training session.”
Every instinct is shouting at me to stay here, stick by her side in case this asshole says or does something to upset her, but instead, I send my irritating smirk to McKinnon.
I’m going to bodycheck this asshole so hard in practice.
“See you later, Hartley,” I say while staring McKinnon down.
During my training session, I’m only half listening, keeping my attention on Hartley and McKinnon on the other side of the gym, watching for conflict, watching her body language to make sure she’s okay.
I don’t trust that guy for a second.
CHAPTER 4
HAZEL
To my extreme relief, I’m no longer attracted to Connor McKinnon.
He’s always been handsome, but it’s in an ugly way, I realize, like a villain from Game of Thrones. Standing next to Rory, though, makes everyone less attractive.
Download more books for free at www.epubs.io - My heart beats up into my throat as I run through the physio exercises with him, and I’ve never been more self-conscious.
If I’m rude to him, I’ll seem like the bitter, jaded ex. That’s exactly what I am, but I don’t want him to know that. My biggest fear is that he’ll know he had an effect on me.
If I’m too friendly, he’ll think I want to get back together. Another mess I don’t want to deal with.
So I’m treating him professionally, like I’d treat any other player, and internally freaking out. He lunges forward, staring at himself in the mirror. He’s not even watching his form; he’s just staring at his ugly-handsome face.
“Watch your knee,” I say as the joint caves in.
He adjusts and goes back to staring at himself with that stupid smirk.
He still hasn’t brought up the email he sent me this morning—Looking forward to our physio session. There’s something I’d like to say. Maybe he’s waiting until our session ends.
He’s going to apologize. What else could he want to say? I’m going to get the closure I need to leave the past behind. What he did and said was terrible, but if he feels remorse? That changes things.
In my mind, I hear the words he said to me in the middle of that party while he had his arm around another girl.
I never said we were exclusive. You did.
I’m bored.
Girls like you don’t end up with guys like me.
I drag in a deep breath to quell the nausea. It was years ago. I’m not that girl anymore, the one who dissolved into her boyfriend’s life.
Glancing over to where Rory’s working with his trainer, I meet his eyes. He arches a brow at me as if to say everything okay? but I turn away.
Rory doesn’t care about anyone but himself, so I don’t know why he’s so hell-bent on helping. I’ve watched how easily he can break a girl’s heart.
As he completes the exercises, Connor winces and shifts his thigh back and forth, and I get a flash of unwelcome memory of massaging that muscle years ago. He’s had groin problems ever since he suffered an injury in our first year at university.
“Do we have time for you to give me a massage?” he asks. “My groin is sore from sitting on a plane all day yesterday.”
It takes all my effort not to show my revulsion.
Massage therapy is a normal part of my job. If he were any other player, I wouldn’t hesitate. These guys get the crap beat out of them on the ice, and I want to do anything I can to help them feel better and play longer.
This is Connor, though. I don’t want to breathe the same air as him, let alone touch him, but if I treat him differently than other clients, that will mean he’s gotten to me.
Just get through this, I tell myself.
“We still have a few minutes. I’ll work on it,” I tell him, gesturing to one of the tables on the side of the gym for the physios and massage therapists.
He follows me and lies down on the table, rolling up his workout shorts while I pull massage oil out of the cupboard.
He’s done this before. So have I. This is a normal thing. It won’t be weird.
I apply the oil to my palms, and when I put my hands on him, I try to focus on the way the tight muscles feel under my fingers as I press and glide, but my face is heating.
I’ve done this for him, years ago. When we used to do this—
Oh god. My skin crawls.
He’d get turned on, and then it would turn into sex.
Ugh. My stomach thrashes with discomfort. I hate everything about this, but I also hate how embarrassed I am. This would be a fantastic time for him to apologize.