Page 90 of Pucking Revenge

He’s still in the penalty box, which is appropriate, because he seems determined to get us both into trouble.

He laughs like he can hear my thoughts. “Come on, crazy girl. I want a picture.”

As I pass her, the photographer is tinkering with the settings on her camera like she’s prepping to take another shot. She doesn’t seem surprised or bothered by Brooks’s suggestion.

Me? I’m feeling the exact opposite. Though the closer I get, the more curious I am, and with every step, excitement replaces every other feeling. Just outside the penalty box, I pull the jersey on over my long-sleeve black shirt. It’s several sizes bigger than mine, so it falls halfway down my thighs.

“It’s kinda big,” I tease, grasping the hem so I can tuck it into my dark jeans.

Brooks circles my wrist and pulls me onto his lap. “Leave it. It’s mine.”

The breath whooshes from my lungs at that simple statement. Blinking, I sit up straighter in his lap. “Yours?”

Beneath me, the man is practically naked. Even so, his chest is warm against my back as he holds me close.

“Yeah. I wanted to see my girl in my jersey. Have a problem with that?”He settles his warm palm on my thigh and doesn’t wait for me to reply. “Ready, Monica?”

With a friendly smile, the photographer adjusts the lighting umbrella beside her, then she aims the camera in our direction.

“What are we doing right now?” My heart doesn’t know what to do. It flips over itself, but then it lodges itself up high, making it hard to breathe. “What’s this picture for?”

Brooks laughs and cuddles me close. “So many questions. Just smile for the camera. I want a picture of us. This is just for me.”

The woman shoots shot after shot for what feels like an eternity but is probably closer to five minutes.

When she finally steps away, back to clicking through the photos on her camera’s display, I prod at my cheeks. “Jeez. How do you do that for so long? It was starting to get hard to hold my smile.”

Brooks caresses my cheek, one side of his lips tipping up. “Normally, they don’t want me to smile.”

“Right. They tell you to be all broody.” I push my lips out, going for an exaggerated sultry expression, mimicking all his modeling poses.

He tips his chin up and barks out a laugh. “You should probably stick with your day job, babe. Speaking of which, do you have your phone?”

“Sure, why?”

He responds by holding his hand out, and when I give in and pull my phone from my pocket and set it in his palm, he taps on the camera icon. Then he turns it so it’s on selfie mode and presses his lips to my cheek. The contact sends a burst of surprised elation through me, and I can’t help but smile. A real one this time.

He pulls up the picture and tilts the screen so I can get a good look at it. It’s absolutely adorable. I’m beaming at the camera, looking surprisingly good in his oversized jersey. His eyes are closed and his lips are pressed to my cheek, his hair wavy and pulled back, highlighting his golden skin.

“You have the login info for the Bolts’ Instagram page?” he asks.

My chest goes tight at his question. “Um, yeah. Why?”

“You trust me?”

I bite my lip and nod. Of course I trust him.

He slips the phone into my hand and lifts a brow, silently instructing me to sign into the account. Once I do, I give it back to him.

Those butterflies are back, fluttering like mad as I watch him pull up the photo and type out a caption.

Our goalie is finally sharing what’s made him so happy lately. Meet Sara, public relations manager for the Bolts.

Brooks hits Post, then hands me the phone. “Now you’re the face of the Bolts. Job is safe, Sar. Ready for our date?”

THIRTY-THREE

BROOKS

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