Page 89 of Pucking Revenge

Laugh at me, Brooks. Pay attention to me.

Hannah nudges me. “Ready to see your boy?”

That sentiment, my boy, unsticks my feet, and I’m moving toward him once again.

“We’re going to put you in the sin bin. When you’re in there, stand up, put your arms against the glass like you’re looking out at the ice. Then we’ll take shots of you from the front and the back.”

“Ya know I’ve never been in there, right?” he says, his tone teasing, maybe even flirtatious.

You’re about to be, buddy.

“Hmm. You are known as the good boy of hockey. Although I’d consider you very bad,” the woman says.

I will cut the bitch.

Brooks’s laugh is so damn jovial. “How so?”

“I gave you my number after the shoot last month. I know you say you don’t date?—”

Tamping down on the murderous rage threatening to make me do something stupid, I clear my throat.

Brooks looks up and over the woman’s shoulder, and when he spots me, his face lights up like the arena’s spotlight has been turned on him. “’Scuse me.” He jogs to the edge of the rink and jumps the boards with ease. Then he’s in my personal space, staring down at me.

“Morning, crazy girl.” Without giving me a moment to reply, he dips low and presses his mouth to mine. “Hmm. You taste delicious.”

Breathless, I take him in. It’s hard to explain, but he’s different from the Brooks of the last few weeks. The tension in his jaw is all but gone, and the dark circles under his eyes have faded. He’s lighter.

I ghost my fingers through the scruff on his face. He’s normally clean shaven, so this must be for the photos.

“You’re…you.” My heart lodges in my throat. I wish I could take the words back, because as soon as they escape me, I’m terrified that bringing attention to the change will force him to disappear again.

He smiles as if he completely understands what I mean, confirming what I already suspect. “Yeah, Sar. I’m me.” He brushes a wisp of hair from my temple. “Let’s get this photo shoot over with so we can move onto our date.” When he says that last word, date, he brightens further, if it’s possible.

“Date?” I tease.

Brooks brings his lips to mine in the softest of kisses and hovers there. “Yeah, Sara. Our first date.” He pulls back a fraction. “You and me. Today. Okay?”

I bite my lip, loving the flirtatious way he keeps staring at it. “Okay.”

Forty-five minutes later, Brooks is bare chested and wearing nothing but a pair of navy boxer briefs that hug his muscular thighs. He’s got a hockey stick in hand, and I have to keep checking to be sure I’m not drooling.

His ass is like two bowling balls. How does this woman get any work done if all she does is photograph athletes? Fortunately she stopped flirting after the first time he tensed beneath her touch. Apparently she recognized that it’s more important to get the athlete relaxed for photos than to make unwanted advances.

“I can’t believe that is all yours,” Hannah says beside me as Brooks smolders for another round of shots.

I lick my lips and let out a soft hum.

“Sar, can you come here for a second?” Brooks calls as the photographer ducks her head and clicks through the images on her camera.

I head for the ice, but before I get more than two steps, Hannah grasps my arm and tugs me back. “Give me your jacket and throw this on instead.” She holds up a Bolts jersey.

Scrutinizing her with a frown, I take the jersey and stretch it out in front of me. Sure enough, there’s a giant 13 on the back. Clutching it to my chest, I assess her, then turn and eye Brooks.

“Don’t ask questions.” Brooks waves me over.

I obey, though I make my way to him slowly, confused about Hannah’s instructions.

“Put it on and sit on my lap, please.”

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