Page 31 of Home Ice

I wish he would be an asshole. Just once, so my core could stop getting so damn hot every time I see him. "Thank you. She's working through some things. Family things. But she knows to call me if she needs help."

"Good." He rests his fingertips on the surface of the desk, and even though they're at least a foot away, they're still too close. I lean back and look up at him. "You know this Charity Bee isn't just about physical skills," he says.

"It's not? I thought it was just an obstacle course so a bunch of overgrown men can relive their childhoods."

"For someone who calls themselves Pajama Girl, you're really mean sometimes. I expected someone sweeter."

"Yeah, I think you're the only one who ever calls me that stupid nickname."

He shrugs. "Swore that's how you introduced yourself to me." He leans in just a little, and it makes him seem even bigger. It must be some goalieing trick they teach in goalieing school because it would be intimidating as hell if I were facing him on the ice. Facing him over the desk, though, it becomes intimidating for a different reason. "Anyway, just like in hockey, the good teammates have to really know each other. You have to know exactly what your teammate is thinking. What they want to do next."

"Is that right?" I must not be a very good teammate because it sure seems like he wants to kiss me. But there's no way that's what he's thinking.

"That's right. So we need to get to know each other a little better before next weekend. I'm a competitive man. When I set a goal, I don't stop until I get it. No matter how hard or how long I have to work."

Normally this room is freezing, but I think I might need to talk to someone in maintenance because right now, it's so hot this shirt is sticking to me. "And this is your goal?"

Brant stares down at me. His green eyes are as dark as a forest at night. "This is my goal." Just outside the room, there's the loud thud of someone tossing their pads into their dressing stall. The reminder that there are people just outside changes the atmosphere completely. "Did you know I'm an excellent cook, for instance?" Brant takes two steps backward, and he no longer takes up my entire vision. "What are you doing tomorrow night?"

I should laugh at how silly the question is. I'll be sitting at home, alone, either reading or watching some series I've already seen so many times I have all the lines memorized. Just like every night since I've come back to town. "I'm not sure. I'd have to check my calendar."

"Good. My place at seven for dinner. As friends. Teammates."

I hurry and pull my phone from my back pocket. "But I?—"

"And bring Silver. I'll make something for him too. Just friends." He winks and is out the door before I can dream up an objection. That means I've got a little over twenty-four hours to think of a reason I can't do this.

CHAPTER 25

FUCK THE UNIVERSE

LILY

At least Silver is excited. The minute I pull into Brant's driveway, he scampers across the backseat, left to right to left to right, again and again. Finally, he settles on the right side. The side that faces the entry to Brant's house.

"Just friends," I tell Silver as his wet nose leaves a crosshatch of marks on the window. That's all this is. No pressure for anything else. No expectations. It's what we both want. So why did it feel like someone dropped a weight inside my stomach when Brant said those words yesterday? "You ready, boy?" Silver looks up at me. His brown eyes are wide, and his tail is beating the back of the seat like he's a Victorian-era shopkeeper who just caught it stealing from him. As I unlatch my seatbelt, his entire body sways side-to-side. I can so relate. My insides are doing the same thing.

When we get to the door, Brant is waiting for us. He's all in black except for a bright blue apron that says "Grill, you're about to meat your match." I think it might be the stupidest thing I've ever seen, especially on a man who is the size of a literal wall.

"Already making you giggle," he says. "We're off to a fine start. Hey there Silver." He kneels so they're eye-level. Silver wags right up to him and plants kisses all over his face like they're old friends, and any hope I had that he might be on my side tonight is gone. "I rubbed raw chicken on my face, just to make sure I'd win him over."

"And some people think athletes aren't very bright."

"Can you believe those people? You want a lick too?" He stands and puts his cheek so close to my face I feel the heat from it. So close I can see the individual hairs of his rough stubble. I want to run a finger along his skin and feel each hair catch on the ridges of my fingertips, and I want to run back to my car and never see him again. Before I can do either one, he laughs. "You look lovely." His eyes catch on mine just a fraction of a second before he turns and ushers us into the house.

I wondered if this outfit was too much. It's a dinner for friends, but here I am in an ivory and black floral blouse and black heels. And the same black pants I wore at the funeral. My first instinct was to wear a dress, but I was afraid that might make him think I want this to be something other than just friendship. This outfit was supposed to be the safer choice. I should have worn jeans. Sweatpants. Maybe an old concert t-shirt. "Uh, thanks. You... you do too."

His back is to me now. His black button-up shirt hugs him and shows the inverted triangle that leads my eyes from his shoulders down to an ass that is showcased nicely by pants that fit him perfectly. He whips his head around to look at me, and I wonder if he caught me staring. "I was talking to Silver. But you look nice too." He cracks into a smile and that damn eyebrow thing he does without even knowing the effect it has on me. "Dinner is almost ready. Want a beer while we wait? Hold on. I don't even know if you drink? I know a lot of people here don't."

"Yes. Please." I would drink the entire case right now. "And we need to talk about Sebastian."

Brant stares at me for a second as he rounds the island and moves into the kitchen. "The security person who stands outside the dressing room door?"

"That's Stephanie. Wrong name and wrong gender. My car. Sebastian is my car, and we need to talk?—"

"You named your car?"

"Everyone names their cars." Brant shrugs as he opens the refrigerator. "You don't name your car?"

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