Page 18 of Caught from Behind

Freezing, I glance up.

He nods toward the puck and I drag my brows together.

“What?” I mouth again.

He looks at his hand, pretends to flip something over.

Brows dragging together, I frown, but I mirror his miming, glance down at my hand, and?—

Flip the puck over.

My mouth drops open, my eyes go wide, my head jerks up?—

He raises his brows in question.

I look from the puck to him, back down to the scrawled-out words on the black rubber.

Four numbers.

A pound sign.

And then four words that send my stomach into a tailspin.

My bed. Underwear optional.

“I—”

But I don’t get further than that because he winks and skates off.

I stare down at the words, my belly heating because?—

Holy shit, had quiet, strait-laced Riggs Ashford just written that?

CHAPTER SIX

Riggs

If I said I took my time with my post-game routine, I’d be lying.

I sped through the media—which, thankfully, didn’t take long because they’d learned a while ago that I’m not the guy for a good sound bite.

Knox is the one. Followed by Lake.

Even Leo or Bear are bound to come up with better one-liners.

I just spout off about skating harder and moving our feet and blocking shots.

Something I did a lot of tonight, considering the bruises that are blooming to life on my body.

Ignoring them, I yank on my sweats, pull my hoodie over my head, and shove my wallet and phone in my pocket.

And right on cue, my cell buzzes.

I know it’s my dad, know it’s going to piss me off and make me wish shit was different in equal measure.

Not going there right now.

Mostly because I didn’t miss the look Ella tossed my way after the buzzer went in the third period—our eyes connecting across the rink, the burst of heat, of energy, of her colliding with my chest, latching onto my heart, squeezing tight.

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