Page 3 of Heart of a Fighter

Lauren

The darkness of my bedroom is suffocating, the stillness amplifying every creak and whisper of the night. I toss and turn, the sheets tangling around my legs, my nightgown sticking to my skin with an uncomfortable dampness. Sweat beads on my forehead, and I wipe it away with a shaky hand, feeling the slickness under my fingertips.

I try to find a comfortable position, but my mind refuses to settle. Images of Granger keep flashing before my eyes–the way his muscles tensed under my touch, the warmth of his skin against mine as I applied the bandage. My hands trembled so badly that I was sure he noticed. Yet a spark ignited between us, becoming more intense each time our eyes met.

I let out a frustrated sigh and stare at the ceiling, my eyes wide open. The dim light from the streetlamp outside casts eerie shadows that dance across the room. My brain plays tricks on me, morphing them into lovers’ silhouettes. My heart races, the memory of his intense gaze burning into me. Why does he have this effect on me?

I bury my face in my pillow, trying to muffle the whirlwind of thoughts. "It's just a silly crush," I whisper to myself, my voice muffled by the fabric. "You can't act on it. There's no way he feels the same."

But even as I say the words, doubt creeps in. There was something in how he looked at me, a spark that seemed to leap between us. My skin tingles at the memory, and I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the thoughts away.

The nightgown twists around me, too tight, too confining. I tug at it, freeing my legs from the clinging fabric, but it only makes things worse. Every movement feels exaggerated, and every shift of my body is a reminder of the restless energy reverberating through my bones.

The cool air hits my sweaty skin, and I shiver as I yank the nightgown over my head. My thoughts drift back to the locker room, the intensity in his eyes, the way his lips curled into a smile that seemed just for me. My sex pulses, and I try to dispel the images, but they cling to my mind like a stubborn fog.

My body pulses, blood rushing through my veins, sending an electric charge to my extremities. Heaviness settles low in my belly as dampness pools at my center. I glide my hand over my curves, circling the weight of my breasts and the dip of my belly button, then sinking lower to the hypersensitive mound that slopes into my personal playground.

I slide my middle finger between my swollen folds, finding the nubbin that desperately needs attention. I circle and tease the sensitive flesh, conjuring the elusive genie as I fantasize about the man who sparks magic in my veins. Would he touch me like this, feather-light and gentle? Or would he take me roughly, ramming his thick cock into me and taking me to the height of pleasure?

My heart palpitates as my mind wanders and my fingers play. I circle my clit, applying pressure to the brink of coming but not allowing myself the release. My breasts grow heavy as my nipples bead against the sheet. I swirl my fingers again, firmer this time, circling until I’m dizzy and drunk on the fantasy of him. I come hard in a sweat, pressing and stretching the last of my release from my body until the thrumming subsides.

"It's just a crush," I sit up abruptly, throwing the covers off in frustration. "It doesn't mean anything."

After a fitful night of taking matters into my own hands, I give myself a stern pep talk on the way to the arena. Granger’s a distraction I can’t afford, no matter if the tension between us is undeniable. There’s too much riding on this internship to screw it up over a silly crush. Now’s not the time to act like a groupie, or worse, a puck bunny, hoping to get my claws into hockey’s biggest bad boy.

Evidently, fate doesn’t get the “stay clear of Granger” memo. The man’s a magnet for cuts and bruises.

On my second day on the job, Granger shows up in the medical room with a small scratch on his forearm–nothing life threatening.

“Got a minute?” he asks, striding into the room. “Got caught by a stick during practice.”

His ruffled hair flops over one brow as he meets my gaze with piercing dark eyes. My stomach flip-flops as a wave of heat bursts inside my chest. I scramble from my seat at the counter, grateful for a break in counting inventory but hesitant to close the space between us.

“I’m the only one here.” The rest of the team is either in meetings or rink-side with the coaches. “Did Dr. Evans send you in from practice?”

“Nope.” Granger shakes his head, a grin forming across his lips. “I like your bedside manner much better.”

“Can it really be referred to as bedside manner if you’re sitting in a chair?” I tease, pushing the underlying flirtation further.

“A bed could be arranged,” he says, his voice thick with intent.

Heat radiates through my veins. His words feel loaded, a subtle innuendo that causes the butterflies in my stomach to flutter their little wings as fast as a hummingbird.

Nervous tremors rattle my insides, giving way to cracks in my internal fault line that divides doing the right thing from giving way to what my heart wants. I try not to fluster and reach for the antiseptic. Though I’m not sure I’m supposed to treat Granger without Dr. Evan’s approval, seeing to a small scratch can’t hurt. But being alone with him in an enclosed space sure as heck isn’t helping with the bad case of desire pounding at my chest.

“I thought hockey players knew how to handle their sticks?” I raise an eyebrow and smirk while cleaning the scratch. Granger doesn’t miss a beat.

“I’m an expert at handling my stick.” He leans forward and flashes me a sexy, dimpled grin, but the fire in his eyes lacks humor. The darkness deepens, brooding and borderline dangerous. “Must have been distracted.”

He shifts his knee and brushes against my thigh. My stomach leaps as my pulse quickens. I swallow the nervous lump in my throat and leave the playful exchange hanging between us before doing something I know I’ll regret–like crawling onto his lap and climbing his body like a cat in heat.

Instead, I treat the scratch that barely needs a bandage, going through the motions as the heat of his gaze soaks into my pores. The charged air prickles my senses, teasing and enticing. By the time Granger leaves, my body’s on fire.

So much for professionalism.

On the third day, Granger waltzes into the medical room, this time with slightly swollen knuckles.

“Hit the boards too hard.” His coy grin causes my heart to jolt, ping-ponging against my ribs.

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