Page 30 of Body Check

Living so dangerously.

He couldn’t be more accurate, especially given the way that Jackson straightens his back. With a growl that widens my gaze, he snaps, “She’s knocking on social security’s door, she’s so old. Get her the damn tea before she expires and we’re debatin’ between a coffin or cremation.”

The bartender glances from me to Jackson, and mutters, “Asshole,” before beating it down the length of the bar.

I don’t know whether to laugh or reprimand the man simmering beside me. “That was rude,” I finally settle on, figuring it’s the easy way out of a potentially awkward conversation.

Jackson wraps a hand around his glass, then tosses back half the soda like it’s straight whiskey instead. “He was staring at your tits.”

So much for avoiding the awkwardness.

I fold the napkin in half, then fold it again. “He was flirting.”

“I’m aware.”

I glance over at him, keenly cognizant of his surly tone. With his shoulders hunched and his hat pulled low to shield the upper part of his face, all I see is a clenched jaw and a set of full, pursed lips.

The bartender reappears, kettle in hand and tea cup sliding across the oak bar. “Your tea, miss. Do you want to pay now or open a tab—”

“Put it on mine.”

“Jackson—” I cut off because there’s no point in arguing. The bartender is already spinning in the opposite direction, away from us, and anything I’d say would be heard on deaf ears.

When Jackson wants to be an asshole, he’s top of the line.

I swear it’s the reason the Bruins were so hesitant about trading him to the Blades—it’s not every day that you come across a player like the man seated beside me who’s both admired and feared in the very same breath.

Cupping the teacup with both hands, I breathe out a sigh of relief at the warmth radiating from the porcelain. Not as good as a heating pad directly on my stomach, but it’ll do for now. After a sip, I lower the cup. “Your team won and you’re sitting here brooding. Pretty sure Harrison didn’t stop bitching about you not being at the bar to one-up him in darts for almost an hour.”

Jackson shifts on the stool, his legs spreading wide.

His knee touching mine.

I suck in another mouthful of tea to distract myself with a safer, more reliable sort of heat that has nothing to do with ex-husbands.

“Harrison would be bitching even more if I were there to take him out in darts,” he murmurs, turning so that we’re no longer quite shoulder-to-shoulder. He props one forearm on the bar, while his free hand, still holding onto his half-full glass, rests on his right knee. “Did you get the footage you needed?”

“I did.” Grimacing, I shrug. “Well, mostly. I’ll need to meet with the rookies to kick off their storylines but since they weren’t—”

“I held them hostage.”

I blink. “What?”

“It’s tradition.” Casually, he brings his glass up to his mouth, then watches me over the rim. “No rookie goes out after the first game of preseason.”

Tradition?

Swiping my finger along the warm porcelain, I center my gaze on the cubes of ice floating in his soda. Much easier than looking him in the eye. “Can it really be considered a tradition when you’ve only just started it?”

He freezes mid-sip. Drops the soda back to his knee. I still see nothing of his eyes, thanks to the brim of his hat, but there’s no missing how his lips part, then press back together like he’s trying to gather his thoughts. Then, “We’ve been doin’ it this way for three years now, Holls.”

Three years.

My stomach lurches at the implication riding his tone—three years was before our divorce, before our separation, which means he’s probably told me this before and I . . .

I wish I had a hat of my own to hide behind.

Since I don’t, I avert my gaze and bring my teacup to my mouth. I ignore the scalding of hot liquid on my tongue as I draw the tea into my system and attempt to push the conversation forward. “So, you what? Keep them from having fun with the rest of the guys? Stand outside their guestrooms to make sure they stay locked inside?”

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