Page 94 of Body Check

His answering grin is all wickedness. “Doctor’s orders.”

“There’s no doctor,” I grit out from behind clenched teeth.

His fingers brush the side of my face. Then, leaning forward, his mouth finding the shell of my ear to husk out, “I’m not goin’ anywhere, Holly. You can love me as hard as you want, and I won’t budge. I’m a safe bet.”

My gaze finds his.

He looks so damn earnest, genuinely wanting to help me. It does something to my insides, stripping away the fear and all the remaining worries that we might not work.

I hope we will.

No, Ibelievewe will.

“I’ll take that bet, sir.” I slip my hand over his thigh, squeezing once, and angle my face to catch his lips with mine in a gentle kiss. “Now about that no-sweets rule . . . is dessert off the menu? Or am I the only sweetness allowed in your daily diet?”

32

Holly

“Guys? Have I ever mentioned how much wax figures creep me out?”

I stifle a snort as I prod Adam in the back and urge him to keep moving along the dimly lit hallway. Although it’s been ages since I’ve visited The Box—the unofficial Blades bar in Cambridge—there’s no forgetting the narrow hall that leads from the front of the establishment to the back, the latter which is reserved exclusively for the Blades and their guests. This hall is a shrine to the best hockey players the NHL has ever seen, like some sort of modern-day equivalent of a mummified Egyptian tomb with sarcophagi.

Except that the players who’ve been transformed into wax replicas aren’t dead in real life. Well, I think all but one or two aren’t, anyway.

“If it helps,” Jackson drawls from behind me, “we’re coming up on Duke Harrison’s figure now. We all know he’s your favorite.”

“It’s not helping, man.” Adam’s shoulders twitch with a shiver. “They’ve got some of the beadiest eyes I’ve ever seen. Seriously, have you guys ever been to one of Madame Tussaud’s exhibits? My wife loves going, mainly because I think she likes to see me cry.”

When we pass Duke’s lifelike wax figure, I tease, “Does that mean you don’t want to confiscate this one right here? I bet Madeline would bethrilledfor you to bring home her own Duke Harrison.”

Adam snaps a horrified look at me over his shoulder. “First off,” he says, flustered, “low blow, boss, low blow. Second, the only place that thing is going, if it left with me, is in a firepit. Have you ever smelled the scent of burning wax? It’sglorious.”

I feel Jackson’s warm hand connect with the small of my back. “Pretty suregloriousis not a word anyone would use to describe burning wax.”

“Pretty sure that whoever makes these creatures should be put in an asylum,” Adam grumbles, turning his body sideways to avoid being stabbed by the legendary Bobby Orr’s hockey stick. Adam’s hands come up, stomach sucked in, as he inches his way past the wax figure like Bobby might come alive at any moment and launch at him.

I’m sure good ol’ Bobby will be getting a lot of reactions like that tonight. It’s the mid-season finale forGetting Pucked, and instead of watching the show at home like everyone’s done for most of the season, Mark Fillmore suggested a massive watch-party with the team, the Blades’ staff, and the crew from the show.

To everyone’s surprise, Jackson was the one to suggest holding the party at The Box. Since the Blades franchise began, the bar has been a well-kept secret—unless you know someone who knows someone, there’s not a single chance you’d ever receive an invite.

Tonight, the bar is packed.

The minute Jackson cracks open the door to usher us in, it’s safe to assume that everyone and their mother is here. Not an exaggeration. I’m pretty sure that I spot Henri Bordeaux’s mom eating a slice of pizza on one of the sofas on the far side of the room.

Trying to catch Jackson’s attention, I hook one of my fingers through the belt loop of his slacks. Immediately, his pace slows and he ducks his head near mine to hear me. The gesture shouldn’t be as swoon-worthy as it makes me feel. But that’s been Jackson’s M.O ever since we spent our time in Rhode Island a few weeks ago.

We’ve spent almost every waking moment together since our return to Boston. If I have a shoot to handle outside of my work for the Blades, Jackson’s made a concerted effort to either meet me there or be waiting after for lunch or dinner or whatever our respective schedules can manage. Thanks toGetting Pucked, it’s not like I’ve had the opportunity to miss any of his practices or games, but I’m already thinking of ways that I can show my support once filming for the season has ended.

Jackson may have promised that he’s a safe bet, but I desperately want to show him that he can expect the same from me too. We’re in this together, no matter how long it takes for us to feel out our footsteps and truly learn to trust again. I know that we’ve been through too much to expect things to go back to the way they were before. And, if I’m being honest with myself, I’m not interested in any re-runs of what used to be.

Not if it means living separate lives all over again.

My hand finds Jackson’s forearm, which I use for balance as I lift onto the balls of my feet and touch my nose to his ear. “How much do you want to bet that Adam trails Duke like a lost puppy tonight?” I half shout, trying to be heard over the loud chatter in the room. “I’m sensing a bromance brewing.”

Jackson binds an arm around my back, shoring me up against his hard frame. “If I take you up on this bet, do I get you in my bed tonight?”

“As if that’s different than any other night?”

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