Page 71 of Ice Dance Hockey

“There,” he says. “Other than practice, we’ll see each other in a few days.”

“That event shouldn’t go late. I’ll take you back to my place after that.”

Logan tilts his head, his brow crease wrinkles. “To hang out? Like, without people around?”

Right. I guess that’s weird, but it doesn’t feel weird when we spend so much time together already. I see him every morning, we text for most of the day, and I take him out as often as I can so that the general public has lots of material for their fanfiction.

“Is that a yes?”

He exhales a breath that fluffs the front of his hair. Anxious prickles climb my neck while I wait on tenterhooks for his answer.

“Yeah, okay.”

Heavy footfalls echo down the wooden staircase, we pull apart—wayapart.

“Oh, goody. My favorite person. Hi, Rhett,” Mercy says. “Please won’t you stay for dinner?”

His sarcasm is almost endearing.

“I was invited, but I’ve already declined.” I make my escape quickly after that and it isn’t until I’m halfway toward my condo I realize that I was in the same place as Jack, and I didn’t bother to concoct a hello.

Chapter16

In the Locker Room

Logan

Iwant to fuck with Rhett.

He deserves it, sitting on the benches like an overprotective lion. That hockey mane of his is already growing out, and he fits the bill. I don’t know what the hell’s wrong with him. He’s obsessed with Jack, yet he’s acting like a real jealous boyfriend instead of a fake one.

I want him off my back because … because I’m beginning to feel possessive of him, and that shit has to stop. He picked me up for that stupid charity event looking like sex on a stick in his expensive Armani. I went all out with makeup, and I even wore his stupid Elkington club necklace because he sent me a Valentino dress that must have cost a small fortune. My supreme hotness was a thank you.

If I’d forgotten how pathetically in love with Jack he was, I was reminded when, like the little fool I am, I bounded down the stairs to show off for him. I looked fucking dynamite in that dress. I thought it would make him drool. For some stupid reason, I imagined himhavingto kiss me,havingto paw his hands all over me like he does when we’re out.

He didn’t even turn his gorilla head, because Jack had all his attention. Jack, glowing at him like a sunbeam. Making him laugh easily. I never make Rhett laugh. We’re always too busily involved in verbal sparring matches to laugh.

Hot jealousy set my veins aflame. He was supposed to be looking at me. I was supposed to have all of his attention. But then I quickly remembered that, no I wasn’t. Half the goal of this charade is for him to get Jack back. He was only acting according to plan, and I was the crazy person who’d gotten too wrapped up in the game.

He couldn’t even let me hate him in peace. Sure, he did the whole public donation thing that hockey players do for good press, but he also donated a million dollars to the BC Children’s Hospital burn unit, and another million to the cancer unit, anonymously, like it was pocket change.

Rhett has some dick qualities, but he’s not a dick, and I hate that I know he’s not. I want to go back to thinking he’s reprehensible.

I refused to return to his apartment with him. He was furious, but I need some boundaries. No more hanging out with him outside of work hours.

Tell that to my virgin dick, though. It wants him. Craves him. As I got ready that night, slipping into the hottest lace panties that I own, I’d planned on letting him demolish my V-card at his apartment. My cock was excited as fuck for that journey into manhood, but my brain knew it would be a bad fucking idea until I got my head screwed on right.

Maybe this will help.

“Do you remember Scott Moir and Tessa Virtue’s Moulin Rouge routine?” I ask Scott and then pour water down my throat. We’ve been skating for almost two hours.

“Most of it.”

“Wanna do the first part? I have the music.”

“Fuck, yeah.”

It’s one of the most romantic ice dances of all time, packed with lots of moves that will have Scott pawing me in places that will piss Rhett off.

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