Page 203 of Well Played

I shoot him a wary glance. “It’s more a fear-of-the-future thing. Like I’m going to screw everything up. I get caught into this death spiral and it can feel like an immense weight…I have these exercises I do to help me through it.” I pause for a second because the topic of performance is a tough one for me. I have to swallow down how much I really loved stagecraft. Being on Broadway was my dream for a long time. But talking about it gets easier every time someone asks about it. “I thought I was good on stage in high school. But when I got to Trinity and started taking classes and getting critiqued, I found out I didn’t really have the kind of talent I needed for the future I wanted. So, I made a tough call and changed my major to stage management.”

“That had to be hard.” I look over to find his eyes fixed on me. My face heats and I hope he can’t tell I’m blushing just from his intense gaze.

I avert my eyes, sliding them over his shoulder to focus on the church clock tower in the center of town a few miles away before saying quietly, “It blew up my life. I had all these plans. Thank God it turns out that I really love it. It’s not performing, but it gives me a chance to be part of the theatre in a different way.”

“You pivoted and made it work.” He nods with approval or understanding. Maybe both. “I was a right wing, like my dad, when I was younger. The attention and pressure of being Ricochet Rochet’s kid was relentless. One season our goalie got injured and the back-up goalie just sucked so badly that I said I’dtry it. Dad wasn’t a huge fan of the switch. I told my dad it would be one season.”

“Clearly, it worked out for you, though.” I smile, meeting his eyes again. “You’re incredible to watch. Twenty-eight regular season wins this year alone.” At his raised eyebrow, I laugh. “I’m a fan, remember?”

He ducks his head. “My point is that sometimes a pivot is all we need.” He raises a hand and rubs the back of his neck, then tugs the sleeves of the dark hoodie he’s wearing over his waffle-weave shirt up to his elbows.

I take the opportunity to stare. Because: arm porn. Seriously, when he runs his hands down the tops of his thighs, he has this sinewy muscle—or maybe it’s a vein thing—that makes every pink part of my body light up. Add that to the fact that he smells like cinnamon or tea tree or something sweet and spicy and I totally get why a video of him making pizza went freaking viral on campus.

“If you’re a fan, you probably know I’m heading to the Blaze organization. They’re not too thrilled with my reputation. Goalies don’t fight much in the NHL anymore.”

I know his contract is with New York because it was all over the school news site. “Well, maybe you’ll bring it back. You could be a trendsetter.”

He smirks at my quip, twisting his plush mouth in a way that makes a dimple pop and I almost need to fan myself. Thank God for the cool spring evening. His mouth evens out and that endearing dimple disappears. “What kind of exercises?”

I raise my eyebrows. “You mean, for my anxiety?” At his nod, I say, “The one I did today is for when I’m completely spiraling into something like a panic attack: walls closing in, almost hyperventilating. I force myself to slow down and notice five things I see, four things I hear, three things I feel, two things I smell, and one thing I taste. I take my time and really focus.Sometimes I have my eyes closed and only open them at the end if it’s…particularly scary. It’s meant to shut off my brain, slow down my heart rate and breathing, and ground me in the moment.”

“Does it work?” His intense, dark gaze finds mine.

“Usually. But it took a while for me to really learn how to make it effective. It felt woo-woo in the beginning.” I turn sideways to face him, reaching out to touch the hand on his thigh. “Do you want to talk about it—whatever’s bugging you?”

I guess it was the wrong thing to say. His brows crash together.

“Never mind.” I sigh and lean my head back to look at the night sky because I don’t want to ruin the night by pushing him too hard. He doesn’t owe me anything. Besides, one of the things I love about Fall River is the clear view of the stars. I know I’ll lose that when I head to the city, so I try to soak it in, along with the peace and quiet. He must feel the same way, because he doesn’t say anything for a few minutes.

“You used to sing under your breath in statistics class freshman year. It was nice. I could always tell when you were having a good day. I had almost forgotten about that, until your text.”

I raise my head in surprise. “Oh my God. You do not remember that.”

He nods, his dark eyes focused on my face. “I do. And you used to go by Camille. Why did you shorten it to CJ? I always thought it suited you.”

He says my name softly, with a French twist to it, making the double L’s a long E sound. A shiver travels down my spine and my panties almost disintegrate. Instead of throwing myself at him the way I want to, I sit up, biting my lip. How is he remembering all of this?

“I used Camille when I was in theatre. I thought it made me sound exotic.” I snort. “Now I just think it makes me sound like my grandmother. CJ seems more professional.”

He makes a noise in his throat like a growl. “In French, Camille meansperfectorbeautiful.”

Time stops. Freakingstops. Because his dark eyes burn into mine, then drop to my lips. He reaches out and touches my cheek with a callused finger, then slides it down my cheek until his large, warm hand rests under my jaw. My pulse roars in my ears. Every single nerve ending is a live wire as I lean toward him.

Is it a line? It could be a line. At this point, I’m not sure I care.

“I’d like to kiss you, Camille. But I don’t want you to think that’s what today was abo?—”

I shift to my knees and crush my lips to his, reaching out to cup his face. His mouth is soft, open in surprise. It takes him a second or two to get with the program. His hand shifts to the back of my head and draws me closer, deeper, angling my head so his tongue slicks against mine. I groan against him.

Molecules split and realign in a combustion reaction.

He pulls me decisively, possessively, into his lap, one hand fisting my hip while his thumb strokes my wild pulse. I slide my fingers through his hair and tug, grinding against him while he trails soft kisses down my throat. Delicious friction lights up my core, especially when I find my center pressed against his generous erection. I move against him again and again, finding a rhythm that seems to work for both of us. I wonder fleetingly if I’m chafing him, but he must approve, because he grips my ass and squeezes, clenching me around him.

I drop my hands to his shirt and shove it up his chest so I can strum his ridiculous body. In the starlight, I swear his skin glows. I don’t want to break the contact between my core and his cock, but I have to taste him: if I’m going to have this fantasy-come-true once in my life, I’m going to enjoy it. I run the flat of my tongue around one nipple while I run a hand over his six pack. He moans and I pull my hair over to the side to get it out of my way, then lick him and nip him until he does it again.

His hand leaves my ass and fists my hair, pulling my lips back to his. His tongue finds mine and we tangle together, all heat and desire. I’m so caught up in the taste and feel of us—all heat and wetness—that stars explode behind my eyes when his other hand slides around to the top of my thigh and his thumb presses my clit exactly where it meets his shaft.

I pull my mouth off of his with a gasp and ride out every last aftershock, falling limply against him when I come back to earth.

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