Page 76 of Bound

“Maybe go take a walk to the locker room and back, clear your head somewhere you’re not going to murder me,” he mutters.

Since that’s a good idea, I just accept the glare he tosses my way and skate to the bench, keeping my head on a swivel so I don’t crush or get crushed by one of my teammates. I stop in the open door.

Taking a couple of deep breaths, I stretch and bide my time, struggling to find my focus. Eventually, I pause in front of the list of drills taped to the panel of the glass just to the right of the door that leads down to the locker room.

And that purpose settles over me, the concentration is suddenly easier to coax to the surface, to hold on to.

A lot of hockey nowadays is enriched by tech, but hell if I don’t love a piece of paper listing out our drills.

It feels familiar, like home, like those long days on the rink when I was a kid, like practices with my buddies and games we didn’t always win, and my parents cheering for me from the stands.

“Dude,” Aiden mutters as he skates by me, shaking his head.

I frown for a second, knowing I didn’t almost takehimout—I’m not blocking the door, and he just emerged out of the hall that leads to the locker room. But when I meet his eyes, he merely juts his chin over my shoulder and I turn and see Smitty lounging against the glass, having apparently employed ninja skills to sneak up behind me.

Either that or I still have my head in the clouds.

Po-tay-to. Po-tah-to.

That—and Smitty’s sneaky ninja skills—are the least of my worries because he’s standing there, grinning like an idiot and holding a tiny trophy.

I immediately roll my eyes.

Smitty shenanigans never cease.

He holds it up so I can read the inscription?—

Bingo Champion of the World.

“What’d you do?” I ask dryly. “Go out first thing this morning and get it?”

“And can you really be a champion of a game of luck?” Aiden asks.

“No, I didn’t,” he says, holding it carefully against his chest. One big shoulder lifts then drops. “And”—he glances at Aiden—“Claire seems to think so,” he says proudly, blowing on the trophy and buffing it on his jersey, “considering she gave it to me this morning.”

That’swhat she was rushing out the door before practice for.

I figured it was a meeting with Luc—and not something to do with the sheet-scorching sex we had last night—because I woke up this morning to her lush little mouth trailing over my chest, on the way to giving me a blowjob.

A blowjob that didn’t happen because we both got distracted by the way our bodies felt brushing against each other and then our hands were involved and I couldn’t get enough of her mouth, her breasts, that slick little pussy?—

Pretty soon I was rolling on a condom, gently stroking home, and then having what I already knew reinforced—Claire is a quick learner. A hand pushed me over to my back, clambered on top of me, and…

She’d rode us both home.

Smitty settles the trophy on the ledge behind the bench then grins as he looks back at me.

“What?” I ask.

“I said you weren’t ready.”

My stomach knots.

“I was wrong.”

“What?” I ask, going for light, knowing he doesn’t buy that shit in the least. “Connor Smith admitting that he’s wrong? I don’t believe it. I’d better write this day down in history.”

His brows drag together, but he doesn’t fuck around—then again, he never does.

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