Page 2 of Bound

The gas station hot dog wrapped in foil paper for Aiden is growing cold in my hand, and I’ve almost dropped the bag ofroasted but unsalted almonds for Marcel at least three times. Plus, Raph needs his chocolate muffin, and Walker his lemon-lime Gatorade, and?—

Jackson needs his peanut butter and strawberry jelly sandwich on boring old white bread.

Eaten exactly forty-two minutes before game time.

And it’s forty-fiveminutes before puck drop.

I’m not going to be the reason he has a bad game.

Hockey players and their superstitions.

It’s too much.

Or maybe I’m grumpy about it because my heart’s racing and my legs are like that jelly, and I know I’m going to be dreaming about Jackson tonight.

Again.

“Focus, woman,” I order myself.

If silly foods and rituals are what it takes for the guys to have a good game, then that’s what it takes for them to have a good game.

Who am I to judge?

Not to mention, I can make a mean PB & J. And I’m a pro at buying random gas station hot dogs—as barf-inducing as that life skill is. I can keep specific brands of almonds at the ready and eat chocolate muffins alongside Raph—because I always buy one myself from Dommie’s bakery…or, okay, fine, I buy myself a couple if I’m feeling really peckish.

(And I’m always feeling peckish).

My job is to help the Breakers be successful, and I take it seriously.

Even if Jackson Hunter makes me want to both run away and lick him like a lollipop.

At the same time.

“Stop delaying,” I whisper and straighten my shoulders.

Right. Let’s do this.

I step into the locker room?—

And nearly swallow my tongue for the second time.

The room isn’t empty like my nighttime fantasies—the ones where Jackson orders me to turn around and settle my hands on the bench, the ones where he takes his time tugging off my pants or lifting my skirt. Where he kicks my legs apart, settles his cock at my entrance, and?—

My knees wobble.

Thankfully, that snaps me out of my sex haze, and I wrench my gaze away from Jackson in those truly tiny boxer briefs, the material straining against his muscular thighs, lovingly caressing his pert, biteable ass, the waistband hanging low enough to expose those indents at the top of his hips that I’m desperate to trace my tongue along.

Food. Drinks. Pregame rituals.

That’s what I’m here for.

Not a snack of a man.

Not—

“Clairey girl!” Smitty calls from across the room, making me jump and nearly lose the hot dog a second time—something that Aiden notices if him hurrying toward me and snagging it from my hand is any indication.

“Thanks,” he murmurs softly, tugging at a lock of my hair.

---