Page 57 of Puck Prince

“Do you believe in yoga? ‘Cause you could really benefit from it.” I stop my own thoughts.

His eyes flash open, locking on mine with enough intensity to send electricity down my spine. I swallow hard.

“I like routine.” His voice is low. Direct. Gritty enough to graze across my nerves in a way I haven’t felt in a minute.

“Roger that.” I shudder, then pull the tape out and get to work. “And what else do you do in this routine?”

“Stretch. Run. Lift. Hydrate. Steer clear of alcohol and carbs.”

“Wow. Impressive.”

“Of course, a pregame orgasm never hurts either.”

I nearly choke on my own tongue. “Guess you should go take care of that.”

His smirk broadens. “I already did last night.”

How this man can make his voice go from raspy to smooth as honey in the blink of an eye, I don’t know. But it pisses me off.

It’s too powerful a weapon.

“Oh, really? I had my balcony door open, and I didn’t hear a thing.” I finish up the tape.

Owen stands up, close enough that his chest brushes mine. “Not everyone is as vocal as you are.”

With that, he turns and walks out.

So much for the cold shoulder.

So much for cold anything.

19

CALLIE

“God, I love hockey,” Kennedy swoons right after two of the players slam against the glass.

We’re several rows up, but I still jump back from the crash. “I always thought football had the most contact, but I was wrong.”

“Football is alright, but it’s more of a brute force game,” she yells into my ear over the roar of the crowd combined with the announcer losing his shit. It’s a tight game. “Hockey, on the other hand, is a bunch of hot-headed men with spiked testosterone running around with sticks and beating the ever-loving shit out of each other just for kicks.”

Another body slams against the glass. “Y’know what? I can see that.”

“How have you never been to a game before?” She takes a sip of her beer, managing to still look disappointed in me.

“I have. I just usually had to leave early because the players would get hurt and need my help. Which, as I’m saying it— I should’ve realized how aggressive it is. I just never paid attention.”

“But now that you’re dating a superstar, you’re paying attention?”

“I guess.” My ginger ale tastes sickly-sweet on my tongue, but I force it down anyway because my stomach is in a pretzel twist.

“You guess? Girl, your eyes were locked on that boy. I saw you watching him during warmups.”

“I was making sure he was doing the stretch right,” I lie, poorly. Because we both know that while his knees were sliding around on the ice, opening his hip flexors with an undeniable thrusting motion, I and every other warm-blooded woman in this arena was only thinking about one thing.

The problem is that I’m probably far from the only warm-blooded woman in this arena to have up close and personal experience with those hips.

“And you’re the one always complaining I don’t take advantage of the perks of my job enough,” I add.

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