Page 27 of A Little Complicated

“Earthquake!” Reeves calls.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I hold on for dear life and squeal when Maverick’s feet leave the ground. As his feet land on the edge of the barstool, Mav bends forward to keep the stool from tipping over, and when I realize we’ve made it, I laugh, slowly untucking my head from the crook of his neck. Caught between triumph and disbelief, I peek up at him. When our eyes meet, his cock twitches against my core, and my mouth falls open, my lungs seizing as I recognize the familiar swell of his erection nestled between my thighs.

Shit.

His eyes hold mine hostage, and my heart rate goes haywire, my clit pulsing against him as my hips shift subtly like they have a mind of their own. The familiar word “Freeze” echoes off the wall. I barely register it. I’m too distracted. Too turned on. And apparently, I’m not the only one because Maverick doesn’t move.

It doesn’t matter how competitive he is. It doesn’t matter how much he hates losing and showing weakness. I’ve thrown him off his game. And right now—with a single look and a subtle shift of my hips—we both know it.

He jumps off the barstool, marching us toward the freshman with the keys while I cling to him like the stupid little monkey I am.

“Off. Now.” When he smacks my ass,hard,my feet hit the ground in an instant as I slide off him, but my thoughts and libido and heart are still ten seconds behind while I replay what just happened. The freshman finds the key and unlocks the cuffs around our wrists, though I’m too dazed to notice.

Once he’s free, Maverick heads back to his room and closes the door behind him without a single glance in my direction while Reeves calls him a pussy for quitting. I know he’s kidding. I know he has no clue what transpired between Maverick and me.

But one thing’s for sure.

Wrapping your legs around your ex’s waist under the guise of an innocent game is a bad idea.

A really bad idea.

I won’t let it happen again.

8

OPHELIA

Itook a month off. One. Freaking. Month. Thirty-two days, to be exact. I was a little busy with prom, and having my heart broken, and dating my best friend, and surviving high school graduation, and moving, and signing up for fall classes, and the list goes on and on and on. Unfortunately, my body is yelling at me for it.

I feel like I’m being asphyxiated as I sprint from one end of the rink to the other, decked out in my pads, gloves, chest protector, neck guard, and helmet. It’s as if my body weighs an extra hundred pounds, and all things considered, I’m probably not too far off. My first practice with the girls’ team starts next week, and I want to be ready. Or at least as ready as I can be. Thankfully, Jaxon informed me the guys haven’t started their official practices yet either, so as long as the reservation form for the rink is blank, I can practice here as often as I want. And if my screaming lungs are anything to go by, I’ll probably eat, breathe, and sleep here for the foreseeable future. It’s probably for the best, considering last night’s Game Night. I still can’t believe I felt him against me. I can’t believe he still affects me like that. That I still affect him.

Get a grip, girl.

He brokeyourheart, remember?

I don’t affect him.

It was nothing more than a physical response. That’s it.

Purely. Physical.

Just like the rest of our relationship.

Sweat drips down my spine, but I don’t surrender to my desire for rest. Instead, I push myself harder, racing past the red line and stopping short in an instant. Slush sprays against the opposing net, and I catch my breath when applause sounds behind me.

Curious, I turn around. Six guys are lined up near LAU’s bench wearing their skates, leggings, and gloves like I am, but their pads and helmets are missing, leaving their amused expressions on full display. I recognize a few of them from the party, but remembering their names is a lost cause, so instead, I call out, “Hey, guys.”

“Hey,” one of them replies. “Impressive.”

Forcing a smile as I slide off my helmet, I rest it against my hip and continue catching my breath. “Thanks.”

“You finished yet?” another one asks.

“With what?”

“Playinghockey.”

He says the words like I’m a little girl. Like I’mpretendingto play hockey the same way I would pretend to play house when I was younger.

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