Page 138 of A Little Tempting

“You mean like shooting your boyfriend with a Taser?”

“Da-ad!”

“All right, all right, I’ll stop.” His shoulders bounce as he fights back another round of laughter. “Aw, man. Wish I could’ve been there. Your mom’s gonna crack up when I tell her about it tonight.”

Smacking him one more time for good measure, I mutter, “Well, I’m glad you find entertainment in my embarrassing stories. But back to our conversation. I’m doing good and…yeah.” My attention darts to the empty rink a few rows down.

He nods again. “Well, then I’m even happier for you.” Tugging me into his side, my dad kisses the top of my head. “Now, about the homemade jerseys with your boyfriend’s name on them…” He lets me go and motions to my generic LAU fan shirt. “Why aren’t you wearing one?”

“I don’t know?” I tug at the hem of my red and white T-shirt, then fold my arms. The girls have been wearing them for a few weeks now. Ironically, the homemade jersey was the gift the girl in my photography class mentioned to Reeves not long ago. And despite him saying not to bother, she’s worn the stupid thing to every game.

Ignoring the reminder, I turn back to the game in time to catch Westbrook, one of LAU’s new defensemen, steal the puck from the opposing team. He chips it off the boards and straight to Reeves. The screaming heightens, and I squeeze my eyes shut, knowing how fruitless it is for me to try to block them out. He dribbles it down the ice, heading straight for the net before sending the puck flying across the ice over to a waiting Griffin. With a crash, someone checks him, and he’s slammed into the glass. Everett steals the open puck, passing it behind the goal line where Reeves is heading. Ice sprays as Reeves stops short, pivoting around the back of the goal and dropping it into the top left of the net.

The crowd goes crazy, and squeals ensue from the puck bunnies as Finley returns with a soda and pretzel. “Hey, was that your boy?” she asks.

“Apparently, it’s our boy,” I mutter, glancing over my shoulder at the fan club behind us.

With a frown, Finley follows my gaze, then turns back to me. “Don’t worry about them. They’re jealous he’s finally tied down.”

Is he, though? The question crashes through my mind before I can stop it. It’s stupid. I know he is. But I’m not the one wearing his jersey. They are.

“Did you ever get sick of them?” I ask my dad. Considering he played in the NHL for years, he has plenty of experience when it comes to this, and I can’t help but put him on the spot. “The puck bunnies?”

He frowns. “Unfortunately, they come with the job, Dyl. Some fans are awesome, and others are kind of a pain in the ass, but it is what it is.”

“How comforting,” Finley chimes in.

He cuts her a look but explains, “Dating a hockey player means you gotta have thick skin, especially when it comes to the fans. Thankfully, your mom and aunts have quite a bit of experience on that front. If you ever need someone to commiserate with, you have a couple pretty great experts. But if you’re afraid of blending in with the bunnies while supporting your guy on the ice, I have good news.”

A spark of hope ignites inside me. “What is it?”

“When you’re out there?” He lifts his chin at the rink beneath us. “The fans are nothing but a blur of people. But your girl?” His smile softens as the team takes the ice. “They’re like a homing beacon. I promise.”

“Thanks,” I murmur. “And you’re right. Reeves has been nothing but a gentleman, and I trust him. It’s the girls wearing his number I have to get used to.”

“Yeah. Besides. They aren’t worth it.”

“Exactly.” I sigh and turn back to the game. “Go, Hawks!”

35

DYLAN

My head is killing me. I’ve been at Rowdy’s for six hours now, but my shift ends in about one more, and I’m counting down the minutes. The sooner it ends, the sooner I can go home, remove my contacts, and take some painkillers. The idea sounds even better than ice cream, which is saying something.

“Hey, Dylan,” Finley prods, “Someone’s at table seven.” She pauses. “You okay?”

“Headache,” I mutter.

“Yeah, you look pale. Do you need me to cover the rest of your shift?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“You sure?”

“It’s one more hour. I can do one more hour,” I answer, grabbing a tray of drinks for table five. Once they’re delivered, I pull a pad of paper and pen from my apron and head to table seven.

“Hey, my name is Dylan, and I’ll be your…” my voice trails off as my eyes connect with a familiar shade of brown. Convinced I’m hallucinating, I blink slowly, but the image doesn’t dissipate. Nope. Reeves’ dad is still here, and he’s still staring at me. I never thought I’d have to see him again. But being face-to-face with a guy who tortured his son for years? It pisses me off and makes me want to run in the opposite direction as quickly as possible. Adrenaline shoots down my spine, and I swallow thickly, throttling the pen in my hand.

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