Page 16 of Crossing the Top Line

“Oh, is this about the mic? I’ve never done something like that!” Elijah says excitedly, straightening up.

I bite my lower lip a little, considering. I was hoping someone like Dallas, or even one of the goalies would be game for this, but none of them acknowledged me beyond a smile and a nod. Elijah isn’t a completely unknown entity; he played a big part in winning the Krewe their league championship last season. But would he be a big enough draw?

“Are you harassing Miss Strauss again, Eli?” Oliver says, coming to an abrupt halt in front of the bench and giving Eli a serious look from under his helmet. He’s also in a purple practice sweater, and I can’t help but notice how the color compliments his amber eyes.

Elijah puts a glove to his chest in over-exaggerated mock offense, gasping loudly. “Me? I’m astounded you think so little of me! I’m talking with the lovely Tori about her job. She wants to put a mic on one of us, and I just thought—”

Elijah doesn’t get to finish before Oliver bursts into laughter. It’s a warm, rich sound that lifts the corners of my mouth even as I try to fight the smile. He turns to me with a conspiratorial wink.

“Go ahead and put a mic on him. You thought he was a chatterbox at the party? Wait until you hear him on the ice,” Oliver says, grinning.

I look over at Coach McQueen, trying to see if he noticed our conversation, but he’s busy watching other players start their warmup skate. Almost all of the remaining team is out on the ice now. I sigh and set my shoulders before setting my bag down and undoing the clasps.

“Take your jersey off,” I instruct.

And under Oliver’s careful observation, I get the mic pack strapped to Elijah’s back and the mic settled on the shoulder pad, making slight adjustments once he puts his jersey back on. I have to practically shove the both of them away toward center ice as Coach officially starts practice, allowing me to make my way out from ice level and into the 100-level seats, sliding on a pair of headphones, pulling out the camera and tripod, and setting all of it up before starting the recording.

God, this better get me something good or I’m never going to hear the end of it.

Itonlytakesthirtyminutes for me to conclude this was either the worst idea I’ve ever had, or the best.

“I know they’re all made from the same stuff, but the bowtie pastadefinitelytastes different than the spiral kind,” Elijah is saying to the unfortunate player in the queue beside him as they wait beside the player benches.

I can’t help but snort under my breath. After stretches and warmups and a brief rundown on the drill they would be practicing first, Eli hasnotstopped talking.

“And don’t get me started on spaghetti versus linguine,” Eli says, even as he’s called up to complete his turn in the drill.

For a second, I think he’ll stop as he doesn’t have someone to yammer at, but nope.

“Watch this, Tor. They don’t know what’s coming. Gotta sneak through here, and boom! Five hole!” he narrates as he skates up the ice and smoothly puts the puck into the back of the net via the narrow hole between the goalie’s legs.

He glides around the ice, joining the back of the queue, who’s waiting to repeat the drill, and this time he’s on the same side of the ice as the section I’m sitting in. I’d picked a spot close to the ice for the sake of my camera, but I regret it now that there’s only a plane of plexiglass and four rows of seats between me and the players. Eli looks up at me, smirking to himself as he leans his head against the shoulder with his mic.

“I’ve been told that I’m good at finding the right spot to get the job done. What do you think?” he mutters into the mic, his voice a full octave lower than normal.

An involuntary shiver skates down my spine as his delicately accented words come through my headphones, as if he were whispering into my ear. A warm flush rises on my neck, and I have to use almost all of my willpower to stop my face from showing any reaction. Eli keeps strong eye contact until he has to take his turn, and I let out a long breath as I shiver again. I should have worn a thicker jacket. I’d forgotten how much colder it is near the ice compared to the press box and executive suite.

I focus on following Eli up the ice, and my jaw drops a little as he uses his momentum to gather the puck on the end of his stick, turning fast enough to defy physics and lift the puck up over the goalie’s shoulder before he can move to block it. Eli skates behind the goal and moves back to the first line, this time behind Oliver.

“Stop showboating,” Oliver mutters to Elijah as he comes to a stop.

“But we’ve got an audience, Oli,” the shorter man replies.

And then he nods to where I’m sitting in the stands, drawing his roommate’s attention up to me. I don’t acknowledge them, even when Eli waves a little.

“Focus, Joker. You can flirt later,” Oliver chides.

I hum, making a mental note of the nickname. Spencer was BlackJack at Michigan, so there might be something there if they all manage to make the team. Oliver takes off to complete the drill, but Eli keeps staring at me, and I can see his smirk even from ninety feet away. I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry.

“Little does he know that I’ve barelybegunto flirt with you,” he purrs into the mic.

The warmth at the back of my neck rockets south, settling between my thighs. I can’t move or think, the primal part of my mind roaring to life for the first time in literal years. Thankfully, Eli is forced to break eye contact as he takes his turn with the drill, followed by Coach McQueen calling a meeting near the benches to explain the next set of drills. It gives me enough time to get my face under control and shove away the little jolt of pleasure that zips through my belly as I shift in my chair and my thighs rub together.

What the actualfuckis wrong with me.

I need to get it together before someone notices. I’ve been trusted to be this close to the team as an omega because I’ve proven myself to be objective and professional. I have my designation and instincts under control, or at least I had until this Swedish chatterbox showed up and started whispering dirty nothings in my ear.

If he wasn’t so goddamn entertaining, I’d never put a mic on him again. Bastard.

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