Page 123 of Snap Shot

I don't mean to, but I giggle. Mostly out of disbelief that men think this line works, but partly from how flustered I am having a good-looking stranger hold my hand.

“I'mpositivewe have never—”

“Have I seen you on TV?” He points and nods. My palm goes clammy still clasped in his. “No! A model?”

The ladylike smile on my face wavers. “Definitely not.”

His teeth graze the seam of his lips, tongue poking into his cheek. “Huh. You should be.”

Something in my gut twists.

McCrimmon tuts. “So, first time here, eh? I could show you around.” Mouth curling into a smug smile, his free hand reaches behind me to turn us to the ice. It only contacts the jersey before he's interrupted.

“Sutt,” a voice booms by the curtain, echoing through the empty venue.

Landon Radek takes one calm, restrained step after the other toward us. He unbuttons the blazer of the same delicious suit he wore this morning, eyes on mine, so dark and gleaming they could light me on fire and devour me whole. And not at all in the way that I enjoy.

“Landy!” McCrimmon finally releases my hand and stretches his arms to his sides.

A muscle ripples in his jaw. “You met my lawyer.”

Sutton’s mouth goes slack.

“Indira Davé,” I croak out with a forced smile, waving like a gangly teen.

“Damn.” He continues to ogle while Landon side-eyes me, then shifts the annoyance to his once-teammate.

His tongue skims over the full curve of his bottom lip.

McCrimmon picks up his anger and steps back.

“Ms. Davé. A word?” Those four words fly out, so sharp that their edges cut my skin. But they don't burn like the pads of his fingers set on my lower back, as Landon ushers me to the exit.

Chapter 33: Off-Limits

Landon

This afternoon is off to a phenomenal start.

The medium roast from Au Lait—a far cry from the usual Timmie's—hits the spot. I got to see my girl and didn't get pulled over while speeding through downtown like a maniac to catch the bus.

Everyone else is already boarded when I jog up the treaded metal steps. Wade hands me a rightfully earned box of chocolate Timbits and a cup of black coffee. No snark today. Jules eyes me as I pass, offering the bunched-together white paper straws in his grip. Even rooming with Jaeger for the season won't ruin my day. I choose one and it's a normal length. I'm safe from his hog-like snoring. No such luck for Wade. I snort to myselfwhile putting in AirPods.

It's a fucking miracle the boys don't haggle me or draw my focus away from tonight's game. An empty seat next to Donovan is the best choice. He's got his headphones in and lost in yet another novel. Quiet and busy.

Performance anxiety spikes as we approach Montreal, but dips after we unload, dress down, and kick around a soccer ball. The usual clowning around always helps to ease the nerves.

Jaeg seems to sense my unease when we warm up.

“Doin' good?”

“Yeah.” Forearms parallel to the frozen surface while holding the stick, my knees bounce and slide, stretching out my hips and groin. “Trying to put last season's shit behind me.”

The corners of his mouth tug down.

“You?”

“Fuck, man. This reception is getting out of control.” The lament pairs with a shake of his head. “Skylar got selected to be a trainer at the Winter Olympics in Beijing.”

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