Page 11 of Lawson

I lock eyes with Lawson, suddenly wondering if he’s going to be the biggest hurdle to overcome in my position. Not because of the kiss or the physical chemistry I can feel crackling between us even now, but because of the giant chip he has on those broad shoulders of his.

“We’ll work here during your assigned hours during this camp, but if any of you need additional help, I want to make myself available to you. We can schedule private lessons outside of the camp. I want you all to remember that I'm on your side. I'm a Badger, which means I bleed black and yellow just like you and I really want to fuckingwinthis season. Are you with me?”

There are more nods and even a few grunts of approval at that question, Nash and Clay flashing me smiles and friendly winks of approval too. I can't help but smile back. The veterans are on my side, regardless if anybody knowswhy. That's going to go a long way with the new players.

Lawson flicks his gaze between me and the vets and back, cocking a brow.

I ignore the look and the fluttery feeling it gives my stomach and straighten my spine. “Let's get started.”

CHAPTER 3

LAWSON

Every musclein my body hurts. Taking off my gear is an effort, and I'm seriously questioning the amount of training I thought I'd been doing before today.

And I can't lie, Blakely's skate session kicked off this day from hell. Not from any agitation of my skills being questioned—okay maybe a little bit—but mainly from the sheer exertion it took to make it through all four sections of today’s training.

The flirty, sharp-tongued woman I met last night was nowhere to be found in Coach Wren.

Oh, the woman is still gorgeous, especially flying around the ice like she's been doing it since she was born. But the drills? The new exercises she gave us to do on the ice? It had a shit-ton to do with using muscles I'd never normally use on the ice. And as much as I hated to admit it, it’s easy to see how much we could learn from her.

I toss my gear into my bag, shifting some things around in my locker before wrapping a towel around my hips, more than ready to hit the showers.

The best part of today—besides seeing Blakely’s luscious ass hugged by her black leggings tucked into her figure skates—was going to the recovery lesson. Apparently, Pax Ritchford’s best friend, Monroe Leland, had been hired to lead the session, which consisted of the perfect set of stretches to help us recover from Coach Wren’s excruciating lesson. Turns out she’s also the Badgers’ massage therapist and will be at every game and practice in case one of us pulls something.

“How long have you known the massage therapist?” I ask Pax, whose locker is next to mine.

“Monroe,” he corrects me, cocking a brow at me as he shoves his gear into his bag. “Since we were kids.”

“Damn,” I say. “Did you get her the job?”

He closes his locker, his own towel wrapped around his waist.

“I vouched for her with the new owner,” he says, then shrugs. “But it’s her skills that landed her the job. McClaren definitely isn't a guy who was going to hire her solely off my word, or Blakely’s.”

“Blakely?” I hate the agitation that creeps up at the way he says her name so familiarly. I beat the emotion down, reminding it that it has no fucking business being there.

“Yeah, Coach Wren?” Nash says from my right, a shit-eating grin on his face. “The girl you decided to suck face with last night at the bar?”

“You two know her,” I say rather than ask, because it's clear as fucking day that they do.

Nash and Pax share a look.

“Of course we do,” Nash answers. “She's a Badgers fan. It's not like we have those in spades, but some of the girls from the college are around enough that we got to know them.”

Nash’s reputation for being able to charm any girl any time is well-known, and knowing that is pissing me off all of a sudden. Or am I jealous? What the fuck?

“Howwelldo you know her?” The question comes out harsher than I intended, and I give myself a mental kick in the balls.

It wasonekiss. One fun little encounter that I’ll admit was mildly interesting, but it didn’t need to turn me into a territorial asshole.

I just have to keep telling myself that and maybe it’ll come true.

Nash steps a little closer, no qualms at all that he's fucking naked, and stands eye-to-eye with me. He has some ink over the right side of his chest, and his dirty-blond hair is pulled back with a tie. If I was a smart guy, I'd probably be intimidated by the jacked fucker, but I've never been one for being complimented about my intelligence.

“Don't know her like that, man,” Nash says, that smirk still on his face. “But what's it to you? Did you fall in love after one kiss?”

“Not really my style,” I say, swallowing the jealousy that has no right taking up residence in my body.

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