Page 91 of Ice Mechanic

With the crowd chanting my name and confetti spraying down, April springs into the rink and I catch her, skating back slightly before regaining my balance.

“Congratulations,” she says.

“Than—”

My ‘thank you’ is cut off when she cradles my face and kisses me.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-SIX

APRIL

I kissed Chance for publicity.

That’s what I keep telling myself as my hands tighten around his neck.

After the kiss, he lowers me to my feet, allowing my body to slide down his hard, muscular chest and sweaty hockey gear. His cheeks are red from the game. His hair is damp and clumped together in a way that makes me want to run my fingers through it.

Resisting the urge to do so, I press my hands into his shoulder gear as the world swirls with brighter colors.

How tallisthis man? It feels like I’ve been sliding down his torso forhours.

Every torturous inch lights me up inside. I know it’s still sub-zero degrees in the stadium, but it feels like I’m stuck in a barbecue grill being slow roasted.

I’m on my feet now and my neck is already aching from looking up at him. Chance’s eyes are half-hooded, allowing me to admire just how abnormally long andprettyhis black eyelashes are.

He tilts my chin up with his coarse hockey glove. The scratchy material on the underside of my jaw is strangely alluring and a lump gets caught in my throat.

“Thank you for coming,” Chance says, as if it really means everything to him.

“No problem,” I say hoarsely.

When he bends down as if he’ll kiss me again, my eyes widen.

“Chance, how does it feel to be back on the ice?”

“Chance, where are you going after the game!”

We both freeze as reporters yell at the star player, eager to get the first post-game interview.

Out of sorts, I push away from Chance. It’s too strong of a shove, however, and my heels end up skittering on the ice. Arms windmilling, I struggle to catch my balance just as Chance grabs my elbow.

He waits until I’m settled before ripping his glove off and sliding his hand down the length of my hand.

His grip on the hockey stick during the game had been strong and sure, even in the midst of all those other players attacking him. But now, his fingers are as gentle as silk.

His touch eases down my elbow, streaking a path of mini-lightning bolts.

By the time he finally captures my palm I’m about to hyperventilate.

Ducking my head, I shuffle back to the entrance.

Chance doesn’t let go of my hand and maintains my pace. He’d been moving like Bugatti at full throttle on his skates, so I’m surprised he’s able to go so slowly.

I grip him tightly, walking on stilts.

Okay, two-inch heels aren’t exactly classified as ‘stilts’, but since Ineverwear heels, they might as well be.

---