Page 148 of Evil Hearts

“Ignore him,” King whispers with a rare show of empathy. “He thinks he’ll take your place soon because you’ve been here so many seasons. He’s just ego walking.”

“Takes one to know one,” I tease—although I’m not exactly joking.

It’s King’s turn to growl, but then our manager whistles, three short blasts. “Ugh. I guess it’s time to go put on a show for the fans.”

“Headshots first,” I say, consulting the paper schedules we were handed upon arrival. My heart races. It would be too much to hope that Fia is going to be our photographer again.

A photographer has to get the best of her subjects. This can mean joking with them to provoke a smile, laughing at their bad jokes to put them at ease, laying on the compliments, or, in the case of small children, making a million sound effects andkeeping a squeaky rubber pig in my pocket to make them look towards the camera.

With hockey players… I’m the one who needs to be put at ease. I can barely contain my excitement as I chat about stats, injuries, and careers with the steady stream of players who come to my booth. I guess the managers wanted them to get their headshots tonight, before they have a chance to get banged up during any other exhibition games.

“What’s your name?” I ask a short, compact warrior in a jersey.

“Sam Grendel. I used to play for the Wilmington Wolverines and just traded up to this league. It’s a short stop from here to the Maple Leafs, gorgeous. Shirt on or off?”

I’m instantly turned off and disgusted. I can feel my lips curling away from my teeth like I just ate something sour and my nose wrinkling like I got a whiff of rotten eggs. “Jersey on. We’ll do a profile shot, a forward-facing shot with a serious face, and then give me your biggest smile!” I force some encouraging cheer into my voice.

“Okay… Not like you haven’t gone topless at a photoshoot before,” he mutters in my ear as I step forward, adjusting my lights to his shorter height.

I jump back like I’ve been burned. I never did topless or nude photos—but I admit that my centerfold spreads in tiny bikinis pushed the line and left almost nothing to the imagination. “Oh, my modeling days are long gone,” I laugh. Scumballs won’t bother me tonight—especially since I see that Frobisher, that silver-white Viking god, is my next customer.

“Doesn’t look like anything is sagging yet. Tell you what, when you get done here, how about I take you back to my suite and show you all the complimentary chocolate the players get? I’ll even share.” He waggles his eyebrow.

“No thank you. I’m more into vanilla,” I give a quick answer—only too late realizing that it gives fodder to Grendel’s imagination.

“Ooh, honey. That’s okay. We can keep the chocolate away. I can be vanilla—at first.”

Snap, snap, snap. I take three pictures, sharp and focused. They don’t do Grendel any favors, but I don’t care. “Next,” I say crisply, pointing behind me.

“From bikini body to prude, huh? I guess mom jeans and baggy sweaters hide a multitude of sins, huh?” he mocks, scowling his way past me.

I swallow hard and look down. I’m not ashamed of my body at all, and I’m not in mom jeans! But if I was, there isn’t anything wrong with that! “The exit, Mr. Grendel.”

“You know, you might want to watch your tone. The players are the bosses at Puck Con. The stars. Without us, you’d be taking pictures of a bunch of people stuffing their faces and buying souvenirs. Maybe you’d better think about how you treat me before I—”

“Sam. I think Miss Carvahlo wants you to leave.Now. In silence.”

Now, I’m a big girl, and even though I come from a culture where women often hang back so the men can play the hero, I know I could have handled Grendel and his not-so-subtle intimidation myself. But my insides twist and wring an instant puddle into my panties when Bryce Frobisher strides in, lifts Grendel by his collar, and smiles.

Wait a second… Are those fangs?

Doesn’t matter. Glistening canines, a growl that feels like the lowest setting on my favorite vibrator, and Grendel is chucked out of the booth with a satisfying yelp and whimper.

“I’m so sorry. He doesn’t represent Pine Ridge. After tonight, I don’t even know if he’llplayfor Pine Ridge. I’m going to go talk to our manager.”

“Okay… Um. Thank you. So much.” I lose my words when he looks at me. They slip out in little bits and snips as I try not to drool. “Let me get your photos done first. No reason a creep like that should upset my schedule, right?” I try to laugh.

“Again, I’m so, so sorry.” The giant sits hesitantly on the folding black stool, his entire posture and body language apologetic. His shoulders and spine curve into a question mark, and his head ducks guiltily.

Normally, I ask before touching a subject, but this time, my hands outrun my brain. I push his massive shoulders back and then angle his chin. The hair on his face is like nothing I’ve ever felt before, dense and thick, but like a cross between mink and silk. Something like a cross between fur and hair.

I’m staring. Touching too long. To my horror, I realize my hand is just resting on his beard, kneading his facial hair like I’m a sensory psycho.

I’m totally not imagining how it would feel to press his face between my slick, naked thighs or my sweating breasts as he fills me.

Fuck, totally thinking it.

“Uh— ha ha. Sorry, drifted off,” I babble to cover my dirty thoughts and the actions that started innocent but rapidly turned to pure smut in my needy brain. “Where were we?”

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