Page 8 of Pinkie Promise

Coach Benson has one rule: no dating during game season. With the exception of the few guys who came to college with a high school sweetheart, if you weren’t already loved up back home then you don’t get to start that cushy shit once you join the team. It’s a rule that works for most of the guys given the fact that, once they’re off the ice, they like to play the field.

Heat begins to spread up my cheeks but I hold Benson’s eyes because I’m not tapping out until he does. Yeah, like most hockey teams we have a pretty colourful reputation – something that Benson knows about – because wearebig guys with certain big needs. But there’s a reason why I’m one of the best players at Carter U: I dedicate my free time to staying on top of my sport rather than staying on top of anything else.

“Right,” I say gruffly, wanting an end to this conversation, stat. I know what he’s implying when he saysblow some steam, and I am more than capable of taking care of my–

Benson jerks his head at the door, silently telling me to get the hell out of his office.

Fine by me.

I’m busy thinking about how much I definitely do not need to find a chick to blow some steam with as I exit Benson’s office and then shove my way straight through the next set of doors, only to suddenly hear a yelp and a thump as the wood slams forwards.

“Ow!”

My chest halts on a huge inhale the second that I realise that it’s too late to catch her, the girl who was on the other side of the door already down on her ass and rubbing roughly at her forehead.

Wait, why the hell is she rubbing at her forehead?

“Shit, shit, shit,” I say in deeply rasped succession, settling quickly on my haunches in the wide gap between her thighs. “I’m so sorry,” I rumble, desperately searching her face for signs of blood. If Coach Benson finds out that I’m mowing people down off the ice too then I don’t doubt for a second that he’ll bench the shit out of me.

Fear grabs me by the gut when I realise that there’s a small pink mark in the middle of her forehead, right beneath her soft curling calfslick.

I take a shoulder-heaving inhalation and look down to meet her eyes.

They’re big and round and surrounded by beautiful black lashes, and they’re sparkling up at me in a way that almost makes me choke. There’s a purple bow in her hair and she’s wearing a matching purple jumper, that’s so well fitted that I can see exactly what’s going on underneath it. Two perky curves and the tight cinch of her little waist. Fuck, she’s petite. My gaze trails down to where she’s splayed wide right in front of me and suddenly my jaw is going slack, my body growing rigid.

A low sound that I’m not fucking proud of rumbles deep in my chest but it suddenly turns into a pained grunt as something hard and heavy is launched straight against my head.

“What the hell?” I mutter, looking down at the object in front of me.

“I. Am.Sickofthisshit!”she growls, shoving herself to her feet at the same second that I do. I glance briefly down at the ground between us to check out the paperback that she just smashed off my forehead. It has a cute illustration of a couple making out on the cover. I breathe out a laugh and settle my gaze back down on hers.

When she was down on her ass I thought that she was petite but now that we’re standing I can see the full extent of it. Like, this chick is seriously fucking small. I give her another reluctant once-over and then I cross my forearms over my chest.

“Who the hell opens a door like that?” she exclaims, frowning up at me and mirroring my folded arms. “If I end up getting another concussion I amseriouslygoing to lose my shit.”

My body instantly stills.

What does she mean byanotherconcussion?

“Come again?” I ask, dipping forward slightly.

She flips a curl over her shoulder, as if people get concussions all the time.

“Look” – she narrows her eyes as she reads the name on my team jumper – “Austin, I–”

“Austin?” I say, confused, and I glance down at the stitching over my left pec.

Aw hell, she’s right. I’m wearing my teammate’s damn jumper.

I knew it felt tight.

“That’s not my name,” I say, looking quickly back down at her. “I’m–”

She turns a sharp one-eighty and quips, “Tell someone who cares.”

Christ. “Look, I’m really sorry. Let me make it up to you.”

She’s walking real fast so her hips are swishing like crazy, and as I glimpse at her little skirt something heavy twists in my abdomen. I look around the clean white hallway of Carter U’s sports building to make sure that no-one else is here, worried that the thoughts suddenly pounding in my head are going to be written all over my face.

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