Page 61 of If You Give a CEO a Chance

I’m not about to admit I overheard most of her conversation earlier.

Fallon smooths a hand over the jersey with an exaggerated flourish. “Oh, this? I spilled sauce on my shirt, and he graciously offered to let me borrow it. He’s such a gentleman, right?”

I shouldn’t have overplayed my hand and let her see how much it bothers me. Naturally, she’s milking this for all it’s worth.

“Are you still wearing your shirt underneath?” I motion to her, keeping my tone even.

She nods slowly, suspicion flickering in her eyes.

“Good. Take it off.”

Fallon lets out a bitter laugh. “I don’t know…” she muses, toying with me. “I think it looks great, and I do love the number ten.”

“The only jersey you’ll be wearing in the future is mine,” I state, moving closer. “Don’t make me ask again, trouble. Take. Off. His. Jersey.”

Thankfully, the room has cleared out, aside from a few staff members to witness my unhinged reaction, but I couldn’t care less what they think. My sole focus is getting that damn jersey off Fallon, even if I have to take it off myself.

Fallon’s gaze sharpens, sizing me up. Whatever she reads in my expression must convince her I’m not playing around because she sighs in annoyance and yanks off her apron, dropping it on the table. However, she takes her sweet time with the jersey, slowly taking it off to reveal a tight white T-shirt that does little to hide the curves of her body.

She holds out the jersey for me. “Happy?” she deadpans.

My mouth falls open as I take her in, but I quickly snap it shut and say, “On second thought, you should put it back on.”

Fallon shakes her head. “After the fuss you just made? No, you should take it, I insist.” She pushes the jersey against my chest, and I begrudgingly accept it, unable to pull my gaze from her lithe body.

I wonder if Aleksandr would be pissed if I set his jersey on fire. At the very least, it’s getting washed twice before he gets it back. No way is he putting it on with Fallon’s scent clinging to the fabric.

The sight of her in another man’s clothing is grating on my nerves, and all I can think about is the night she wore mine. I remember the way it hung low on her frame, the fabric reaching mid-thigh. She was effortlessly sexy, her long slender legs on display, like she was ready to walk down a runway.

It occurs to me that I’m acting like an overprotective boyfriend, which is ironic considering Fallon and I can barely tolerate each other. Or at least, that used to be the case. But standing here, staring into her piercing blue eyes, I can’t deny that something has shifted for me.

When I glance at Fallon again, I frown, not wanting her to walk around in that fitted T-shirt with a red stain on the front. I take out a black button-up from my backpack. It’s not my jersey, but it’ll do for tonight. I’ll just have to find an excuse for her to wear my one of my jersey’s another time.

I like the sound of that.

“Here. Wear this.” I put the shirt in her hands. “I don’t want you in any other man’s clothes tonight.”

Fallon rolls her eyes. “Yes, sir,” she retorts sarcastically.

“That’s more like it,” I say smugly.

She tugs on the shirt, buttoning it up, and tucks it into her jeans, adjusting the collar to give it a more fitted look. It’s still unmistakably a man’s shirt, and I like the idea of people seeing her in it.

I glance at my watch, trying to divert my gaze. “I better get going. I have to meet with some VIPs.” I turn on my heel and head through the doorway before I do something drastic like throw her over my shoulder like a caveman.

“Thanks for the shirt,” Fallon calls out after me. “But don’t think this means we won’t have a conversation about your brutish behavior later.”

“Looking forward to it,” I answer over my shoulder.

When I get to the hall, I take a quick look to make sure there’s no one around before tossing Aleksandr’s jersey in the trash. I’ll gladly foot the bill to replace it, but this one has to go.

This is the first hockey game I’ve been to in almost ten years, and I’m having a great time. I was given a ticket for a lower bowl seat and decided to watch for a while since most of the prep for the post-game meal is done. I just have a few final touches to add before serving it.

I’m on the edge of my seat as the final seconds of this nail-biter tick away. The players move so quickly that it’s hard to keep up, and the energy of the crowd is infectious, drawing me into the moment.

The other team has the puck when Aleksandr suddenly veers in the opposite direction, his movements sharp and purposeful. An opposing player is ready to break free, but Aleksandr cuts him off, intercepting the puck. The energy in the rink is electric as he sends it sailing toward number four, who’s already moving toward the net, outmaneuvering the goalie and scoring the winning shot. The crowd erupts into chaotic celebration, and I stand to cheer right alongside them.

My eyes drift to Harrison, standing in one of the private suites. From my seat in the stands, I have an unobstructed view and have been stealing glances at him all night. Thankfully, his focus has been on the action on the ice, his intensity matching that of the players.

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