Page 15 of Faking It with the Enforcer

My breath comes in ragged gasps, my heart pounding in my chest. I lean against the wall, my eyes still locked on Emily. She’s slumped against the tiled wall, her body sated and limp as her posture echoes mine. Fuck, she’s beautiful. And she just came to thoughts of me.

Me.

I huff out a sigh and then quickly change into a clean pair of sweats. Then, making sure she’s not looking in my direction, I grab my phone and leave the bedroom, closing the door behind me and heading back into the kitchen.

My body is buzzing. My head is swimming.

Emily fantasized about me. Made herself come to thoughts of me. Which means she wants me, too. That my crazy attraction to her isn’t one sided.

And suddenly, it doesn’t matter that I’m thirteen years older than her, or that she’s Mike’s little sister.

Because knowing that Emily wants me? Hearing her moan my name?

It changes everything.

Every. Fucking. Thing.

Seven

Emily

I’m bundled in the back of a sleek, black car, nerves and excitement swirling through me as the city passes by in a blur of lights. Wolf left for his game a while ago, needing to get to the arena early for a team meeting. But before he went, he arranged for a car to take me to the arena for the game. He said he wanted to make sure I got there safely and wasn’t taking public transportation after dark. Honestly, I’m pretty sure Toronto is fairly safe, but I like his protectiveness. I like saying yes to things that make him happy.

And now I’m almost at the game where I’ll be pretending to be his girlfriend. The game where I’ll be sitting with the captain’s and coach’s fiancées.

A pang of something I can’t quite name hits me right in the stomach. It’s not regret, not exactly. It’s more like…longing. Like a wishfulness that the whole girlfriend thing wasn’t pretend. That it wasn’t fake in order to spare Wolf the indignity of another charity auction.

I’m lost in my thoughts when the car pulls up in front of the bustling arena. Bright lights point up into the sky, and a massive screen plays clips of various Toronto Thunder players kicking ass. Butterflies explode in my stomach when I see Wolf on the screen as he slams another player into the boards.

I thank the driver and step out into the chilly night, the air soothing against my hot cheeks. Gah, if I’m this warm just from watching a little clip of Wolf, I’m going to be a tomato after watching him play an entire game. I need to get it together.

I take a breath, centering myself the way I do before I step on stage. Anchoring myself in the here and now and not letting my swirling thoughts sweep me away.

People stream into the arena through the open doors, glowing with bright lights inside, and groups mill about, many of them wearing Toronto Thunder gear: jerseys, hats, jackets. A group of women walk by, talking and laughing, and every single one of them is wearing a Wolf Hartley jersey, his name and the number twenty-eight plastered across each of their backs.

A completely irrational flare of jealousy surges through me, churning my stomach and making my chest burn.

Of course they wear his jersey. He’s hot as hell. All those crazy muscles, and that thick hair, and those piercing gray eyes. Of course they probably all have crushes on him. God knows I do. A wildly inappropriate one given that he’s Mike’s friend and so much older than me. He’d probably be beyond uncomfortable if he knew the thoughts swirling through my mind. If he knew that I’d made myself come in his shower imagining he was in there with me, touching me, washing me, massaging me.

I look away from the women, swallowing down my completely unjustified jealousy. Wolf isn’t interested in me that way. In fact, he’s barely spoken to or looked at me since we got home yesterday afternoon. He’s probably already sick of me.I’d be a fool to misinterpret any kindness he shows as anything other than basic decency.

Energy seems to hum through the air, and I suck in a breath, the chill working its way into my lungs and calming my breathing. I’ve never been to a professional hockey game before, and the sheer scale of everything makes me shiver with anticipation. The lights, the size of the arena, the thousands of people streaming inside. It’s a spectacle.

The crowd surges around me, swallowing me up in a sea of Toronto Thunder logos. I quickly pull my phone out of my small bag and open up my Wallet app to retrieve the ticket Wolf sent me this morning. My heart feels like it’s pounding in time with the throb of music coming from inside the arena, and I realize that my palms are sweaty.

For the first time, I start to have second thoughts about this whole pretending to be Wolf’s girlfriend thing. What if I can’t pull it off? What if I embarrass him?

I move forward with the crowd, trying to shake off the nerves, reminding myself that it’s just for a couple of hours, and we’ll mostly be watching the game. The thought of getting to watch Wolf play sends another wave of excitement crashing over me. My stomach might as well be a flower garden for the number of butterflies flapping there.

I step inside, the noise and the lights enveloping me in something new and exciting. The air smells like popcorn and beer, and to my right, and man stands at a raised podium, selling game day programs. I can see a massive store to my right, filled with fans checking out merchandise. There’s a row of Hartley jerseys on display, and I wish I had the money to buy one.

I glance down at my cropped black sweater, jeans, and black ankle boots, hoping it’s the sort of thing a player’s girlfriend would wear. My hair is down, my makeup minimal. Maybe I should’ve worn more.

The attendant scans my ticket, then gives me a special lanyard and tells me how to get to my box. I nod and start making my way through the arena, taking in the crowd, the vendors, the smells and sounds of it all. Through a gap in heavy black curtains, I catch a flash of white, and I realize that the ice is right there. Fans are crowded around the boards, watching the players take their pre-game warm-up. I flash the badge at the end of my lanyard to the usher standing by the curtains, and he nods, letting me pass and make my way towards the ice.

I manage to find a spot, squeezing between a couple of people, my nose practically pressed to the glass. The ice gleams under the bright overhead lights, and I have to blink several times to get my eyes to adjust. And as soon as they do, I spot Wolf, who looks even bigger with all of his equipment on.

He’s so tall. So strong and thick. I’ve spent so much time drooling over those thighs that I think I’d recognize them anywhere, even covered in hockey gear. I watch as he skates across the ice effortlessly, his stick in his hands. He takes a smooth pass from another player and flicks it easily at the net, then loops around behind it.

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