Page 2 of Slap Shot Daddies

And then I see him.

Holy hell.

He's new.

And he'sfuckinghot.

The kind of hot that sends a flutter through your stomach, making it twist and turn in unexpected ways, the kind that causes your brain to stumble over itself, desperately trying to comprehend the sheer sight of him.

His chestnut-brown hair is thick and perfectly tousled, just long enough to invite a touch. His hazel eyes capture the warm glow of the lights, their hues shifting fluidly between shades ofgold and green, as if they can't quite decide on a single color to settle into.

Tall and lean, he was built with a sinuous elegance, unlike the other guys on the team who relied on sheer brute force. His physique was more akin to a runner's: graceful and fluid.

The sharp angles of his face were softened by a trace of scruff along his jawline, the kind of five o'clock shadow that conjures thoughts of friction, heat, and an unspoken invitation to explore further.

I catch myself and clear my throat, trying to dispel the sudden haze of attraction.

Snap out of it, Kenz. Focus.

He must feel the intensity of my stare because his eyes meet mine, and they linger just a heartbeat too long. His lips curve into a knowing smile, as if he's already unraveled the mystery of my thoughts.

A shiver runs down my spine.

Oh, this guy’s dangerous.

Before doubt can creep in, my feet propel me forward, straight toward him and into the unknown depths of whatever this magnetic pull might be.

I stop just within his personal space, close enough to catch the faintest whiff of cedar mingled with a smoky scent, as if he has just emerged from the depths of the forest after chopping his own firewood.

He looks down at me, his hazel eyes flickering over my face, and for a split second, I swear I see amusement and curiosity dancing like playful shadows in the depths of his gaze.

"Are you new here?" I inquire, tilting my head slightly in a gesture of mild curiosity.

One corner of his mouth tugs upward, forming something dangerously close to a smirk, a teasing glint in his eyes.

"Depends," he replies, his voice carrying a hint of mischief. "Are you planning on hazing me?"

I snort, crossing my arms defiantly. "That depends," I retort, raising an eyebrow. "Are you planning on wearing that sad excuse of a hoodie all night?"

His eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and he glances down at himself with a hint of self-awareness. He’s clad in an old, worn-out hoodie, the kind that’s been through one too many wash cycles, its fabric is faded and frayed, bearing the marks of countless adventures and perhaps harboring more stories than most relationships.

“Oh, you’re bold.” He grins, a low chuckle rumbling from his chest like distant thunder. “You don’t like my hoodie?”

“No,” I say without hesitation, my lips curving into a teasing smile. “It looks like it’s been through a war and lost.”

His laugh is warm and rich, a sound that wraps around me and does dangerous things to my insides. “It’s a classic,” he says, tugging on the frayed hem with a sense of pride. “And it’s comfortable.”

I pretend to consider, tapping my chin thoughtfully. “Maybe. But it’s also sad. Tragic, even. I think it’s time to let it go.” My eyes dance with mischief as I gauge his reaction.

He studies me intently, his gaze searching mine as if trying to decipher whether I’m serious or just toying with him. The moment stretches, charged with playful tension.

Then he leans in just a fraction, his voice dropping to a husky murmur that makes it dangerously intimate. “If I let it go,” he murmurs, “what do I get in return?”

Oh. Oh, he’s good.

His words coil around me, pulling me into his orbit.

And I really, really like the gravitational pull I’m feeling.

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