Page 23 of Speed

“Oh really?” Noah’s brows shot up, his hands on his hips. He was still in his practice gear, his curls damp with sweat, and damn if he didn’t look good while staring at me. “Because it sure seems like you’ve been everywhere I’ve been lately, Brody.”

“I happened to be here,” I said, shrugging as if my pulse wasn’t hammering. “It’s a public place. People are allowed to watch hockey practice.”

“Right,” he said, crossing his arms. “You just happened to be at the rink in Harrisburg during practice. Just like you happened to show up at the karting. And you just happened to?—”

“Okay, fine!” I threw up my hands, exhaling. “Maybe I was curious. But it’s not stalking. I wasn’t hiding in the shadows or planting a tracker on your car or whatever you think I’m doing.”

His eyes widened in horror. “You’re what now?”

“No, I’m not doing that.”

Noah’s expression softened a little, but his gaze still searched mine. “Why, Brody?”

The question hit harder than it should have. I hesitated, my gaze dropping to the polished floor. Why, indeed? Why couldn’t I stay away from him? Why did I feel I could breathe easier around him, even if he glared at me as if I’d just keyed his car?

“I don’t know,” I admitted, my voice quieter. “I just… I wanted to see you.”

Noah’s stance relaxed, his arms uncrossing. “You could’ve just called.”

My chest tightened, and I let out a dry laugh. “I don’t have your number.”

“You’re a rich guy with endless contacts.”

“Yeah, but it would have been weird. ‘Hey, Noah, remember me? I got your number from my PI. I’m the guy you kissed, who then acted like an asshole? Want to hang out?’”

“You’ve hired a PI.”

“No. I wouldn’t. I’m not that guy.”

“What do you want from me, Brody?”

“More kisses. Lunch. To talk. I don’t know.”

He tilted his head. “Okay, then, what do you need?” he asked.

For a moment, I couldn’t answer. Because the truth—the pull I felt toward him, the way his presence calmed the chaos in my head—was too much to admit. Instead, I met his gaze, something raw and unspoken passing between us.

“I don’t know,” I said finally. “But it scares the hell out of me.”

EIGHT

Noah

I feltlike I was living in that old Genesis song about the land of confusion that Pops was always singing.

Just when I’d started to wash that man right out of my hair—all the thanks to Mary Martin for her rendition of the song inSouth Pacific—here he was. And he looked a hundred different shades of bewildered with a splash of desperate longing. All of it aimed at me.

Did this guy seriously not get that I needed my head in the game right now? That I couldn’t afford distractions—especially not from someone playing at being straight? Because no so-called “straight” guy I’d ever known—and I grew up surrounded by macho athletes, the real chest-thumping kind—had ever acted like that.

“Gunnarsson, are you planning to join us for this discussion of special teams or are you planning on relying on your genes to help you glide through this training camp?”

Coach Morin’s deep voice slapped me in the back of the head like an errant puck. I jerked to attention, gave Brody a dark-as-shit glower, and ground out a few words.

“We’ll talk after practice.”

With that, I skated back to the group of men kneeling at center ice, my cheeks hot with embarrassment.

“Sorry, Coach, personal stuff. It won’t happen again,” I apologized, knelt between Nik and Blake, and gave the talk about power plays my undivided attention.

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