Page 26 of On Thin Ice

I gave him the barest of nods. “Yeah.”

He didn’t press for more. Viggy never did. That was part of what made him a good captain. He gave you space unless you made it clear you needed more.

“Tough game tonight.”

“Yeah,” I said. That was about as much introspection as I was capable of, and Viggy knew better than to expect more from me.

“You’ll bounce back,” he said, no trace of doubt in his voice.

I nodded again. “Yeah, I will.”

He gave me a quick chin lift and peeled off toward one of the rookies, probably to give him a word of encouragement before the kid spiraled too hard about his blown coverage in the second.

I headed for the bus, my jaw tight. I appreciated the check-in. Really, I did. But whatever was going on with me? That wasn’t something Viggy—or anyone else—could fix.

Because this wasn’t about hockey.

This was about my roommate and the voice that was burned into my brain. The mouth I couldn’t stop staring at. Those blue fucking eyes that caught everything—sharp, intuitive, and too damn knowing.

It was about those strong, calloused hands that made me wonder what they’d feel like pressing me down into the mattress.

This was about Stryker Bell and the way he’d upended my whole fucking life.

* * *

The door clicked shutbehind me.

I dropped my duffel and peeled off my jacket, hanging it in the closet on autopilot. My muscles ached with something deeper than exhaustion. I crossed to the window and tugged the curtains open, letting in the glow of the city beyond and the distant hum of traffic. Watching cars crawl down the street, I suddenly felt like I was suffocating.

I pulled at my tie to loosen it. It caught on my collar, and I gave up—yanking it off over my head and flinging it toward the nearest chair.

I needed a minute.

Just one fucking minute to breathe before Bell showed up and filled this small space with the intoxicating scent of his cologne—something earthy and dark with a hint of spice. It was always strongest after he got out of the shower, and I knew the second he stepped inside this room, I’d want to drown in it.

I’d been mentally bracing for this night all week, telling myself I could handle it.

That I could keep things professional between us.

That I wasn’t obsessing over the way his mouth moved when he’d said, “Fuck, it’s addictive,” in that low, sexy rumble that made my dick instantly hard.

But the absolute craziest thing about all this?

It wasn’t only physical.

Hard as I tried to fight it, I actuallylikedthe guy.

What used to annoy the shit out of me about Bell had become the things I looked forward to most now. I caught myself waiting to hear what outrageous thing he’d say next. Wondering what stunt he’d pull just to get a rise out of me.

And that night on my patio, when he’d dropped the act for a few minutes and just let me see him?

Fuck.

All I wanted to do was pull him close and tell him he was okay. Safe. Wanted.

And that scared the ever-loving shit out of me.

I’d never felt that way about anyone in my entire life, and I sure as hell didn’t know what the fuck to do with those feelings now.

---