Page 11 of Faking It with the Forward

“Damn.” His tongue flicks out, and my belly does a flip-flop.

“That’s why I stick to ice. No burned tongues.” I look at his cup. “So, who’s George?”

“My family dog. Chocolate lab.”

I should say something here. My mom and Ruby would tell me this is my moment to practice. I could mention my cat, Bertha, back home, or something silly about pets, but no words come. Outside of the locker room I can’t seem to complete a full thought, so I hold up my cup and say, “Alright. Later then.”

“Wait,” he says, voice raised.

“Yeah?” I turn to face him. His eyes dart behind me toward the door.

“Just…” his hand lands on my hip and he yanks me forward, “...don’t freak, Sunshine.”

“What are you talking—”

My question is cut off when he invades my space and pulls me flush against his hard body, dropping his mouth to mine. There’s zero time to react, and even if there was, I probably wouldn’t. I’m in shock. Complete shock when I feel Reese’s soft, warm lips press into mine.

What the fuck is happening?

But even that part of my brain shuts off as he deepens the kiss, tongue licking at the seam of my lips in gentle, hypnotic strokes. I part for him, taking him inside, aware that every inch of my skin is aflame, and my heart threatens to rupture through my ribcage.

The weight of his other hand settles on my lower back, fingers curled into my shirt. I’m still clutching my drink between us, one hand clinging to his forearm. Just when I wonder if I’ve truly, completely, lost my mind, he slowly withdrawals, pressing his forehead to mine.

“What the hell?” I whisper, already squirming away.

His hold on me is tight, the implication clear. He’s not letting me go. Not yet.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, and I wonder if he can hear how hard and fast my heart is beating. Am I having a heart attack? Is that what happens when you kiss a guy like Reese Cain? Your body overheats and implodes?

He asked me not to freak, but here I am, one second from a full-on freak out.

Again, I repeat, “What. The. Hell.”

He glances over his shoulder toward the crowded line and looks… well, seriously flustered. He eases his grip, but doesn’t release me. His eyes meet mine, filled with regret. “That was… I apologize. I know you’re not into me—guys.”

“Who was that for? I’m not dumb. Was this some kind of game?” I scan the room. “One of the guys on the team? A bet? Did Jefferson bet you to do that?”

I’ll stuff his cup with Icy-Hot.

He touches his lips with his index and forefinger and shakes his head. “No. My ex.”

I look around his massive body and see her. Shanna Wentworth. Everyone knows about her, or at leastofher. She and Reese were high school sweethearts. Destined for the NHL and a perfect marriage. He gave her a promise ring for high school graduation that she wore in a profile of him in aSports Illustratedissue about the rising stars of college hockey. That is, until last year when they broke up and Reese went full manwhore.

“So you kissed me to what? Make her jealous?” I’m still reeling as I take in her stick-straight hair with perfect makeup and lacquered nails shaped like talons. Her clothes are expensive, already looking like a socialite hockey wife. Me? Well, I’m in my ratty coffee-stained hoodie paired with track pants and running shoes. I look like… well, Reese’s twelve-year-old younger brother. “Me? You think I’m making someone jealous?”

His eyes narrow. “You don’t see yourself very clearly, do you?”

“What–”

“Oh, shit. She’s coming. Play along.” His eyes dart over my head and he raises his hand in a small wave.

“I will not.”

“Please?” Is that desperation? Can someone like Reese sound desperate? I’ve seen him slam a two-hundred-and-forty-pound man into the wall while skating twenty miles an hour. Or once play with blood gushing out of his nose, and he still managed to score the winning goal. This man is fearless.

Or so I thought.

“Why should I?” Because there’s no way this ends up with me not looking like a fool.

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