Page 34 of Faking It with the Forward

Nadia thrust her hand across the table. “Deal.”

We’d shaken on it. And here I am, hours later, with my dick in my hand, exploiting her friend in my depraved masturbatory fantasies.

For thesecondtime.

Jesus, I think, dropping my dick and feeling my balls deflate. I’m a fucking asshole.

* * *

I don’t see her again until I’m in the gym that afternoon, getting in a pre-practice workout.

She’s back in her trainer uniform—although the gym is hot, and she’s ditched the hoodie for a Wittmore Hockey T-shirt and a pair of shorts.

The workout room isn’t crowded. Practice doesn’t start for another thirty minutes, but I felt the need to work off a little energy. The other guys in the room must feel the same way, either that, or they’re here for a prearranged meeting with Coach Green or Twyler.

Lifting a set of free weights, I discreetly watch her work with Hartman on the mat as he stretches out his calves. “That’s right,” she says, kneeling in front of him. A flash of my fantasy comes barreling back. “Spend a little time doing each of these exercises before and after practice and I think it’ll reduce the tightness.”

Hartman’s eyes are glued just below her chin, directly at her tits.

Hell no.

I rack the weights with a loud clank, and cut across the room.

Coach Green steps out of the office and looks up from his clipboard. “You need something?”

I blink, knowing I need to say something. “Oh, yeah, I’m feeling a little tight after that last practice. I thought maybe a stretch could help?”

“Perkins,” he says without looking up, “when you finish with Hartman, Cain needs some attention.”

Her gaze shifts over, but she keeps her expression neutral. “Sure. We’re almost finished.”

I grab some water and wait, feeling stupid. Feeling territorial. We’d made a firm agreement not to let this interfere with her work, yet here I am, interfering.

“Thanks, TG,” Hartman says, obviously catching on to Axel’s nickname. He grins at me. “Hey, Cap, having a problem?”

“Nothing a little stretch can’t fix.” He looks over at Twyler again and irrational annoyance licks up my spine. “Why don’t you get a head start on the ice,” I tell him, arms crossed over my chest. “Work on wrist shots before everyone gets out there.”

He nods, looking a little guilty. Wrist shots are a weak spot for Hartman, and I just called him out on it.

“Good idea.”

He exits, hustling to the locker room. I face Twyler and she grabs a file out of the slot on the wall and opens it. I see my name on the tab. Reese Cain.

“What’s going on?” she asks, a hundred percent professional.

“Um, my uh,” I think back to what Reid said about Twyler being great at massaging his hamstrings. “My hamstrings. They’ve been really tight lately.”

She frowns. “You’ve been stretching?”

“Yep.”

“Okay, well,” she jots something down in the file and then points to the mat. “Why don’t you get on the floor and I’ll take a look.”

“Sure.” I drop to the floor, hands flat on the mat behind me. She stands before me. My eyes wander to her thighs. Is that a birthmark?

“Give me your foot,” she says, returning the folder to the slot. “I’m going to apply some pressure. You let me know if it hurts or feels uncomfortable.”

Twyler offers her hands. I drop back to my elbows and put my shoe-covered foot into her cupped palms. She adjusts, leaving one hand to brace my foot at the heel and the other moves to my calf. She gently massages the back of my leg, then leans forward, stretching the muscles. Damn, maybe my hamstringsaretight.

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