Page 54 of Faking It with the Forward

We talk a little, and I even muster the courage to ask about his tattoo.

“You’re into the New Kings?” he asks.

“I’d show you my tattoos but they’re, uh, covered up.”

His eyebrow arches, curious. “Did you get tickets to the show?”

“Ugh. No.” I bite back on my drama with Nadia. I’m still too bitter about it. “We had an away game and I missed out.”

“Damn.” His face crumples in sympathy. “That sucks.”

“Tell me about it.”

We talk about our favorite songs and past concerts. Somehow, I manage to get even wetter helping Winston out of the pool, the big oaf dragging half the tub with him and then shaking off before we can wrap him in a towel. Logan captures him, wrapping him up, just as a gust of wind blows through.

“Burr,” I shiver, skin pebbling with goosebumps. “I’m not ready for winter.”

“Don’t you work in the arena all the time?” He looks up from Winston and his smile widens.

“Yeah, and I’m always freezing there too. I’m from the south, we don’t get cold weather in Tennessee until at least December. At least when I leave the arena now, it's warmer outside than inside.”

I rub my arms, and Logan’s eyes follow the movement, his mouth parting. Oh shit. What a day to ditch the full-coverage athletic bra.

A quick glance down and I see that the thin, wet fabric of my shirt is plastered to my chest. The white lace on the bra is visible as well as the outline of my peaked nipples. Instinctively, I cover my chest. My body may be cold, but my cheeks are flaming hot.

Logan gapes for a moment more, then shrugs out of his hoodie. “Here, you can wear this.”

“Thanks,” I say, reaching for the jacket, but a six-foot-four wall of muscle steps between us. He’s got his sweatshirt, the one I wore today, in his hands.

“Cold, Sunshine?” His eyes are unabashedly zeroed in on my chest, which only makes my nipples tighten. He gently lowers the shirt over my head, engulfing me in his scent.

Before I can speak, he bends and kisses me. Not a simple brush, not a flirty graze. No, a full-on, tongue pushing between my lips, jaw-working kiss.

My knees threaten to give.

He pulls back and winks, leaving my lips burning and my heart pounding, before walking off with a swagger.

I wrap my arms around me and see Logan watching me with a scowl on his face. “Did he just metaphorically piss on you?”

I glance over at Reese’s retreating figure, dazed and confused. “Yeah, I think he did.”

16

Reese

As captain, I try to be the example of excellence. That means I make an effort to be the first one at the arena, and often the last to leave. While I’m trying to set a tone of the expectations I have for the rest of the team, I also just like being in the gym or locker room before everyone arrives, the room getting loud with voices and slamming lockers.

It’s game day, our third and next to last preseason match, and the bus won’t be here for another hour. I don’t expect to find anyone else here other than maybe Coach Bryant locked up in his office going over last-minute strategy. But the sound of Coach Green’s voice in the training room catches my attention—particularly when he says my name.

Curious, I step down the hall and listen.

“I didn’t think this was going to be a problem with you, Twyler, which is why I never felt the need to bring it up. You’ve always been focused and kept a clear distance with the players on a social level.” I hear the shuffle of papers. “Hell, the fact you hate jocks was a selling point for agreeing to accept you into the hockey program.”

“It’s not a problem,” Twyler says, her tone firm. “I admit that I’ve become friendly with a few of the players this year, and that’s exactly what you saw in the picture included in the campus newsletter. Two friends at a school-sponsored volunteer project.”

“He’s hanging on you while you’re wearing his sweatshirt. I’m not a teenage girl, but even I know what that implies.”

“It means I was cold, and Reese offered me his sweatshirt.” Her voice rises. “You know how Cain is—how they all are—they flirt nonstop. It’s their only skill besides skating and goal scoring. But you and I both know I am no more Reese Cain’s type than he’s mine.”

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