Page 57 of Faking It with the Forward

“Yes, sir.” She steps toward the small training room off the locker room. I follow her in and lean against the table.

“Lift up your shirt.” When I hesitate, she adds, “We all saw the hit. Let me see it.”

How lame is it that I’m into the fact she watches me play?

I lift up the right side of my jersey, revealing the area that got bruised. “Tell me you saw the goal, too.”

“I saw it.” Her eyes go wide. Not because of my impressive abs, but because I got a hell of a bruise forming. “Jesus, Reese.”

“It’s fine,” I say before she can flip out. “I can still play the third period.”

My abs retract before she even touches me, in anticipation of the pain. “Fine, huh?” She rolls her eyes. Her touch is firm but gentle. She’s so fucking good at that. “Are your ribs tender?”

“No. I swear it’s just a bruise.” I take a swig of my water bottle. “I’ve had worse.”

She snorts. “That’s not reassuring. Y’all’s tolerance for pain makes you keep playing well past the point of reason.”

She grabs an ice pack from the cooler and presses it against my side. It’s cold, and I jolt before relaxing into the chill on my overheated skin.

“You can go back out, but you need to calm down. It’ll help with Rodriguez ejected, but the rest of the team will want revenge.” She cleans her hands with antibacterial gel. “I think their goalie has an injury.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s favoring his left side, even though he’s a righty. My guess is he strained his shoulder. Maybe his wrist. Go for the right. He doesn’t have the reach.”

“Good catch.” I arch an eyebrow. “Thought you weren’t into hockey.”

“Just because I’m not into it, doesn’t mean I don’t understand the game.” She steps back and gives me a hard look. “Don’t do anything stupid out there, okay?”

“I won’t,” I tell her, easing off the table to go join the rest of the team.

“And Reese,” she gives me a final look. “Take the shot when you get the chance. Don’t overthink it.”

I nod, recognizing that applies to more than just hockey. I had a shot with Twyler and I blew it. If another opportunity comes my way, there’s no way in hell I’m going to let it pass.

* * *

“Sure you don’t want to come?” Jeff asks, shrugging on his jacket. Reid and Axel stand in the doorway, itching to get to the bar.

“Nah, y’all go without me.” Truth is that I think I’d pass out if I went to the Badger Den with the guys. I barely got changed, giving up after I pulled on a pair of sweats. It’s late, the bus didn’t get back until almost ten, but my roommates aren’t going to waste a Saturday night. “I’ll be here with my ice pack and a pizza.”

“Want me to call Ginna?” Axel asks. “She’d be happy to keep you company while you recover.”

The answer to that is a hard no. Finding solace in a jersey chaser’s pussy is the last thing I want right now. “Pass, but thanks for the offer.”

“Your loss, brother,” he says, walking out the door with Reid.

Jeff lingers a minute longer, disappearing into the kitchen. He returns with two, ice cold bottles of beer. “One to dull the pain by drinking. One to ice that bruise.”

I take them with plans on definitely drinking them both. “Thanks, man.”

From the couch I turn on ESPN and order a pizza, trying not to cry when my side seizes from twisting off the cap of the beer bottle. With less than sixty seconds to spare, we won the game when Kirby lit the lamp with a beautiful goal. It was fucking epic, giving the bulldogs an undeniable fuck-you loss at home. Jonah’s knee seems to be okay, just a tweak, but fucking Rodriguez deserved more than just an ejection.

I’m watching highlight reels of professional matches when the doorbell rings, which seems awfully fast for delivery on a weekend. Struggling to my feet, I clutch the ice pack against my side and open the door.

Not only is my pizza steaming hot, but so is the delivery person.

“You’re way better looking than my normal pizza guy,” I say, looking past the box of pizza to Twyler. She’s in jeans that have a row of slashes ripped up the thigh and a tight black sweater.

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