Page 59 of Daring the Defender

The only interruption to the steady pace is when something happens at the game. Loud cheers or deep, frustrated groans, cut through my train of thought, dragging my eyes up to the screens. Instantly, I look at the players' jerseys. Cain. Rakestraw.Wilder…

That was earlier, now the place is filled with happy hockey fans celebrating tonight’s win that gets Wittmore one step closer to the finals. The game was played about an hour away, over at Hilldale, but unlike the other nights I’ve worked, the bar seems to be more crowded now than earlier.

Lugging the box, I go out the back door and set the empty bottles in the bin, then head back into the steamy kitchen where I wash up and cut the limes. Even back in the chaos of the kitchen I hear an increase in the rowdiness out front.

“What’s that all about?” I ask Dennis, one of the line cooks.

His eyebrows rise into the bandana covering his hair and he says, “I think that means we’re about to get really busy.”

Armed with a fresh bowl of limes, I dump them into the little container by the bar and sure enough, the place is swarmed. Josie leans over the bar, shouting out an order to Mike, trying to get her voice heard.

“What’s going on?” I ask, peering over the crowd.

“The team just got here.”

“Oh.” Without warning, my heart flutters in my chest. “I thought they celebrated off campus after games.”

“Home games,” Josie says. “After nearby away games they like to show up here. It’s why everyone stuck around. To celebrate with them.” She tugs at the new shirt Mike handed outwhen I got to work. “Why do you think Mike gave you that jersey to wear?”

It’s an authentic Wittmore hockey jersey, black and gold, the name of the bar written across the shoulders. Josie showed me how to tie it in a knot at the waist to keep it from snagging on the chair backs when we’re working.

“Rakestraw!” My head snaps to the left, but I know instantly that it’s not me they’re calling for. It’s my brother, who has just stepped through the door, bundled up in his heavy hockey jacket, Nadia tucked under his arm.

Reese and Twyler are behind him. Then Jefferson, who makes a beeline to a table of girls that have been slowly sipping seltzer and grazing on a single basket of fries all night. My eyes ping back to the door and I see Murphy and Emerson walk in.

At that point I turn away, realizing that I’m searching for someone I have no right to be looking for. Reid had a great game; he probably has someone else to celebrate with. “I’ll grab them some menus,” I tell Josie, needing to be busy. “Anything else?”

“I think we could use extra napkins. These guys are going to eat all the wings.”

“Gotcha.”

The supply closet is down the hall toward the back exit, across from the bathrooms. I push open the door, assessing the huge boxes of paper and dry goods Mike has stored back here. How he manages to get so much crammed into one tiny closet is beyond me. I’m up on my tiptoes, when I hear the bathroom door swing open and I turn, catching a glimpse of auburn hair.

The last thing I see is the number 08 stitched on the arm of the jacket as he vanishes behind the closing door.

My heart flutters wildly in my chest as an idea springs to mind. Something bold and incredibly un-Shelby-like. I glance down the hall making sure no one is watching, and the minutethe bathroom door swings open I step out, grabbing Reid by the arm and dragging him into the supply closet.

“I was looking for–” he starts, a sexy grin tugging at his mouth. I don’t let him finish, pushing up on my toes to meet his mouth with mine. His lips are warm, and if I thought he’d be startled I was wrong. He reacts immediately, mouth hard against mine, meeting me, kiss for kiss, with such intensity that I feel it deep in my bones.

His hand tightens around my waist, thumb rubbing over the exposed skin. Slowly he eases the kiss and looks down at me.

“Look at you. Making the first move.”

“Is that wrong?

He presses his hips into my lower belly. He’s already getting hard. “Does it feel wrong?”

I shake my head, knowing that when he’s like this, he’s into it. Into me. “Excited?”

“Getting jumped by a sexy little thing wearing a Wittmore jersey?” His tongue darts out, and he eyes me like he wants to devour me. “Yeah, you make me a lot of things, GG. Excited is only one of them.”

“You like the jersey?”

“Fuck yeah.” His fingers toy with the knot by my waist. “The only thing that would make it better is if you were wearing it in my bed, and it had my name on the back.”

Heat pools in my lower belly, and I don’t know how to respond to that. Turns out, I don’t need to, because his lips, his tongue, his hands are devouring me again. Pushing my fingers up his shirt, I feel those delicious, amazing, unnatural abs. How is this man real?

He pushes me backward, pressing me into a stack of boxes. “You taste so fucking good,” he mumbles, dipping his fingers between my legs, rubbing me though the denim. “You think you can come like this?”

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