Page 8 of Their Obsession

His what? Did she just say what I think she did?

“So I texted him from your phone and asked him out for a drink tomorrow night.”

I could kill her.

“He texted back. You have plans for later this week.” She chucks my own phone at me, the one she’s covertly been texting on without me realizing for the last hour. “I hope you own something date-worthy to wear in that closet of drab work wear of yours.”

Fuck.

FIVE

Lilly

Icould kill my best friend. In fact, friend is too kind of a word to describe that deceptive snake who has tricked me into this forced, awkward situation. I absolutely do not have cute date clothes because, well, who needs cute date clothes when you never go out? And even if I did, I would not be wearing them to my job. I worked too hard and too long to be taken seriously as a female in the professional athletics world to let it be ruined by dressing in a way that might cause some of the assholes that exist within the world to view me as a piece of meat and not a professional. Luckily, the Storm organization is better than most. Our GM doesn’t put up with a lot of bullshit, but I still don’t want to be seen as lesser by anyone.

Our date tonight is conveniently after practice and after I am no longer needed for the evening at the rink, which means Noah will have to deal with me looking like I do every day. Hopefully, I don’t end up at some hip nightclub in my business casual pantsand team logo quarter zip.

If he doesn’t like me like this, then he doesn’t really like me. It is what it is.

Part of me is really nervous. I haven’t been on a date in so long. I haven’t even flirted in ages. I worry I won’t know what to say or what to do. But Noah genuinely seems like a nice guy, the type of guy that isn’t about dicking around or showing off. He seems like he actually wants to get to know me. I’d given up a long time ago on thinking that I could find someone nice and normal after everything that happened in my past. But Emily is right–I’ve let my past ruin my present for too long. Maybe it’s time I give myself a chance to find someone who could make me happy.

Having made up my mind, I slam close the lid of my laptop and stow all my things in my bag before exiting my office. I hiss in pain as I walk down the hall. My wrist is still a little sore from my fall. When I’m busy at work, I hardly notice it, but when I get a moment to breathe, all the throbbing tension comes back to the surface. I should probably have had Karmine wrap it again this morning. I cradle my hurt wrist in my good hand as I walk past door after door. Behind the scenes, most major sports arenas are labyrinths. Long mazes of tunnels that lead to more tunnels. Every snaking corridor is covered in nondescript doors. I make my way through the now familiar path of winding hallways until I feel the temperature begin to drop. The sting of the cold air in my lungs is a welcome sensation. Rounding the corner towards the rink, I can hear the sounds of practice still going. The scraping of skates on ice, the soft swish of fabric, the voices of the players carrying all the way back to where I am behind the scenes.

I haven’t skated for the last few days, giving myself a chance to heal up completely after my fall. Missing my ice time hasn’t helped my sour mood. I don’t like feeling weak or lesser. I thrive when I’m in control.

Stepping into the bright lights of the arena, I’m struck by the ease with which the players move together, yet independently. They flow as a unit, each individual moving as a piece of a larger puzzle. They’re running a scrimmage—three on three. The coach is watching from the sidelines, assessing with narrowed eyes. Coach Karr is a former player, a hard ass, and not someone I’ve ever been inclined to talk to for longer than necessary. He’s intense.

As I watch the practice, my eyes land on one player in particular - number forty-seven. He’s smaller than some of the others, not an enforcer but the speed and ease with which he skates is impressive. He weaves through the other players as if it’s nothing. I can’t help but be impressed. I’ve never really focused on him, and now that I am, I can’t seem to look away. His broad shoulders dip as he skates and I wonder how they’d look bracketing me from above. He comes up against Duke, one of our better second-line defenders. He feigns left, then goes right, beating Duke with ease, before shooting at the net. It hits the crossbar with a sharp metal sound that echoes through the empty arena.

The coach blows the whistle, signaling the players to stop. I can’t seem to peel my eyes away as forty-seven pulls his shirt up to wipe sweat from his face. As he does, his stomach is exposed. Sweat-streaked, perfectly formed muscles peek out from where his shirt is lifted and my core clenches at the sight. A small patch of hair leads down from his belly button to the waistband of his pants. The thought of running my fingers along it, following it all the way to where it meets his hard length has my stomach swooshing and my thighs tactfully clenching with need.

What the hell?

I’m around sweaty, well-built, professional athletes all day, and I never react like this. I’m acting like some fucking puck bunny. That’s not me. I’m a goddamn professional. I shake my head,willing myself to get it together. But when my eyes land back on the ice, they’re met with a set of piercing gray irises. They’re like an impending storm—deep and dark and swirling with electric energy. The corners lift as Noah smiles, clearly pleased that he caught me checking him out. He lifts the helmet, now in his hand, up in the air and nods in greeting before shooting me a wink. I swiftly look around, making sure no one noticed. When I look back, Noah is skating off the ice with the rest of the team. I let out a long sigh of relief.

Get it together, Lil. Head in the game.

I repeat my father’s mantra that’s ingrained into me—blades on the ice and head in the game. Clearly, Emily was right. It’s been too long since I’ve been with someone and the anticipation for my first real date in years has my mind all worked up. I just need to calm down and relax. It’s just a date. With a normal guy. He just happens to be insanely attractive, has abs for days, and is able to lift me like it’s nothing—.

Nope, not at work. Stop it, subconscious. Damn you libido.

I descend the steps, towards the ice. The scent of the frozen water pulling me towards the rink, like a parent welcoming you home. Coach is the only one still out here, staring down at his tablet, clearly deep in thought.

“They’re cohesive, aren’t they, Doc?” he asks without looking up.

I’m slightly taken aback, but shouldn’t be. Coach Karr sees everything that happens in this building. I descend to the very first row before sinking down into one of the plush seats. Only a thin barrier of plastic separates me from the bench. Best seat in the rink. The seat I sit in every single game.

“You’ve created a good morale, Coach. You have skill, talent, work ethic, and cohesion. It could be your year,” I confirm. Part of my role as the team psych is to make sure they’re working together at optimal levels, that they’re motivated and moving asa single unit. This group is good.

“We’re missing something. I just don’t know what,” Coach mumbles without glancing up from the tablet in his hands. I can’t tell if he’s talking to me or himself. “We might need to make a trade.”

My head snaps towards his tall, dark frame. “A trade? At this point in the season?”

He finally looks up, registering the tone of my voice laced with frustration. We’ve worked too hard on team dynamics to fuck this up now.

“Yes, a trade, Doc. This team is missing a certain aggression that we’re going to need if we want to win the cup this season.” The way he says ‘Doc,’ as if he’s putting me in my place, has me bristling with annoyance.

“I’m not sure raw aggression is really what this team—,” a hand landing on my shoulder cuts off my thought and causes me to jump in my seat.

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