Page 71 of Pucking Around

I can’t help but smile as I shoot back a reply.

RACHEL (7:05AM): I call dibs on Poseidon! You and Mr. Peppermint Mocha have fun *shower emoji**eggplant emoji**soap emoji*

I glance over to see Caleb hard at work with the other equipment guys, getting the bags loaded. He’s focused on the job, not looking my way. I can’t help but take in the sharp lines of his back as his muscles stretch under his Rays tech shirt—

“Hello? Earth to Doc,” Langley laughs, giving me a gentle nudge.

“Hmm?” I jolt, nearly dropping my phone.

“Line’s moving, Doc.”

I hurry forward, mentally kicking myself. Why do I have zero chill when it comes to that damn equipment manager? I grab the metal railing with one hand and hoist up my wheelie bag with the other. Then I’m rushing up the stairs and onto the plane.

The flight attendants greet me as I shift past them. I’m not really paying attention, trying to stuff my phone in my pocket, as I feel my bag slam into something. I nearly topple over, but a firm hand wraps around my shoulder, keeping me from going ass over tits.

“Shit—sorry, Doc,” Sully mutters, retracting his huge foot from the aisle without taking his eyes off his Nintendo Switch.

I gasp, clutching my bags as I glance behind me. Ilmari is there in his cosplay of Thor at the Oscars. His topknot is as messy as ever, a few strands framing his face. He’s wearing a maroon three-piece suit. I can see the black ink peeking up at his neck. I haven’t gotten a good look at where that ink goes yet.

“Thanks,” I murmur.

His gaze trails down the length of his arm to his hand and he raises a brow, as if he’s surprised to see it there. He lets me loose.

I sway, clearing my throat before I shift further down the aisle. Ilmari is still doing his whole ‘sit with me if you want to live’ routine, so I head straight for row 20. Jake is already in the opposite aisle seat, headphones on, eyes locked on his own Nintendo. I learned quick that most of the guys play endless games of Mario Kart on every flight. It’s adorable, really. You can tell when things are getting heated because they all curse and groan up and down the plane.

Spying an open overhead bin, I bend over to grab my bag.

“Leave it,” Ilmari mutters, still just behind me.

I glance over my shoulder again. “What?”

“Leave the bag.”

“I’m a big girl, Mars. I can lift my own bag—hey—”

He steps in close, reaching around me to grab the handle of my wheelie bag. He lifts it one-handed into the overhead, lifting his own at the same time, sliding them both long ways into the bin.

I step back with a sigh, gesturing to our pair of seats. “After you.”

“Hold on.”

He strips out of his suit jacket. Carefully folding it inside out, he lays it on top of our bags in the bin. Standing so close to him, I catch the soft whiff of his cologne and fight a groan. This man smells as good as he looks. I can’t quite place this scent. It’s woodsy and crisp. It makes me think of fall nights on our family ranch up in Montana. Daddy bought it as a place to escape the world. I picture myself wrapped up in a knit sweater and faded jeans, head titled back, looking up at the blanket of stars.

Peace.The word comes to my mind unbidden. That’s what Ilmari smells like: the peace and quiet of Montana nights, the quiet cool of autumn—

“Excuse me,” he mutters, shifting into the seat.

I blink, sucking in a breath. Whoa, how can one scent be so powerful? I didn’t even notice that Ilmari stripped out of his button-up too. Seeing Ilmari Kinnunen in nothing but a sleeveless undershirt is giving me heart palpitations.

Holy Bulging Biceps, Batman!

And I’m sorry, but does this man have a full back tattoo?! As he turns and slides into the seat, the thin white fabric stretches to reveal a dark shadow down the whole length of his back. The ink peeks out the sides of his exposed shoulders and up the top at his neck. I can see more of the top design now. It’s bird’s wings.

Clearing my throat, I sit down, brushing up against the bare skin of Ilmari’s toned arm as I buckle myself in. I tuck my earpods and kindle into the seat pocket and cross my arms, trying to avoid glancing over at him.

Tattoos are art. They’re meant to be seen and appreciated. He had to commit to several sessions—base color, fill-ins, touch-ups. A piece that size must be steeped in purpose and meaning for him and, goddamn it, I want to see it.

“Can I see your tattoo?” I blurt.

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