Page 30 of The Import Slot
“Morning, Jenna. What’s got you here early again?” he leans against the boards and follows my eyes. “Did you know he’s forfeited his salary? He’s donating it to my cause. I told him we couldn’t accept it, but he insisted.”
My breath catches in my throat. “That’s incredible! Very generous of him.” This will make a huge difference to the team. It’s likely more than we could generate through sponsorship.
“You’ve got a look in your eye. You got a thing for him?” he asks. I don’t answer, because Ryan looks over and winks at me. “It seems like he’s interested in you as well. I know I don’t need to tell you to be careful.”
“Careful about what?”
“Just saying that these hockey players have a reputation, and I’m sure you’ve heard what sort of stuff Danny gets up to,” he says.
I knew, and I’d bet that Ryan could get anyone he wanted, but that didn’t stop me from liking him. That didn’t stop me from feeling the way I do. I always told myself no hockey players because I don’t want my thighs to be the object of a dressing room joke. I know what some of them can be like.
The team groups on the ice to listen to Coach Adams, some down on one knee.
“We’re just friends. I’ve been running with him and Danny, just hanging out. It’s been good to get to know him,” I say, and he nods.
There’s a flurry of activity as the team exits the ice and the junior players arrive at the bench, getting their things ready. I sit down and get my skates out. Ryan leaves last and gives me another wink, melting my insides. All I’ve thought about is the feeling of his chest beneath my hands, how close he was, and how much I wanted him to kiss me, and I bet it’s written all over my face.
Ryan removes his helmet and stacks his stick with the others before disappearing into the dressing room.
By the time he comes out, we’re already on the ice. I’ve laid cones out and slid a net over from the boards, setting it up before skating around a bit while my uncle does his thing. Waiting at the boards in front of the bench, I lean my elbows back onto the surface and I know he’s here before I see him. My neck prickles as I feel his breath on my nape, exposed because my hair is up in a ponytail.
“You’re really making this friend thing difficult, Jen,” he breathes into my ear, almost a growl. I jolt, but spin around to face him instead of falling flat on my arse.
“What makes you say that?” I ask.
He cocks a brow and smirks, a lopsided smirk that literally makes my knees wobble. I grab onto the side of the boards, my boobs pressing into his chest as he leans over to catch me, his hands on my biceps. Even though I’m wearing layers, I can feel the heat from the contact. His eyes look greener today and there’s a glint of satisfaction.
“Ryan! Thanks for coming along again!” my uncle shouts, and as if it’s his cue, he gloves up and grabs his stick before gliding onto the ice.
His dark-wash jeans make me want to bite his delicious bum. With his skates tucked in neatly, I watch as he gets the kids laughing about something before moving on to his demo. They stare in awe as he shows them a 5-point toe drag drill and asks them to try it by themselves before heading back over.
“Do you want to grab a coffee after this?” he says.
“I can’t go today, sorry. I’ve got to take more boxes up to my parents’ house. Becca’s letting me use her car again; she’s bringing it to my place.”
“I’ll take you. You’ll need the muscle if you’ve got as much crap as you’ve stored already.” He mocks, rolling his eyes and I laugh. Honestly, every day this week that we’ve been running, he’s had me laughing all the time. He’s such a dick, but I love it.
“You honestly want to spend your last free Saturday humping and dumping?”
“There’ll be humping?” he asks, eyes wide but his tone jovial.
“Not that kind of humping!” I tease.
He skates backwards toward the group again and picks up where he left off, his eyes darting to meet mine every few minutes.
Ryan’s moved on from drills. He’s animated and making a gesture to keep low to the ice. He’s telling the kids that they need to hear their skates on the surface and that every shot they take needs to make noise. It’s endearing because they latch on to every single word.
They spend another ten minutes working before my uncle gives me the ‘time to clean up’ gesture from where he stands.
I skate back over and begin clearing up the props, bending to pick up the markers. Ryan talks to my uncle briefly before skating over as the kids leave the ice.
“I’m going to spend a few moments messing around,” he says, dragging a puck towards himself with the toe of his stick.
“Oh no, you don’t. We’re on a time-critical clear-up.” I say, trying to kick the puck away, but obviously, he quickly protects it. “Ugh, why do I bother?”
“Let’s see how you handle a stick,” he says. Wait, is that a euphemism?
“Which one?” I jibe and let out a laugh. “I’m sorry I couldn’t resist.” This catches him off-guard, and he’s raised his stick enough for me to give the puck a good kick, sending it up the ice.
