Page 71 of In the Net
I grin slyly. “Yes.”
Determination sets in his face. “You’re on. Don’t try to wiggle out of it. Or should I say?—”
“Please, Sebastian. That pun is too easy even for you.”
We settle back into watching the show as Sebastian keeps working on the table.
“Ta-dah!” he announces, stepping back and sweeping his arms to the finished product.
Even though I didn’t ask him to carry it back here or to assemble it—in fact, I asked him not to—I still thank him as he carries it to the kitchen, because it really was helpful. And he spent a lot of time today doing it when he could be doing anything else.
After setting it in the kitchen, he walks back to the living room. I think he’s going to pick up his sweater to leave, but instead he folds himself onto the couch, his long legs sprawling.
“Couple more episodes?” he asks, an eager glimmer in his eye.
“Sure, why not?”
I sit down next to him, so close I can feel his body heat. He picks up the remote and hits play.
So much for putting more distance between us.
28
SEBASTIAN
Carter’s open. With one defender between me and the goal, and Carter having a clean shot on it, passing to him is a no-brainer.
But we’re in the third period, and I’ve only scored one goal.
I need to score three.
I’m a veteran. I should be a team player. I should be unselfish. Every play I make on the ice should be about my team, not about me.
But my cock hasn’t been able to stop twitching every time I think about Harper doing the worm for me. Seeing her body undulate against the floor.
I know it’ll be hot as fuck, but it’s not just the fact that I’m getting way too turned on by my fake girlfriend that makes me want to see it.
I like the idea of her feeling comfortable enough to act goofy with me. Her sending me something silly we can both laugh about.
I don’t know why I like that idea so much. That’s the kind of thing real couples do. We’re not a real couple. We’re not going to be.
But I only have a fraction of a second to make this decision. Not enough time to plumb the depths of my subconscious.
I’m keeping the puck.
I fake a pass to Carter. Since passing the puck makes all the sense in the world, Dartmouth’s goalie bites and angles his body toward Carter, anticipating the shot coming from him.
I’m hoping that the defender in front of me will do the same. Hoping that he’ll scramble in Carter’s direction, so that my deke to his other side will succeed.
Nope. Doesn’t happen.
The defender covering me reads my fake, and I can’t get around him.
I’ve wasted enough time that Dartmouth players are swarming onto their side of the ice. We’ve missed a perfect chance for a goal, because of me.
I curse myself. I should be better than this. I shouldn’t be thinking about anything else while I’m on the ice other than what I need to do to win this game. To make sure my final season as a Black Bear is a success. To make sure the younger players inherit a team that still has momentum when I graduate at the end of this year.
I shouldn’t be thinking of how badly I want my fake girlfriend to send me a video of a stupid dance.
