Page 5 of Pucked Mountain Man
I do exactly what she says. Trying to focus on the movement and not her touch or the way it makes the tongue stick to the roof of my mouth.
She watches my movement for several reps. Then looking up she catches my stare. Color climbs her throat. But she doesn’t move her hand.
“Better,” she says.
“Did I improve my form, or are you being nice?”
“Both.” Her eyes sparkle.
Despite my best efforts to stay mad, my mood lifts. A little.
I finish the set because I’d like to still be a hockey player next spring. Pulling my leg free at the end, I start to stand. A pinch inside the joint burns. I should sit down.
I stand anyway.
She sees the micro-flinch. Of course she does.
“Sit,” she orders, already grabbing a rolled towel. “Use this for hamstring support.”
“I’ve got it.”
“And I said hamstring support.” She tucks the towel under my thigh fast, competent. “You don’t have to prove anything to me.”
“I’m not proving a point.”
Her brow lifts. “No? Because you look like you’re trying to pretend that you aren’t in pain.”
Her gaze drops to my chest, lingering on the tattoos scattered across my skin. I’m used to being looked at.
I’m not used to my best friend’s sister doing it with heat in her gaze.
“What?” I ask, rougher than I mean. “Taking a mental picture?”
Her cheeks pink. “Just… taking inventory.”
“Of my tattoos.”
“Mmm.” She tips her chin at my shoulder. “That one?”
It’s pretty straight-forward: a puck and crossed sticks with my number. “Team tribute. Got it after my first big-league goal.”
“I bet that felt good.”
“It did.”
“Still does?”
I shrug, looking at the floor. “Depends on the day.”
She nods, then points to the rose inside my biceps.
“For my family,” I say. I don’t elaborate. She doesn’t push.
Her eyes drift to the cross near my heart. She doesn’t point. Just looks a second longer, then carefully away. “That one’s a story for another day.”
“It’s a story for another person,” I say before I can help it. “You got any tattoos?”
Her teeth catch her bottom lip and my gut clenches. “Maybe.”
