Page 3 of Accidentally Fudging the Beast
I turn in my chair, trying to appear casual, and catch sight of Trent looming in the doorway.
God, he's perfect.
His dark beard is perfectly trimmed, his jaw as sharp as the blades on the skates looped around his broad shoulders. Like always, his hair is a little wild, as if he's just run a hand through it…which he probably has. He's wearing a too-tight long-sleeve t-shirt that leaves nothing tothe imagination, and—oh, cool, my brain just blue-screened over gray sweats again.
Why is he so freaking gorgeous?
And why am I having a hot flash?
He sees me staring at him and his lips quirk up into his signature half-smirk before he saunters over to the plate of rapidly vanishing fudge. "Hey, Dani. Did you make these? Or did you just claim credit for someone else's baked goods?"
"I slaved over them," I say, which is only a little bit of an exaggeration considering the last two hours involved both a broken hand mixer and what is now an uninsurable kitchen. "If you're not on your best behavior today, I'll put a laxative in next year's batch."
Actually, I'm not entirely sure this year's batch won't have the same effect. But I probably shouldn't tell him that.
"I'm always on my best behavior," Trent smirks, and pops a tiny square of fudge into his mouth. I watch a little too intently as he chews thoughtfully before his lips quirk up again. "It's good."
Score one for Team Dani.
"Sandra's going to be so pissed," I whisper.
"Yep," he agrees, "especially when she realizes you loaded these with actual butter and not that fake plant bullshit she tried to convince me to buy last week." He wipes chocolatefrom the corner of his mouth, and my soul briefly leaves my body.
I have got to get it together around this man. He's just another player on the team. That's it.
Yeah, right.
Everyone says he's a giant pain-in-the-ass. They call him cranky and rude. But…he's never any of those things to me. And I do not fantasize about any of his teammates the way I do him. And let me just say, I did not know my subconscious was so inventive. Or that it knew so many different ways to use skate laces as rope.
I clear my throat, desperately trying not to think about said inventive skate lace fantasies. "Is your back bothering you again?"
It's been bothering him ever since he took a nasty fall almost two months ago. Unlike most of the guys on the team, Trent is close to retirement age. But he pushes himself to the brink every week anyway, stubbornly refusing to quit. Honestly, I'm not sure he knowshowto quit.
"Yeah. It's definitely his back," Ryan chortles.
Trent shoots him a dirty glare before turning to look at me again, something unreadable in his cool green eyes. "Yeah, the tension is killing me. I need your magic hands, Sunshine."
Ryan chortles again before shoving another piece of fudgein his mouth.
I'm one hundred percent sure there are at least five other people in the building who are more qualified to deal with whatever tension Trent has, but I'd literally step on Legos to put my hands on him again.
"Give me two minutes," I say, already heading for the treatment room. "And don't touch the hot packs. I haven't been sued for third-degree burns yet, and I don't want to start today."
His rumbling laughter floats after me.
I grab clean sheets, then try to arrange the room so it doesn't look like the inside of a CVS after a tornado. There are always too many resistance bands, and at least one yoga ball with a slow leak…which the guys use exclusively for impromptu dodgeball.
I shove the ball in the corner and wipe down the table with hospital-grade cleaner. Nothing saysholiday spiritlike the lingering scent of industrial-strength lemon. Once the table is more or less dry, I quickly cover it.
I hear the thump-thump of slapshots ricocheting off the far wall from the other side of the hallway as I try to get my shit together. Someone yells, "Merry Christmas, dumbass!" and gets a loud, "Eat a dick!" in response.
Like I said, frat house at two in the morning.
Someone knocks behind me, and I turn, expecting to find Trent standing there, but it's actually Liz again, peeking around the door like a mouse trying not to get caught.She glances at the fudge, then at Trent, then back to the fudge, and finally at me.
"Are you in love with him or trying to give him diabetes?" she whispers.
"Probably both," I mutter. "They may also all be shitting themselves soon. To be determined."
