Page 2 of Accidentally Fudging the Beast
"Hold up," I say, gaping in disbelief. "How do you know they're for Sandra?"
"You drew her name."
"How do you possibly know that?"
He smirks at me. "The new girl always gets her name. It's tradition."
So much for Secret Santa being, well, secret.
"So you know they're for her, and you still just help yourself anyway?" I demand, hands on my hips in outrage.
He gestures at the plate, mouth full. "It's fudge, Frost. Did you really expect it to be safe in a room full of hockey players?"
He's not wrong. Every member of the team in the immediate vicinity is already lining up behind him like it's Black Friday at Best Buy, jockeying for their turn.
Typical.
Thank God I have Sandra's tray gift-wrapped in the car for this very reason.
Never trust food around an athlete.
Apparently, you can't trust Secret Santa around here, either.
Why am I not surprised that it's rigged? No one wants Sandra's name.
I peel off my jacket and hang it on the back of my office chair, which is two inches from the window overlooking the PT exam room. I glance at my reflection in the glass and make a face. Frizzy blonde ponytail, undereye circles not even Jesus can fix, and bright orange scrubs that make my curves look more like a traffic cone than anything. Perfect. Just the vibe I wanted for my last pre-holiday shift.
My phone pings with a schedule update while I'm trying to tame my hair. The words "PT APPT – KIRK, TRENT" glare at me from the screen, sending butterflies into my stomach.
I immediately start sweating. It's not a gentle, delicate shimmer of sweat, either. Oh, no. This is a hot, sticky, armpit Niagara Falls.Awesome.
I don't even have to check the air vent to know the heat's cranked up to Hell Mode because the teamplays better when it's warm.
I don't buy it. There's no way ass sweat is aerodynamic.
Trent is on my schedule more often than not these days. Which means I'm a sweaty, stuttering mess most days. He's a beast of a man with a smirk that's probably been outlawed in seven states.
I plop into my chair, trying to focus on updating some case notes, only to give up immediately and Google how to talk to hot people, instead. The Internet unhelpfully informs me that I should focus on being myself.
Thousands of years of human knowledge at my fingertips, and that's all I get. Clearly, the internet isn't aware thatmyselfis a socially awkward, never-been-kissed virgin with no filter.
"Thank you for nothing, internet," I grumble, closing out of the browser before anyone sees it.
A thump rattles the glass above my head.
I look up to see Liz, one of the athletic trainers and my closest friend here, pressing her face against the window like a bored goldfish. She mimes eating and points to the fudge, then gives me a thumbs up. I flash her a grin before she disappears.
Behind me, there's a familiar scuffle as more players filter in and start roughhousing. I swear, the entire team's collective maturity level is stuck atfrat house at two a.m. Individually, they're great. Together? I want to murder them daily.
"Look out!" someone shouts half a second before there's a loud crash.
I don't even have to look to know who's responsible. Only two players have that particular stompy walk—Ryan, and the reason I even came into work this week instead of faking a mild flu: Trent Kirk, also known as my future husband. I mean, if I ever figure out how to act like a normal human being around him, anyway.
I hear his rough growl before I see him. "Why the fuck are you standing in front of the door, Clarke? And is that fudge?"
I'm not sure if my heart or my ovaries react to the sound of his voice first. Both are embarrassingly enthusiastic.
"Didn't expect you to come busting in like the goddamn police," Ryan grumbles. "Frost, tell him to stop touching my fudge!"
