Page 13 of The Wildest One
Her chest didn’t lower, which told me she was holding her breath. “Beck, I’m so ready.”
“Good. The car is here.”
My hand moved to her lower back, and I walked her toward our ride, opening the door, where she climbed in first before I got in behind her.
As she was moving toward the other side of the back seat, I stopped her, positioning her in the middle so she wouldn’t be far. “I want you close.”
My arm slipped around her shoulders as the driver took off toward my hotel.
“What part of the city are you staying in?”
I took out my phone and showed her the screen where the name of the hotel was listed. “Whatever one this is.”
“Fancy.”
“You know the place?”
I wished I could see more of her face, not just the random parts that got lit from the passing cars and the streetlamps.
“Of course. It’s one of the nicest hotels here. It’s close to the arena. You’ll be able to walk there.”
“We did this afternoon after we checked in. I’ll be going there every morning for practice.”
She made the air in here smell so fucking good.
“Tell me, is the hotel in your favorite section of the city?”
“No. My favorite is South Boston.”
“Why?”
She shrugged. “It’s a whole vibe with water views and a wild nightlife and a cool mix of everything and anything you’d want to do.” She went quiet for a moment. “It’s too bad you can’t have a couple of days with no practice.”
I chuckled. “My body would fucking love that. But mid-season, Coach is never going to let that happen. So, every day we’re here, we’ll use Boston’s arena and weight room and work around their schedule.”
One thing I could see—and I was fucking obsessed with—was her smile.
“Oh, I’m sure Boston is going to love that. The enemy on their territory—I bet they want nothing more.”
“We’ve shared our facility with other teams before. We know the unwritten rules. We’ll be respectful.”
“Will that even matter?” She turned her body more toward me. “You hockey players live to fight. Whether it’s on or off the ice.”
My arm lowered from her shoulders to her waist. “Fights find us.”
She laughed. “Right.”
“They do.”
“I grew up less than five minutes from here. Most of my guy friends who played hockey were hotheaded with a raging New England temper. I know how they think, how they react, and what sets them off. They don’t just stumble upon arguments. They welcome them. And I’m not being stereotypical, but I’m being stereotypical. Hockey has a type, and submissive, nonconfrontational, and relaxed aren’t it.” She paused. “Unless you’re going to tell me the West Coast is different from the East Coast?”
I rubbed up and down her sides, enjoying this conversation more than she probably realized. “I think both coasts are equally angry.”
“Just like I thought.” She tapped my chest. “Is that where you’re from? The West Coast?”
“LA.”
“Wow, it must be nice to play at home and be close to your family—if your family still lives there.”
