Page 3 of The Wildest One
And those eyes—fuck. I could see the blueness from here. Along with a hint of the most beautiful smile.
She had an unassuming style and a kind of softness I craved in a woman, but never got because most were like the short-haired blonde—overdone and edgy.
Two blinks. That was all the time the redhead gave me before her stare returned to her friend.
But it was a long enough span to make my goddamn dick hard. To make my hand clench my beer as though it were her waist. To make the need in my body grow like the puck was in my possession and I’d just passed the blue line on my way to the goal.
“Now I dare you to tell me you’re not going to go over there and at least talk to her.”
I ground my teeth. “Stop using my words, asshole.”
“But notice you didn’t disagree.”
I slowly filled my lungs, using the same speed to let the air out. “You’re killing me, Landon.”
“No, brother. I’m saving you.”
“From what?”
“If you leave Boston without knowing what she tastes like, you’ll never forgive yourself.”
I laughed.
“What, you think I’m kidding?” he pressed. “I know you. The second we get on that plane to fly to DC in a couple of days, you’re going to bitch and moan about how you passed up the chance of a lifetime and?—”
“How do you know she’d even say yes?”
“The only person who can get her to do that is you.” He shook his head at me, grinning like a fucking fool. “I think she’d be all yours.” His brows rose. “Are you going to prove that to me? Or are you going to go back to your hotel room, alone, and make one of the biggest mistakes of your life?”
TWO
Jolie
Little jitters of anxiousness fluttered inside my chest as we stood near the front section of the bar, the room getting fuller by the minute. I bit my straw, flicking my tongue across the end of the hard plastic.
“Tell me again why we’re here,” I said to my best friend and roommate, sipping a pink lady—a cocktail I never normally ordered, but it had sounded fun when the bartender mentioned it.
“Because our fake IDs didn’t work at the arena—they’re too strict there—and I needed a drink before we headed back to campus,” Ginger said. “You dragged me to the game tonight, so I dragged you here.”
“I didn’t exactly drag you.” I fisted several bunches of her dark curls, running my fingers through them. The long-standing joke in our friendship was that she should have been named Jolie, and given my hair color, I should have been called Ginger. “The second the wordhockeycame out of my mouth, you were more than in.”
“Ugh, true. You got me there.” She suddenly had heart eyes. “The thought of those sweaty, bearded men with endless chiseled muscles does everything to me.”
I shook my head, laughing. “We need to find you a hockey player to date. I mean, we have a whole team of them at Boston University. Why don’t we start going to hockey parties so we can score you a boyfriend? Or two?”
Once an athlete reached his junior year at our school, he tended to move off campus, living in a house with a slew of other teammates. Ginger and I made our way around the party scene, but we almost always ended up at a frat house rather than the football, baseball, basketball, lacrosse, swim, or hockey house.
She snorted. “Jolie, we need to change that immediately and focus solely on hockey parties. Tomorrow night, we’re rounding up the girls and going to the hockey house.”
“Except they have an away game.”
“Only my luck.”
“Don’t worry, they’re home next weekend.” I curled my arm around her shoulders and pressed our cheeks together. “We’re going to make that dream of yours come true—mark my words.”
When I released her, she replied, “I sound like the biggest nut, don’t I?”
“What? No.” I squeezed her arm. “I get why you have a love for hockey dudes, trust me.”
