Page 99 of The Wildest One
“Lift, like you normally would.” She wasn’t smiling, but her eyes were.
“Any specific body part?”
Her lips finally moved into a grin. “Whichever one you think will have the biggest effect.”
“You mean whichever exercise will make the women lose it and die …”
“Mmhmm.”
I held my hips. “When you were filming my other teammates, did you say these kinds of things to them?”
“Heck no. I just have a … different relationship with you.”
“We have a relationship now?” She went to say something, and I cut her off with, “I see we’re still rolling with the professionalism.”
She crossed her arms. “Are you kidding me? First, you try to kiss me in my office. Now you’re talking about licking me. And I’m the one who’s not rolling with the professionalism?”
“I also see you’re avoiding my question.”
Her head fell back.
And before she could answer, the door opened, and the two-person film crew walked in.
When her eyes locked with mine, I gave her my cockiest smile, and I made my way over to the free weights. My legs were toast after today’s workout. They were going to have to settle on arm exercises.
The film crew—a man and woman—came closer. The woman pointed the camera at me as I lifted the forty-pounders off therack, and the man positioned a microphone not far from my face.
“We’re not going to ask you any questions,” the man said. “We just want to record your movements and catch any sound you make. We’re ready whenever you are.”
I didn’t look at the camera.
My focus was on Jolie as I curled the weights. But after a few reps, my grays were really sticking to me, the sweat acting like fucking glue. So, I set the weights down and peeled off my T-shirt.
Now shirtless, knowing the weight and repetition would cause a pump through my muscles, making my veins pop and my biceps bulge and my pecs tighten, I looked fucking ripped for this shoot.
And Jolie noticed because there was an instant change in her expression.
A redness spread across her face; her lips parted, like she wanted to say something or she needed them open to breathe. Whatever the case was, she stayed silent. I was sure that was due to the fact that we weren’t alone. And since she was standing behind the film crew and had nothing to hide, she didn’t just watch me; she gawked.
Before I even finished a set, she was shaking her head and putting her back to me, walking to the other side of the gym.
Someone couldn’t handle what she was seeing.
Someone was fucking dying from the view.
And someone was trying to maintain the utmost professionalism.
But I saw right through her.
TWENTY-SIX
Jolie
“Beck!Gooo!” I screamed through my cupped hands as I looked out onto the ice from our owner’s box, one that we’d taken over when my father bought the team.
Of course, we weren’t directly on the ice, so we couldn’t see the players’ faces or hear the shit talking between them, but from up here, we could see the game as a whole. Beck was charging toward Montreal’s goalie, and when he couldn’t get a clear shot, he passed the puck to the other wing, who then sent it right back to Beck. Beck was looking for an in—a few inches was all he needed for the puck to fit—and the man was an expert at finding one.
“Yes! Get it!”
