Page 100 of Collide
“Then it’s settled. If I win, I get a date.”
“And when I win, I get your truck. No tricks,” she warns.
“Only hat tricks, baby.”
My cool confident smile is as much of a facade as it can be. Yale has had us on a losing streak over the years, and we don’t have a home-ice advantage either. I’d have to get the guys on board to set a potential play for it beforehand.
When I’m about to head back, I notice her shirt. “A jersey? I thought that lifestyle wasn’t for you.”
She looks at it with disdain. “It’s not, but Cassie said going to my first college game without a jersey is a cardinal sin.”
“I have to agree.” I would be forever indebted to Cassie for making Summer Preston wear my name on her back. It’s doing serious wonders for my ego. She’s definitely leaving it on tonight.
“Are you sure?” The question borders mischief, and when she turns, I see why.
Summer is wearing Sampson’s jersey.
“Yours was occupied.” She gestures to the concession stand, and my eyes follow to where Crystal Yang watches us, wearing my number. I don’t even pause before I grab the back of my jersey and pull it over my head, leaving my shoulder pads exposed.
“What the hell are you doing?” Wide eyes trail down my bare torso.
“Take it off,” I demand. “You’re putting this on.”
She stares at the jersey. “Aiden, you’re playing in a few minutes.”
“I know. Now put this on, Summer.” Our equipment manager had extra jerseys, and her wearing Tyler Sampson’s felt like a jinx. She doesn’t argue and pulls off the jersey, exposing the tight long sleeve underneath. The low-cut neckline has me looking away. Getting hard before the game would not be ideal.
When Summer pulls my jersey over her head, it engulfs her. It’s big enough to fit over my padding, but it still makes me smother a laugh when it comes down to her knees.
“I look ridiculous,” she mutters.
“No,thatmade you look ridiculous.” I point to Sampson’s jersey.
“At least it fits me,” she argues. “You know what? I just won't wear one.”
I shake my head and hold her arm straight to fold the fabric up to her forearms. Pulling her toward me, I tuck the back of the jersey into the waistband of her skirt. “Better?”
She straightens the jersey, a small smile on her lips. “I’ll give Sampson’s to Amara, but she said she’d rather get hit with a puck than wear any man's name on her back.”
“I can burn it for you,” I offer.
“That sounds sacrilegious.”
“Trust me, I’ve seen his jersey in more sinful places.”
She shivers in disgust and takes a step back. “Good luck, Captain.”
I stop her before she can walk away. “Come here and kiss me.”
She looks around the packed hallway. “Not happening.”
The team shuffles, gathering before game time, but all I see is her. “Kiss me or I’ll kiss you, and it won’t be PG.”
“There are children here, Crawford,” she hisses.
“It’s your decision, Mother Teresa.”
“I hate you,” she grumbles, closing the space between us. I don't duck, so she places her hands on my shoulders to rise on tiptoes. The kiss is an absurdly short peck, but I palm her face to pull her back.
