Page 20 of Enticing the Enforcer
“Yeah, I like her use of contrasting colors.”
“Me too. It brings out a bold quality on fragile subjects.”
He moves to the next painting and then to a grouping of photographs by an up-and-coming photographer that worked on my last album. Turns out Reid is a few weeks away from earning an art degree and has collaborations with the Wittmore Athletic department with some of their merch designs.
“I make most of my tour income on merch sales,” I tell him. “That’s a big deal for the university to use your work.”
“I’m good at hockey,” he says modestly, “but I love art and design.”
“Send me your portfolio. I’d love to see it.”
“Really?” He looks flabbergasted. “That would be incredible.”
I’m learning these men have a little more depth to them than muscles and brawn. I lead us into the den where the guys are inhaling their dinner.
“Tell me about tonight,” I say instead, dropping to the corner of the couch with my drink. “I don’t know hockey the way you do. Walk me through it.”
Their faces light up.
Reese leans forward, one hand on Twyler’s knee, the other animated as he breaks down plays from the first period. “We owned the ice from the first drop. Their defense couldn’t keep up,” he says, eyes sparking. “We were living in their zone.”
“Until you bricked that open-net shot,” Reid mutters, smirking.
Reese shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. We still scored first, didn’t we?”
Axel cuts in before they can keep going, puffing his chest like a showman. “Scored first becauseIrobbed Lennox in the second. Guy thought he had me glove-side, but nope.” He snaps his hand in the air like he’s catching the puck all over again. “Stone cold.”
“Robbed?” Reid snorts. “You coughed up a rebound right into their stick. I had to save your ass.”
Axel waves him off with a grin. “Details.”
Reese laughs. “You two sound like an old married couple.”
“Better married to me than letting Lennox light you up,” Reid fires back, and Axel just smirks wider.
The conversation shifts toward the final tomorrow night. Their voices overlap, bold and certain, like they can already see it.
“We can’t give St. Alden an inch,” Reese says about the opposing team.
“They’ll come in swinging,” Jefferson comments. “They play dirtier than Central did tonight.”
“Dude, I’ve been waiting to bring that up!” Twyler shouts. “You could’ve cost us the game.”
His head jerks up, those gray, blue eyes narrowing. “He hit first!”
“Not enough to get tossed,” she fires back, smug as hell.
“Lennox is dirty,” Axel throws in, defending him instantly. “I saw it. It was a nasty hit.”
“Still,” Twyler presses, competitive to the bone. “You let your temper get to you and that’s the kind of mistake they’re looking for.”
The back-and-forth spirals, playful but relentless. Finally, Jefferson growls in frustration and stands, hooking a thumb under his shirt, yanking the fabric up.
“You need proof?” he challenges. “Take a look at this.”
The room stills and Twyler takes in the bruise blooming dark and ugly across his ribs, but that’s not what steals the air from my lungs. It’s the rest of him–every ridged plane of his torso, solid and carved like someone chiseled him out of marble. Not lean, dancer-thin muscle like I’m used to. Not the clean lines of my trainer, or the skinny-fit frame of Jake. Jefferson has mass. Power. Strength.
He’sthick.
