Page 11 of Enticing the Enforcer
So no, I don’t do girlfriends. I don’t play house. If possible, I don’t even bring them home. I’ve had plenty of hookups–sorority girls, puck bunnies, the occasional TA who should’ve known better. I don’t promise anything. I don’t text the next day. I don’t let it get messy.
And last night?
I definitely don’tregretit, but I’m not sitting here daydreaming about what could’ve been. It was a moment. A hot, unexpected, kind of unforgettable moment with a woman who’s probably about to walk out on stage now. We kissed. It was good. Better than good. But she made it clear where the line was drawn, and I respect that.
Because that’s all it was.
And honestly, I’m surprised at how okay I am with it.
Reese is back on his phone, probably updating Twyler on what kind of socks he packed. I pull out my headphones and queue up the same film Reese has open–Coach sent it to all of us. My mind shifts away from last night, back to the rink, to strategy, to faceoffs and power plays. I let the buzz of anticipation settle into my chest.
Tomorrow, it’s game time.
And whatever that night was?
It’s already behind me.
5
Ingrid
The tour schedulegave us a rare breather today. No travel. No meet-and-greets. Just a wide, blessed window of silence. It’s the chance to sleep in, answer emails, get in a little vocal rest, and maybe take a bath that doesn't jostle with every pothole like it does on the tour bus.
But something else kept me in Wittmore.
Hockey.
I’m used to fanbases. I have a massive one of my own, but just being in Wittmore exposed me to the fervor of the energy around college hockey. At the show last night, there were just as many hockey jerseys on the fans as there was Ingrid Flockton merch. The business side of me wants to know a little bit more.
And the girl who kissed Jefferson Parks two nights ago?
Well, maybe she wants to know a little bit more about the man who lit my skin on fire.
That’s how I end up texting Mads, telling her to get dressed and to meet me downstairs. She didn’t ask questions, showed up just as ready to get out of the hotel as I am.
“How did you find this place?” she asks after we’re settled in a booth in the back of the Badger Den. Marv had plowed through the rowdy crowd, creating a path to get us to the booth. He came in early and spoke to the owner, who was happy to save a spot for us. There are TV screens hanging for every angle, but the largest is a massive screen above the bar playing pregame commentary for the Frozen Four semi-final. All eyes are on the TV. Except mine.
Mine are on the laminated menu, but my brain isn’t really registering the words. It’s replaying a kiss over and over, to the point that I think I may have a problem.
“Ing.” Madison snaps me back to the present. “How did you find this place?”
“Oh, I just googled the best hamburgers in Wittmore and had one delivered to the hotel last night.” It’s shocking how easily that lie comes out. “Seriously, though, this hamburger is to die for. I’ve been craving it for two days.”
I’ve been craving more of Jefferson Parks since the moment we said goodnight. That kiss. God. I’ve had guys kiss me. I’ve had guys who wanted something from me, but this was different. It was all heat and rough fingertips, the scrape of his jaw against mine, the firm hold of his hand under my chin, tilting my head exactly where he wanted it.
His other hand had been around my waist, but barely. Like he was holding himself back from grabbing me fully, throwing me over his shoulder caveman-style. There was a moment–just a flicker–where I thought he might, and the way my entire body responded was... intense.
And yeah. I noticed. The way he pressed up against me, the very obvious,veryhard and definedevidence of just how badly he wanted me. He didn’t try to hide it. That did something to me. Something Jake never did.
Jake always made me feel like a chore. Like loving me was just this... inconvenience. Like he was doing me a favor. I had to tiptoe around his moods, practically audition for affection. When we were together, it felt like being halfway underwater all the time, like if I spoke too loudly or wanted too much, he’d just let me drown.
Jefferson made me feel the opposite. Seen. Desired. Powerful.
And that was just from sharing dinner and a kiss.
The concert last night had been electric. My voice felt smoother, my body lighter, my moves more natural. I swear, the whole thing had this extra charge. Like kissing Jefferson flipped a breaker inside me. A man like that–big, cocky, a little dangerous–I can’t help but wonder what it would feel like to go all the way. Would it leave me glowing like that again? Or completely wrecked?
Either option sounds great, honestly.
