Page 82 of Game Misconduct
The music slows—smooth jazz, silky and low. Something made for shadows and secrets.
I take her in my arms, one hand at her back, the other claiming hers.
She fits like I imagined. Like I remembered.
She’s taller in those heels, but I still have to look down to meet her eyes.
“Been avoiding me, Carrington?” I murmur.
She arches a brow, smile faint. “You’ve been brooding from the shadows. I didn’t want to get in the way of your aesthetic.”
My mouth twitches.
God, she’s good at this.
But not good enough to hide the tension humming beneath her skin.
“Wasn’t sure you’d still be here tonight.” I pause, eyes locking on hers. “Figured yourdatemight’ve dragged you out early.”
Her smile barely flickers. “He’s not my date.”
I arch a brow, pressure tightening in my grip. “No?”
“No.” She draws in closer. “He’s my cousin. Griffin Ashford.”
The name lands like a puck to the sternum.
Griffin Ashford. Top-six forward in New Jersey. Makes headlines for charity work and model girlfriends.
And apparently? Related to the woman I’ve been trying not to want.
I drag my gaze over her—her bare shoulders, that neckline, the green glitter catching every ounce of light.
“Family lets you show up in a dress like this?”
Her lips curve. “If he knows what’s good for him.”
God, I love that fucking mouth, the sass.
It’s a fucking turn on, and it shouldn’t be.
“Well, he’s had a front-row seat all night.”
I lean in, my breath skating across her jaw.
“And so have half my teammates.”
She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t deny it.
Just lets the silence stretch between us like a wire strung too tight.
“They asked,” she says finally, soft but steady.
“And it would’ve looked worse if I said no to everyone but you.”
I press my palm more firmly to the small of her back, pulling her that final inch closer.
Her chest brushes mine. Her breath catches.
