Page 18 of Shut Up and Jingle Me
A slow grin tugs at my mouth. “Yeah, well… maybe if someone hadn’t been staring at me the whole damn practice, I wouldn’t have been distracted.”
His eyes snap up to mine. There’s the briefest flicker, surprise, maybe, or the urge to deny it, before his jaw tightens.
“Watch your mouth,” he says gruffly, straightening. But he doesn’t step back right away, and I swear I see the corner of his mouth twitch fighting a smile.
That’s all the invitation I need.
I lean in, closing the inches between us until my breath brushes his jaw. “Or what?” I murmur, tilting my head just enough that my lips almost graze his. I catch the way his pupils flare, the tiniest hitch in his breath?—
Then his gloved hand presses flat against my chest, holding me just out of reach as he puts space between us.
“Or I’ll tell them you pulled your groin and bench you for longer than a few days,” he says, voice low and even, like it’s not a threat but a promise.
I huff a laugh, because he’s still close enough that I can feel the heat rolling off him, still close enough that if I just leaned in a fraction more?—
His eyes narrow, as if he knows exactly where my head is going. “Don’t test me, Eli.”
“Too late,” I say, but I let him finish checking me over, smug at the flush creeping up his neck.
He steps back first, peeling off his gloves and shoving them into the trash, snapping it closed. “You’re fine. Go shower, take it easy on the groin.” His tone is clipped, almost brusque, but he won’t look me in the eye.
By the time I’m heading to the shower, he’s already halfway to the door, shoulders tight, as though he’s putting space between us before either of us does something we can’t take back.
Which, to me, is all the proof I need, because you don’t run from something you don’t want. And I really, really want to be the thing he stops running from.
The steam clings to me as I push open the shower room door, towel slung low on my hips. My hair’s dripping down my neck, leaving a damp trail over my shoulders, and I’m already thinking about food and maybe a nap, until I spot him.
Max is back over by his stall, rummaging in the med kit as though it’s the most important task in the world. Except when I pass, his head turns slightly, and his gaze skims down my chest. Lingers. Tracks the line of the towel before coming back up.
It’s quick. Controlled. Subtle enough that none of the guys around us notice; Peter’s arguing with Daniel about some half-baked prank, Denver’s yelling across the room for someone to throw him his hoodie. The usual post-practice chaos.
But I feel it. That weight of attention, steady and deliberate, touching every inch of me without laying a hand on me.
I slow down just a fraction, enough to make the path from the showers to my stall take a heartbeat longer. Enough to see the way his jaw ticks knowing exactly what I’m doing, and unsure whether to look away or keep watching.
He keeps watching.
I bite back a grin, turning my back to dig through my bag, every movement exaggerated just enough to pull the towel tighter against my hips. His eyes on my skin heat me up in every possible way, burning right through the noise and chatter of the room until it’s just me and him and this invisible thread tugging between us.
I’m halfway through pulling on my boxers when his voice cuts through the noise.
“Before you take off, I want to check that shoulder,” Max says, tone low but carrying enough authority that it shuts down any chance of me brushing it off. Not that I would. Then, after a beat, “And your groin one more time. To make sure there wasn’t more damage than I originally thought. Ice, heat, rest, and stretching are mandatory.”
I glance over my shoulder at him, catching the faintest flicker in his expression, something more than trainer-mode professionalism, but it’s gone before I can pin it down.
“You worried about me, Calder?” I ask, grinning like it’s a joke.
He doesn’t smile. “I’m worried about having to explain to the coach why his player’s too banged up to stay on the ice.”
“Right, that’s why.”
“Once you’re dressed, Starling, come by the trainer’s room,” he says, ignoring my comment. He tilts his head to the door off to his side. It’s his private examination room, and it's completely unnecessary to check my shoulder and groin. But I’m not going to call him on it. Nope, I’m going to dive head-first into whatever craziness this is.
I give him a lazy salute, because I can’t help myself. “Yes, sir.”
His eyes narrow just a fraction as he decides whether to call me on it or let it slide. He turns instead, heading for the door to his small area used for the more extensive injuries, withoutanother word, but I catch the way his gaze flicks over me before he leaves the area—quick, deliberate, as if he’s filing something away for later. I can’t fight the grin that pulls at my lips because he definitely wants me.
I take my time pulling on the rest of my clothes, acutely aware that I’m going to see him again in a few minutes. The locker room still hums with the usual post-practice noise—guys laughing, talking trash, the smell of soap and sweat thick in the air—but it’s all background static now.
