Page 6 of Shut Up and Jingle Me
He grins like I’ve just encouraged him. “Oh, I’m just getting started. Wait until you hear my ‘mistletoe ambush’ concept.”
I grab my coffee and stand, towering over him, but he doesn’t move back up an inch. “You have way too much time on your hands.”
“And you,” he says, grinning up at me before leaning his bare back against the lockers behind him, “are going to look amazing while hating every second of it. That’s our brand, Calder. I’m sugar and sweet, and you'renot. That’s okay, we can work that angle.”
I shake my head and walk away, but the smile tugging at my mouth betrays me before I make it out the door and into the locker room. I keep walking as he follows me out.
“Think about it, Calder!” Eli calls after me, voice bouncing off the walls. “I’ve got a whole Pinterest board with your name on it!”
I don’t turn around. If I do, he’ll see the smirk I’m fighting to hide.
Once I’m out in the hallway, the noise of the locker room fades, replaced by the low hum of the vending machines and the faint scrape of my boots on the floor. I take a long drink of my ice-cold coffee, letting the bitterness cut through the taste of peppermint he always seems to leave in the air.
I should be annoyed. Irritated. Something other than this low, reluctant amusement that’s been creeping in since the second Todd paired us for that calendar.
But the truth is, every ridiculous idea he throws at me sticks—antlers, marshmallows, sled—and I catch myself wondering what he’ll come up with next. Wondering how long I can keep pretending I’m not curious to find out. Or that I’m ready to do whatever insane idea he has inside his head, just to see him smile.
THREE
ELI
The week leadingup to the calendar shoot is just…dangerous. Not in theI might break a boneway, though I do manage to block a shot wrong in practice today. But in theMax Calder keeps touching me and my body has decided to be a traitor about itway.
It happens halfway through drills. Peter winds up and sends a puck just wide of the net, and I reach a little too far to snag it with my glove. My shoulder twinges, sharp and fast, and I know instantly I’ve pulled something.
By the time practice ends, I’m rotating my arm and pretending it’s fine. Spoiler: it’s not.
Max notices before I even hit the tunnel. “Starling,” he calls, voice all no-nonsense trainer mode, “locker room. Now.”
I follow him in, trying to play it cool. After I take off my skates and shed my gear, he points to the bench near his examination room, and I sit, still in my base layer, while he grabs some kind of sports balm and kneels in front of me.
Calder, on his knees in front of me, stars in almost every fantasy I’ve ever had about him, so despite the pain radiating through my shoulder, my brain decidesnowis a great time toreplay every one of them. He’s close enough that I can smell mint on his breath, and if he looked up right now, I’d be done for.
Don’t look up, Max. Or do. Shit.
“Where?” he asks.
I clear my throat and gesture vaguely. “Just a little sore—it’s fine.”
His hand slides under the edge of my sleeve, finding the knot of muscle with pinpoint precision. I hiss through my teeth.
“Yeah,” he mutters, “that’s tight. Hold still.”
Easier said than done. His thumbs work slow circles into the muscle, firm but careful, and heat blooms low in my stomach. My brain is screaming,Don’t react, don’t react, but my body? My body is reacting, traitorous asshole that it is.
I bite the inside of my cheek, keeping my gaze fixed on the opposite wall, because if I look at him—at those hands on me, that focused frown—I’m done for. There’s something about a focused Max Calder that does something to me.
It wasn’t right away, but as I’ve gotten to know him—that intensity paired with the fact I saw his profile on Prism; the hook-up app for gay guys, and he’s not in the closet, not one bit—he has a face and chest shot in his profile, and I might have stared at it a little too long. I didn’t match him before I scrolled on, but I still think about what would have happened if I had. He’s just looking for fun. I can do fun. I am the definition of fun. Him, on the other hand…I’m curious if he actually can let loose. And maybe that’s where some of my obsession has come from. I want to peel back the layers of Max like the layers of an onion and see what’s underneath all that grump.
He shifts closer to get better leverage, the scent of his soap and coffee wrapping around me, and it’s ridiculous how much I want to lean in.
“Take your shirt off,” he says suddenly.
My brain short-circuits. “What?”
“I can’t see what I’m doing through your clothes,” he says, tone clinical but hands still on my arm. “If you want me to check it properly, it has to come off.”
“Right. Yeah. Sure.” My voice is higher than normal, which is embarrassing with my whole team able to eavesdrop.
