Page 8 of Shut Up and Jingle Me
He tilts his head toward my hips. “Bit early in the day for that kind of…motivation, isn’t it?”
Heat rushes to my face, and I turn slightly, like that’ll help. “Stop looking at my dick, you weirdo.”
“Not my fault you’re broadcasting it.” His grin widens. “Lemme guess—the grumpy trainer finally smiled at you?”
I glare at him, but it’s useless. Daniel’s been my teammate and friend long enough to read me better than anyone should. And I am broadcasting it, as he put it.
“Drop it,” I mutter, turning back into the spray.
“Hey, I’m just saying,” he calls over, voice full of fake innocence, “maybe just spank it out and get it over with. I promise I won’t watch.”
I choke on a laugh, scrubbing my hands over my face. “You’re disgusting, we’re not that kind of friends.”
“Disgustingly right,” he shoots back.
I flip him off without looking, because it’s easier than admitting he’s not entirely wrong. Jacking off would definitely get rid of the issue standing at attention between my legs. But doing it here, in the middle of the locker room showers, with half the team coming and going? Yeah… not happening.
I shut off the water, grab my towel, and wrap it around my waist, willing my body to behave. The steam’s barely cleared from my head, but at least the cold air out here is doing something for me.
As I pass Daniel on the way out of the showers, he leans in just enough to murmur, “Better hurry home before that thing files a complaint for neglect.”
I can’t help it—a laugh slips out. I shake my head, smiling despite myself, and roll my eyes at him. “You’re the worst.”
“And yet, still your favorite,” he calls after me.
I don’t turn around, but my grin lingers all the way to my locker.
FOUR
MAX
It’s been three days.
Three days since I had my hands on Starling’s bare shoulder, kneading into a muscle that was tight as a drum…and three days since my body betrayed me in a way I’m still not willing to fully acknowledge.
I’ve worked on hundreds of players, male and female, rookies and vets. It’s muscle and memory and routine. Clinical. Automatic. But for some reason, that day with him wasn’t automatic. His skin was warm under my thumbs, his breath hitching every time I hit the right spot, the sharp line of his jaw tight like he was holding something back. And yeah, my body noticed.
I’ve told myself I imagined the way his gaze dipped. That he wasn’t looking exactly where I think he was looking. Because if he was, then that means he saw something he definitely shouldn’t have seen from his athletic trainer.
Now, standing in the corner of the rink while the crew sets up the backdrop for this charity calendar shoot, I’m replaying that moment in my head like a masochist. And he hasn’t even shown up yet.
I take a sip of black coffee, the bitterness sharp on my tongue, and try to think about literally anything else. It doesn’t work. The second I hear his laugh from the other side of the room, my chest tightens, and I’m right back in that locker room, his shoulder under my hands, his scent—peppermint and sweat—messing with my head.
This is going to be a long day.
Another one of his laughs fills the air before he does—bright, unfiltered, impossible to ignore. Then he appears.
And it’s…a lot.
Head-to-toe Christmas. Red suspenders over a green thermal that clings in all the wrong—right—places, striped socks pulled up under cuffed pants, and a Santa hat tipped at a cocky angle like it knows it’s part of some dangerous plan. Glitter clings to him, don’t ask me how, and I’m pretty sure those suspenders have tiny embroidered reindeer on them.
He’s pressing every button I have and doing it like a professional.
“Oh, good,” he says when he spots me in the corner. “My partner in seasonal crime.”
Before I can come up with a reply sharp enough to cut through the minty cloud that follows him, he’s shoving a paper cup into my hand.
“Black coffee is depressing,” he announces. “So I fixed it.”
