Page 25 of Play Your Part

Mybrainrefusedtoforget about what happened with Alexei two nights ago. And last night’s dream felt more realistic than that of the night before, as if forcing these thoughts down deep made them explode to the forefront as soon as I closed my eyes.

I felt Alexei’s strong hands locked on each hip, keeping me still as he took deep breaths that hit the back of my neck on his exhale. The idea of him working so hard to calm himself down made my heart race faster. In my dream, I did what I’d wanted to do in real life—I turned, swinging one leg over him until I straddled him, untilhewas between my legs. My skin felt on fire as he gripped my hips tighter. As I leaned toward his lips, I pushed myself harder against him, and—

My eyes bolted open.

The temptation to reach into the drawer next to my bed so I could finish what the dream started hit me so strongly, I forced myself out of bed and into workout clothes.

Today was Sunday, the day of the dreaded first “date” between Alexei and me.

I would run until I could only think about why I disliked him and nothing else. Only then, could I face him again.

I wished I’d never found that stupid list. I thought this over and over as I scanned the menu atCarter’s on the Corner, a bar and restaurant near the arena and a favorite of the Wolves players. Fans often came here, hoping to run into them, asking for a selfie or an autograph, walking away with a story about how they met their hero. Eyes tracked us as soon as we entered, something Alexei counted on.

I shouldn’t have told him he could choose all of our dates. I was being a brat. I also didn’t want to put any more effort into this arrangement than required. And now I sat in arguably the most pro-Wolves place in Palmer City—aside from the arena—with their brand new star.

I huffed as I scanned the menu.

“Something wrong?”

“Other than everyone in this bar watching us? No.” I didn’t look at him—seeing his long, long stroll from his car to the restaurant was enough. I’d wished for him to be late so I could start this date by complaining, but no, he arrived on time. And looked hot in dark-wash jeans that reminded me exactly why Connie always went on and on about hockey players’ thighs. A backward baseball cap sat on his head, my reaction to which should be commissioned for scientific study.It’s just a hat.

When I finally looked up from the menu, I plastered a false smile on my face. “But you know, you’re right. I’m here withtheAlexei Volkov. I should be grateful.”

“Are you always going to call me by both names?”

I closed my menu, hoping to hurry the waitress, then shrugged, trying to project nonchalance. Inside, though, my emotions swirled—anger at Justin for leaving me behind, annoyance at Deandra for dreaming this up, and exasperation at myself for agreeing to it.

And then there was the feeling I didn’t want to name when I looked too long in Alexei’s direction. He’d bothered me for as long as I could remember because he was the ass who played for a rival team, the person at the center of Justin’s worst fights. He didn’t seem real. He’d been my boyfriend’s terrible coworker, a looming figure in stories about his day. Until now, I didn’t have to sit across a table and stare into his absurdly handsome face. At least that dimple hadn’t made a reappearance.

“Maybe. Alexei Volkov.”

He nodded, one quick bob of his head, and curled his lip, seeming to imply he found my answer real mature. But I didn’t care what he thought. Alexei’s place in my life was temporary and only because he needed me to redeem him.

“Have you always lived here?”

“What?” I asked, thrown by the question.

“When Deandra mentioned the team might move, I could tell it bothered you.”

My heart rate ticked higher, but I rolled my eyes, hoping my outward act of calm would still my internal reaction. “The team could move to Timbuktu for all I care.”

Alexei narrowed his eyes at me. “You don’t like the hockey,” he stated, much like he would have accused me of not liking chocolate or hating the Beatles.

With waning attendance numbers, he should have realized this was a common phenomenon, but the guy probably lived in a bubble, with nearly every person in his life connected to hockey. It explained why the idea of another person having interests beyond slapping a puck into a net astounded him.

“I don’t think much of hockey,” I corrected.

“Your father owns a professional hockey team.”

“I’m fully aware of that, thanks. Still doesn’t change my opinion.”

Alexei shook his head slowly. “That would have been a dream come true for me.”

I leaned back in my seat and gestured to him vertically. “Well, you play on a professional hockey team, so I’m sure you feel just fine now.”

He watched me, his brows furrowing, exaggerating the crease between his eyes. Alexei kept searching for some answer, and it deeply unsettled me, this unrelenting study of my features.

The waitress, who finally graced us with her presence, pulled his attention away from me. She took one look at him and melted into a puddle. “Volk,” she said with a gasp. She fumbled in her smock pocket for her notepad and pen. “What can I get you?”

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