Page 36 of Dirty Pucking Player

The rush of the forbidden. Something we absolutely shouldn’t be doing, giving into base needs while risking what’s most important to both of us—our careers.

Or maybe I’m just a big ol’ Bash slut, incapable of fighting the attraction.

Whatever the reason…I’m here. The elevator doors slide open, and I step out onto the fiftieth floor of the Prestige and turn toward Bash’s door.

Again.

The same walk I made last night, the same route I fled after our kiss, only in reverse. And this time, I don’t want to run. Except maybe to the man I should be fleeing away from.

I should leave, but after our loss tonight, after watching my team crumble in the third period and play like a damn geriatric club league team, my first inclination was to come here.

Of all the places in the world.

If Bash hadn’t been defending my honor, he would have been out on the ice tonight. Maybe it wouldn’t have made a difference. Maybe we still would have fallen apart faster than a piece of IKEA furniture, but he might have been just what we needed to nail them.

We’ll never know.

But what I do know is I got into my car and drove straight here without hesitation once I left the arena.

Self-preservation says I should turn around and hightail it back to my place, but nothing has felt as good as being in Bash’s arms in a long fucking time.

I stop outside his door and knock. A few seconds pass before the door swings open.

Bash leans against the jamb with that cocky grin of his plastered on his lips. “I was hoping I’d see you tonight.”

All I manage is a nod because words seem to be too complicated for me…again.

Why do I turn into a quivering mess whenever I’m around this man?

It’s everything I’m not. Everything I’ve always told myself I would never be. The kind of woman who makes bad decisions because of dick.

Hopefully, it’s just something I need to get out of my system. The alternative is unthinkable.

He steps back and ushers me into his room. “Tough loss tonight.”

No shit.

It was painful to watch from the bench. Even worse for the guys on the ice. Slow skating. Slower hands. Bad passes. Bad penalties. You name it, it happened in the third period. It was a hot mess.

Bash follows me into his suite, and I stand awkwardly in the center of the living room area.

I don’t know how to do this.

It’s been a long time since I had a date with someone, let alone someone like Bash. Plus, I don’t even know what this is.

Is it even a date?

I force myself to take a breath and turn to face him.

That stupidly sexy grin is plastered on his face, and he crosses his arms over his chest, causing the dark-blue fabric of his crisp button-down shirt to pull over his biceps. “Don’t look so nervous, Coach. I don’t bite…much.”

He winks at me, and my heart does this embarrassing little yo-yo thing I haven’t felt since Kirk McNamara kissed me in sixth grade.

“Take a seat.” The man who has the uncanny ability to undo years of hardening myself with a simple look motions toward the couch and grabs the phone from the small end table. “I assume you haven’t eaten yet?”

I shake my head and settle onto the couch. “I came straight here from the game.”

“I’ll order us room service.”

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