Page 195 of Wrong Pucking Jersey

“Hmph.”

We stare at each other for a full minute, and it makes me feel like a tense statue desperate to move. I’ve always hated when Maddox is angry with me, and this proves that hasn’t changed.

With another rough sigh, Maddox moves in, hooks his hand around the back of my neck, and pulls me forward to kiss me long and hard.

Fucking hell.

He kissed me.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Breaking the kiss, he whispers, “Don’t act like that. The others will notice.”

He lets go and turns around, giving me a private moment to catch my breath and compose myself before quiet footsteps reach my ears.

“Someone is here!” Mikayla hisses and tries to hide, but a mere lean to my left has me losing my breath because there’s our Heartbreaker Queen.

In my fucking jersey.

“Wolfgang just got here,” Maddox announced. “Stopped Dimitri from looking for you.”

“Dimitri was looking for me?” she asks but suddenly seems relaxed, even though I’m obviously the third person here. The idea of her feeling some sort of comfort eases my nerves and self-doubt.

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I decide to join in the conversation.

“He said you left your bag of spare clothes and stethoscope on the bench,” I announce.

“Oh,” she replies and moves past Maddox over to where the bag is chilling on the bench. “Thank goodness.” She laughs. “Or else I’d be going to the club in this jersey.”

God, wouldn’t want all of those Pincers assholes to see her in my jersey.

“Not like you’d mind,” Maddox mutters, which makes Mishka blush before she slowly looks my way.

“I… wouldn’t,” she admits shyly before pointing to her legs. “But I’d need pants.”

I don’t know if it’s the cute expression on her face or how good she looks in my jersey, but I’m smirking before I dare take two steps, which has me facing her.

“Wear it.” The boldness in my voice is shocking to me.

Heck, it’s foreign when I was a dumb coward minutes earlier.

Something is most definitely wrong with me.

Mishka stares at me for at least ten long seconds before she whispers something I don’t expect.

“Only if I get to keep it.”

This taunting pucking vixen queen.

“Deal,” I whisper and watch how her eyes light up.

Why am I hesitating when this woman shows me so much admiration in those stunning blue eyes of hers?

“Well, I’ll just put my tights on then,” she declares, and I’m surprised when she goes on her tiptoes and kisses my cheek. “Congrats on the win tonight, Wolfgang. Let’s get shit-faced Mary-had-a-little-lamb drunk tonight.”

“If I get Russian drunk, it’ll take Maddox and Ace to carry me home,” I voice because it’s happened before. Years ago.

“So, you get shit-faced drunk, and I get shit-faced drunk. Damien can carry me,” she hums as she turns around and saunters away.

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