Page 125 of Wrong Pucking Player

“And that’s the reason why no one would be dumb enough to use it.” He grunts. If only he knew. “What are you doing?”

“Stay still. Just like that.”

I’m aiming the camera his way.

“You are not taking a phot—” The captured sound stops his declaration while I squeal and jump.

“I got it! Omg. This is going to be my wallpaper. Just watch.”

“Are you hearing yourself?”

“Yes, Armani! Photo of the century. EEP!” He tries to get his phone from me, but I run away. “Mine!”

“It’s MY phone.”

“Not anymore! I need another photo. No wait. Let me send this to myself.”

“Andrews, don’t let me catch you.”

“Goalies are slow! Y’all have all that muscle to carry around, so you can’t possibly be fas—AH!” The way this man picks me up and has me captured in what felt like a blink of an eye leaves me flabbergasted.“How?!” I gasp in horror while wrapping my legs around his waist as I latch onto his side. His arm is right under my ass, and I can tell from his deadpan expression his patience is out the window.

“Not fair!” I huff and pout. “You’re supposed to give me a five-minute heads-up.”

“Five minutes?” The poor man can’t process my madness. “Woman. I would have caught you in thirty seconds without trying.”

“Ugh! I’m faster, I swear!” I whine. “I’m still recovering from this morning! Yes. That’s what slowed me down.”

“I know that’s utter bullshit, Andrews.”

“Ugh. Whatever,” I pout and poke at his nose, making the man blink in confusion.

“Should I even ask why you did that?”

“Nah. I have no reason for it,” I conclude. “I just wanted to poke your nose.”

He just looks at me as if I’ve gone mad before shaking his head.

“I can’t with you, Andrews.”

“Say Kenzie again,” I dare him. “I like when you say it.”

He stares at me for at least ten seconds before giving me what I want.

“Kenzie,” he whispers. “Happy?”

“Yes,” I sweetly declare. “One more picture.”

“No.”

“Please?” I give him actual puppy eyes, something I’ve done for no one. Not even Wyatt. “For me?”

“Why do you want a picture of me?”

“No, of you AND me,” I insist and turn on the selfie mode. Placing my arm high enough, I attempt to get us in the frame but fail miserably. “What the hell? Why are you so big?!”

He rolls his eyes, but he smiles.

“If you’re worried about whether it’ll fit or not, Andrews, I think you can handle eleven inches.”

---