Page 39 of Behind the Net

No. No, I do not. My blood hums with satisfaction as her eyes linger on my body.

“I didn’t take you for the kind of person who doesn’t pay their debts,” I tell her.

She huffs a laugh. “I wouldn’t say it’s adebt.”

“‘I owe you one.’ That’s what you said.”

“Jamie.” She rolls her eyes at me, smiling. I love the way she says my name in that teasing way.

I fold my arms over my chest, and her gaze lingers on my biceps. “What’s the holdup?”

She turns, busying herself with her tea. “You’ve had games and stuff.”

Not more than normal.

My mind wanders to a couple nights ago, after I got home from a game. When I turned on the TV, it was already on the sports channel. Was she watching my game?

Pride bursts in my chest at the thought of it.

“You’re stalling.”

Her eyes are on her tea, and the smell wafting off it is the same as her hair products—sweet, spicy, and warm. Comforting but sexy and intriguing. I have the urge to bury my face in her neck and huff.

She lifts her gaze to meet mine, and her eyes are full of vulnerability. “The last time I played for someone, they laughed at me.” Her voice is quiet.

Rage surges through my veins. I’ll kill them. “Who?” I demand in a low, lethal voice. “Tell me. Names. Now.”

She rolls her eyes. “Jamie.”

“Now.”

“It was Zach.” Her face is going red, a patch of pink on each cheek, and my fists clench while folded over my chest. “And his manager.” She blinks like she’s reliving it before she blinks again and she’s back here in the kitchen with me.

Just when I think this guy can’t get worse, he does.

I nod once. “That’s the song I want to hear.”

I’m such a fucking asshole.

Her eyes go wide. “What? No.”

“Yes.” My voice is firm and demanding. I’m a pushy, arrogant dick, but I don’t care.

Her hands twist, and she tries to cover up her nervousness with a fake smile. She’s scared, and it’s making my chest feel tight.

“Hey.” I lean down so my eyes are level with hers, and my hands come to her upper arms. There’s that incredible chai smell again. “When I was nine, I got hit with the puck.”

Her eyes widen. “Really?”

I nod and point to my wrist. “Right here. The puck pinged off the pipe, and I had forgotten my gloves, so I was wearing spares that were too big, so they shifted. It hurt like a motherfucker.”

Her expression is sympathetic. “I bet.”

My hand returns to her arm. I can feel her warmth through the silky fabric. My thumb strokes back and forth over the fabric, and her lips part.

“I didn’t want to get back on the ice. I was scared of getting hit again.”

Her eyebrows pull together, and the way she looks at me makes me want to scoop her up into a hug and never put her down. I’d never let her go. The way she’s looking at me makes me want to protect her from the world and assholes like her ex.

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