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“You really want to do this?” His hands settle at my hips, squeezing gently. “With me?”
“Ian.”
He shakes his head. “Right. Dream come true. I forgot. You’re obsessed with me.”
“Shut up,” I laugh, pinching his side until he squirms. “Like you aren’t obsessed with me too.”
He’s laughing with me, even when one of his hands cups the back of my head, the other reaching to tilt my chin up with his fingers so that he can bring his mouth back to mine. “I’m definitely obsessed with you.”
“Really?”
I wish my voice didn’t sound so unsure; I hate sounding so needy with him, but I can’t help it. Ian wanting me like this…It’s everything.
“Really,” he murmurs, his lips feathering against mine. “I’m days away from doodling your name in my notebook. Teenage Lila has nothing on middle-aged me.”
I grin so hard it makes my cheeks hurt, and it’s on the tip of my tongue—words that have no business being there. Words I struggle to bite back.
“Middle-aged,” I laugh instead. “Don’t worry,” I tell him. “I still think you’re hot”—I lick at his lower lip, humming in my chest—“for an old man.”
Ian growls, and suddenly I’m underneath him on the couch.
“I’ll show you ‘old man.’ ”
Twenty
IAN
I close my eyes as I move deeper into a stretch; the slight burn radiating in my thighs is almost enjoyable, like my body knows it’s nearly done with the strenuous part of the day. Coach is still yelling at Rankin at the other end of the ice, but a few other guys and I have already started cooldown stretches. Coach apparently woke up this morning with every intention of making sure the entire team went home with sore muscles and ringing ears—probably because we’re so close to the start of the official season. Jankowski is practically lying face first on the ice ten feet away, Sanchez doing similar stretches to me as we all try to work out the tension from a hard practice.
I can’t help the way I glance over at her. I’ve found my gaze straying to the stands several times during practice; at least two of the times Coach yelled at me were because I was too busy watching her as surreptitiously as I could—almost like my eyes gravitate toward her without my permission. Her hair is flowing over her shoulders in a cascade of soft waves today, and I know from experience how silky it is when I tangle my fingers in it. Her sweater looks soft too—pastel pink with little hearts patterned all over in a slightly darker hue—hugging every swell and curve in a tantalizing way that makes it almost impossible to focus on what I’m supposed to be doing.
She’s watching me, too, now, her head nodding slowly at whatever Jack is rattling off in her ear, but her eyes are fixed on me as I tilt my hips deeper into the ice, my thighs spreading wide until my groin almost touches the floor. I’ve never really thought about how it looks; it’s muscle memory at this point, but honestly, with the way Lila is watching me stretch—her teeth pressed against her lower lip subtly and her arms crossed tight over her chest—my thoughts definitely wander down a dirtier path.
I smirk as I roll my hips, catching sight of her mouth parting even from this distance. I know she’s thinking about last night, how I had her under me in a position similar to this in my bed, and I can’t pretend I’m not remembering it too. I thought things would be more difficult when faced with our first hurdle with the disastrous photo and accompanying internet mob over the photos of Mei and me, but I should have known better than to doubt Lila. She’s proven to be far more than I deserve at every turn, after all. Her reassurances made me feel that same comforting sensation of being settled that I’ve begun to associate with her, and I’m starting to realize that it is just her. That she just makes me feel this way.
I’m grinning when I finally push back up to my feet, raising my arms high over my head for one final stretch before I break from the rest of the guys to skate over to the edge of the rink where she and Jack are sitting. Jack is still rambling on—something about Florida’s new center, I think, from what I catch at the tail end—only trailing off when I brace my arms against the bottom of the railing where the floor to the bleachers sit.
“Having fun?”
Lila shrugs one shoulder. “If Jack has his way, I’ll be starting my own fantasy league this year.”
“I hope I’m one of your top picks,” I tease.
She tilts her hand back and forth. “Eh.”
“Brat,” I laugh.
Her teeth press against her lower lip again, so quickly I might miss it, and I have to tear my eyes away before Jack catches me staring for too long.
“You were looking a little slow in that second set of speed drills,” Jack says with a frown.
“Thanks, honey,” I scoff. “Glad to have you in my corner.”
He rolls his eyes. “Dude, I’m just saying.”
“Well, stop fucking breaking your shit so you can get out there and keep me on my toes.”
“Only a few more weeks,” Jack grumbles, rubbing his sling, neon orange today. “You sore?”
