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I roll my eyes, but he takes my jaw in his hand, locking his eyes with mine. “No matter how the sun catches them, or how turned on you get, your eyes stay the perfect shade of navy. That’s why navy is my favorite.”
I can’t breathe. I can’t think.
Holy mother of fucks.
“Because of my eyes?”
“All because of your eyes.”
Swoon. Can he let me go so I can turn into a puddle of goo and soak into his skin?
Is that weird?
Yeah, I’m a weirdo.
“What about before me?”
“I didn’t have a favorite color,” he admits, stroking my lip with his thumb. “There are a lot of things I didn’t have before you, and I didn’t know they existed until now.”
Before I can turn to goo or swoon or even take in a breath, he kisses me.
And I fall even more in love with Riggs McCoy.
Pulling only a mere breath away, he whispers, “I’m ready to eat dessert.”
I part my lips, and he runs his tongue along my bottom lip. “I brought those muffins.”
He shakes his head, his lips grazing mine. “Nope, you’re my dessert.”
With that, he drops to his knees before me, his eyes dark and wanton. His shoulders push my thighs apart, and with his eyes still on me, he devours me.
Like I’m his favorite dessert.
CHAPTER 23
Riggs
There isn’t a day that passes as a coach of a bunch of young men that I don’t ask myself,what the ever-loving fuck?
We drop the next two games, the Griffins coming out on top. Yes, both were only by one goal—mainly because Cruz works his ass off, while apparently, my offense is sleeping. It’s not a good look after we went to Michigan and dominated, to come home and put up two goose eggs. It’s pathetic. It’s downright frustrating. As I stand in the middle of the locker room, not on our emblem but to the side since we don’t need any more bad luck, I choose my words wisely. I don’t want to kick them while they’re down. I can see it on each of their faces; they feel the losses as deeply as I do. The emotion is palpable, that they don’t want to let me down, let down the fans, but here we are. It’s my job to get them on track.
Exhaling, I lift my head as I tuck my hands into my pockets. All eyes are on me, not only those of my players, but also my staff. I lick my lips before I ask, “Wellington, how many games are in a series?”
“Seven.”
“How many do we have to win?”
“Four.”
I nod. “Four,” I repeat, moving my gaze from player to player and including my staff in my molten stare. “How many wins do we have, Cruz?”
“Two.”
“Two,” I repeat, nodding. “We are halfway there, boys. Halfway. We are meant to be the first franchise in AHL history to bring home a Cup after only two seasons. I believe in this team. I believe in us. Do you believe?”
A grunt of agreement fills the room.
“Halfway,” I repeat, scanning the room. “We just need two more wins, and we love winning in Michigan, don’t we?”
