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“Cue up the music. We’ll do that and it’ll take us to time.”
Rhett’s in his tight-fitting tracksuit, the one that hugs all his hockey muscles. His arms are crossed and he’s leaned back, glaring at the ice. What the fuck is his problem? I give a snarky wave on my way to change the music and cut the ice with an angry hockey stop. Yes, I learned it from him, but it suits my volatile mood.
Scott and I start on opposite ends of the ice and skate toward each other and then it begins. The slinky ice dance that captivated the world, filled with spins and twists, and Scott’s strong hands controlling my hips. We fly around the ice, my blood beating with adrenaline, and the chill air whipping against my face.
As much as I’m trying to stick it to Rhett, I want to sink into Scott. Nothing’s happened between us other than a bit of flirting. How can it with Rhett staring him down every practice? But one day, Rhett will be gone. I doubt his plan to recapture Jack will work. Jack and Merc have had so much sex by this point, their cells have become one and trying to sort out which parts of them belong to the other enough to separate them would be impossible. He’s eventually going to realize that and move on. It’s just taking him for-fucking-ever because he’s a stubborn prick who can’t stand losing.
Maybe I need to make the first move with Scott?
Landing from a roll out of Scott’s muscled arms, I stretch my gaze to Rhett, excited for the beautiful fury that’ll be on his face. He’s … gone. Where did he?—
My body collides with a mountainside that reeks of Tom Ford Oud Wood. His hazel eyes are almost black and that lion’s mane? I swear to Christ it’s waving like angry flames. Arms the size of Canadian redcedar trunks trap me.
“You’ve reached your time, and I want my boyfriend back, Orser.”
Scott holds his hands up. “He’s all yours, man. See you tomorrow, Lowey?”
“Lowey,” Rhett mutters under his breath.
I’m going to murder Rhett. He was supposed to get a little jealous, not stake his claim. “Yeah, see you tomorrow,” I say, but I don’t take my eyes off Rhett.
We have a stare-off until we hear the telltale signs that Scott’s left the arena for the locker room.
“What the fuck, Elkington?”
“Don’t pretend you didn’t do that to make me jealous.”
I push away from him; he lets me break free. “It’s not my fault you’ve got too much testosterone, raging through you like a barbarian. Sounds like a you problem.”
He growls, reaching for me. I skate away backward. “I’m leaving with Scott today and you can go fuck yourself.”
“Like hell you are.”
The boot of his skate glides forward and I spin, skating for my life toward the boards, slipping through the opening. My blades cut into the rubber flooring, and I bend as I run, trying to unlace my skate.
“If you trip…!” Rhett calls from behind me.
“I’m not going totri?—”
My face stops an inch from the rubber as I not-so-gracefully catch my fall. I spin, crawling backward as I try to get my skate off by kicking it against the ground. Rhett jumps like he’s sliding face-first into home base and two mammoth hands clutch my skate.
Perfect.
I tug and there’s a softthucksound as my foot pops out along with my sock. I whip to my front, army crawl swiftly for half a foot, and then climb to my feet to half-run toward the locker room.
Aha, victory!
My bare foot hits wet tile, but then my back’s slammed into the wall behind the locker room door. I’m pinned by an angry hockey God who’s seething in front of my face. The swinging door slams shut, and we both hold our breath, aware that Scott’s in here.
Water’s running. Scott’s in the shower.
We wordlessly determine that at the same time and then it’s back to our game of predator and prey. I’m the fucking prey, but I won’t go down easy. I bare my teeth, a silent threat that I’ll bite him again if need be. His fist is twisted into my black skating shirt, and it rides up my stomach. Our chests expand and deflate in sync as we catch our breath, but we can’t catch the runaway emotions swirling around us.
Hot breath hits my neck and tingles erupt over my sweat-drenched flesh. Rhett has resting pout-face, as if he’s ready to hit a blue steel pose for a photo at all times. The first thing I want to bite is that pouty bottom lip of his. I inhale and exhale carefully as if any small move could initiate an attack.
The air thickens, buzzing with the growing animosity between us. Rhett’s colossal force and his damn Tom Ford cologne storm my senses. A pained expression winces over his features.
“I need?—”
