Page 20 of Wynter

I buzz a few times and try to shift back, but I haven’t had this much trouble controlling my powers since I was a pimply thirteen-year-old lusting after my French teacher.

What? French girls are hot. So are girls named Wynter. And my chameleon powers, well… Let’s just say there’s a reason I hook up with puck bunnies. Sexual frustration makes my shifting go haywire.

I could seduce Wynter the moment I shift back. She’s hot as hell, and fixing my chameleon problem is an added bonus. But I want to get to know her. Really know her, and not in that way. Though I hope to one day soon.

She’s not just another meaningless hookup. Not this girl. There’s something about her. Something that makes me think of forever. And just because there’s a different girl in my bed every week, doesn’t mean I don’t want forever when I meet The One. And something tells me I already have.

I finally manage to shift back, and come crashing down on the ice. Gracefully. Because you don’t become a chameleon hockey player on the Silver Springs Blades without perfecting your landings.

“Not a bee shifter.” I smile at the sexy girl in front of me. “Chameleon.”

“Oh, like Amber.” She smiles back. “You’re not on painkillers too, are you?”

“Amber? Pain killers?” I frown. Sure, I’m well on the way to blue balls central, but can she tell just by looking? I sure as hell hope not. Not when the thought of her looking and touching makes my stick twitch.

“Never mind.” She laughs.

And that sound. Let’s just say it does as much for my stick as the thought of her soft lips wrapped around it. Right here. On her knees. In the middle of the rink. And hell if I don’t shift into Niklaus Dulka, one of the guys on the team.

I take on his human form, not his animal, but Wynter doesn’t seem too shocked. She just smiles, turns away, and skates across the ice.

And I’m proud to say my girl’s got form. She pushes off and glides like she was born to skate, same as me.

Luckily, her coat’s so long it reaches her knees. Slows her down some, and keeps me from ogling her ass. Keeps my stick in check.

“Play any hockey?” I ask. I’ve got my other stick—the one that’s not standing at attention—on the bench, since I was going to get in some shots at the net. So I can grab a spare from the change rooms if she wants to play.

“Nah.” She grins, and my skates suddenly go haywire.

Instead of following my command, they send me gliding off to the left, then lift off the ice so I’m floating in the fucking air.

“What the fuck?” I shout. Okay, fine, I let out a high-pitched squeal. But you try floating off the ice because your fucking skates are suddenly and unexpectedly possessed.

You’d think I’d be used to this sort of thing by now. I play on a supe team. Against supes who would more than happily send me ten feet into the air. But that’s on the ice, mid-game. I’m prepared for anything when I play. Not when I’m hitting on a hot girl. Especially when there aren’t any other hockey players to be found.

“Sorry.” Wynter snickers and flicks her wrist. She. Flicks. Her. Wrist.

“You’re a witch.” My eyes widen as I land on the ice. Not so gracefully this time. Because my skates are possessed. No, scratch that. They’re spelled. By her.

“I am a witch.” She grins. “It’s how I skate. With magic.”

“So you’re not actually skating?”

“Race me to the other end of the rink and say that again.” She suddenly takes off.

I give chase. And holy hell, it’s hot. Why haven’t I ever brought girls to the rink before? It’s kind of like bringing a date to the office—but office hookups are hot. Doing it on a desk. People are into that shit.

Me? I’m into ice. And doing it on the rink. Fuck. I need to think about something else, stat, before my crazy shifting takes me out of the race.

I’m not too worried about catching her. At first. I’m a fucking hockey player. I’m fast. I can skate. Except here I am, racing against magic. Magic that can move goddamn fast. Magic that puts her at an advantage I can’t beat.

I think fast, mentally cataloguing the shifters I’ve been around this week. And shift. Into a peregrine falcon. Take that! Wish I could shout the words, but I’m a bird. Definite downside.

The upside? Within moments, I’m zooming past Wynter in bird form, my skates weighing down my talons, though not by much.

“Hey!” Wynter shouts, her voice filled with outrage. “You cheated!”

I let out a loud squawk. Me. Bird. Can’t talk.