Page 10 of He Has Pluck

Some of the guys grunt a laugh. I stay seated and grab my phone on the bench next to me. Then I busy myself pretending there’s something real important that has my attention as I scroll without seeing a thing and listen.

A couple of guys murmur about her being a looker even with the camera hiding her face.

Someone elbows me. I turn to see Finn grinning with his elbow in my ribs. I put my phone down as I meet Ice Chip’s deep blue drown-in-them-until you-climax eyes.

“I assume you all got the memo about me filming your documentary? I’m Juliette Sullivan, and I’ll be getting up in your face and everywhere else for the duration. But don’t be shy and don’t let me distract you or stop you from doing what you do.” She motions her hand.

There’s a beat of silence, and then a few wolf whistles pierce the air and smiles pop out all around.

Two things hit me. First, I don’t like that some of the guys whistle and leer at Juliette. They need lessons in how to behave respectfully toward a woman. Second, my cup is not big enough to accommodate my body’s automatic response to her, ice chip or not. I consider going back to the shower for a dose of icy reality, but she zeroes in on me, lifting her camera back to her shoulder.

“I hear you’re a big scorer, new guy. You going to lead the team to the Stanley Cup?”

“If it takes every ounce of my sweat and energy, I’ll score my share of goals,” I say, trying like hell to stay neutral when I’d like to strangle her. Who’s feeding her these questions?

She lowers the camera and gives me a good look as some of the guys clap, but most of them continue dressing and carry on because they can, because they’re not the focus. It reminds me of being picked on by a bully if the camera were the bully. Everyone else is glad it’s not them being filmed.

But I’ve always known how to stand up and not let bullies get to me.

The one problem here is that Juliette is behind the camera, and no matter how much I want to think of her as the bad guy because she’s the cold as ice lady with a chip on her shoulder and a hockey hater, my dick will abso-fucking-lutely not let me.

“Come on, you can do better than that,” she says. “We’re going for authentic behind-the-scenes emotions here. Not that bullshit you’re expected to say.” Her eyes taunt me, icy and sexy and begging me to meet her challenge as she raises her camera again.

You’d think her attitude would deflate my cock, but no. I rise to the occasion.

“Bullshit? You should know all about bullshit because that question—am I going to lead the team to a Stanley Cup?—was the biggest pile of bullshit I’ve ever heard. It was like a herd of bulls all shit into the same fucking pile.”

“Whoa there,” Rafe says.

Coughing fits, whistles, snickers and general mayhem explode in the locker room.

I keep my eyes on Juliette’s because she’s put the camera aside. She looks me up and down, one brow arched as if she’s sizing me up for the kill. Maybe she is. Maybe I should be scared, but instead I’m fucking excited if the way my heart’s pounding and the sudden rise in my temperature are signs.

“That was authentic,” she says, calm, detached. A true ice chip. She makes me want to take her perfect face in my hands and kiss her until she’s as rattled as a virgin in a brothel.

I stand and pick up a towel as I watch her. Of course, she picks up her camera again.

“Is this an R-rated documentary you’re filming?” I ask as stand front and center in my briefs. Others in the room are similarly undressed, but they’re not in the line of fire. They’re slipping off to the showers or the training room or doing whatever else they need to do to get out of here.

“You’d have to show more than that, new guy,” she says, undaunted and maybe enjoying it. I suppose she ought to be because she’s getting the best of me in this sparring match. But the match is called when Coach Green walks into the locker room.

She swings the camera around to film him, and he glares, waving a hand in dismissal. She immediately lowers the camera.

“Got it. I’ll see you all later,” she says, glancing around the room with a smirk, her remarkable eyes lingering on me, making me all too aware of my bare chest and the hard cup under my briefs, confining my hard cock.

When she leaves the room, a mountain of tension leaves with her. At least that’s how I feel as tightness in my chest eases.

“You all check the schedule in the folders you were given?” Coach asks. There are some yes, sirs and a few nods, but most of us reach for the folder and open it now, having put it aside earlier.

“What the fuck?” Tony says. He’s holding the file and staring in disbelief. “We have a team dinner tonight? Since when?”

“Since I said so,” Coach says. “Don’t be late.” He scowls at everyone to stop the grumbling about missing out on dinner with the family or a hot date. Coach gives no further explanation, but I get the message. We need to put the team first for the duration of the season.

That’s exactly what I plan to do. Except I’m having trouble getting the message to my cock as the unmistakable scent of Juliette lingers, overpowering the smells of the locker room. Or maybe I’m particularly attuned to her scent. Distracted by it, by her. Fuck.

Chapter Four

JASON