Page 13 of Breaking Point (IceHawks #1)

“That you’re treating me like a regular person,” he admits softly. “You’re not a huge hockey person, are you?”

“Not particularly. I do admire the athleticism, though.”

“Well, that is severely lacking at the moment,” he whispers under his breath.

I choose to ignore the comment, not only because I don’t think he intended for me to hear but because the tension has leaked back into his shoulders. It’s like everywhere I turn, there’s something threatening to drag this man down. Maybe he’s stressed about the upcoming season?

“So how come you took the job?” he asks, pulling me from my thoughts.

My eyes slide to him, watching the muscles in his arms flex as he picks up skis and carries them into the hall. My tone reeks of suspicion as I ask, “Why?”

He shrugs. “You’re not a hockey fan, and usually it’s men who take this job for the tickets or women who are very good at pretending they don’t care until I catch them watching me sleep at three in the morning.” He straightens. “You’re not a good liar, are you? You don’t like hockey, right?”

At the sight of his stricken blue gaze, I laugh.

“My god, I don’t know where to start with that.

” Hefting a duffel bag full of clothes closer to me, I open it up, get one waft of the stench, and decide this goes firmly in the trash pile.

“For starters, most seasoned liars would say no, so either way my answer is moot. Secondly, that’s atrocious and I hope you got a restraining order. ”

Thirdly, why do you have this sad puppy dog thing going on? I want to blurt the question out. I want to know why this man can go from shy and sweet and charming to downright miserable in a flash.

Shaking my head to clear the thoughts, I decide to try and erase his tinge of fear.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but your team so happens to be the favorite of someone that I would rather rip out my eyeballs than ever interact with again.

So, no, I am not a die-hard fan. Quite the opposite. ”

He stops, pulling the corner of his shirt up to wipe the sweat off his forehead. It gives me a second, a split moment in time where my eyes instinctively fall to his glistening chest before my brain wrangles control of my body and looks away.

I have to hold in my scoff.

And he thinks he isn’t athletic. He has a six pack for fuck’s sake. I could pour maple syrup on him and have to dip my tongue deep into his abdominal ridges to reach it.

I pointedly ignore the way my stomach heats .

“Ex-boyfriend?”

Now I do scoff. “I wish it was as easy as that but no.”

I can see that he has questions. Perhaps he’s as curious about me as I am about him.

I wish we met before my life went to ruin.

Considering how my day started out in this house, this is not where I saw it going. This job is supporting my mom and her health; her life depends on its income. Where my thoughts keep drifting is futile.

“I don’t want to say that’s a relief, but that does make it slightly easier to trust you aren’t a crazy fan.”

“Do you have many stories?”

He whistles. “You have no idea. People warned me when I entered the league but it’s one of those things that you never truly believe until it happens to you.”

My nose scrunches as I find a shirt on its way to being rock solid. I do not want to know. “What age were you drafted?”

“Fresh out of college my senior year, alongside my best friend Kieran.” He cranes his neck. “You’ll meet him because he treats my house like his own, but as much as I love him, stay away from him. He’s the biggest player I’ve ever met.”

My lips spread into a thin line. “Thank you for the warning, but it’s not needed.”

He frowns, peering at me a moment too long. His gaze is heavy on mine and suddenly I feel like I’m under a microscope.

I said too much.

It’s been a long time since I was someone’s assistant.

Shockingly, my mind continues to forget that I’m not just hanging out at someone’s house.

I didn’t have this problem in my last assistant job.

The man was such an egomaniac I never wanted to divulge a single thing about myself.

But Grayson—with his soft blue eyes, lone dimple, and heady deep voice—lulls me into an odd sense of security.

That is terrifying .

Rising onto my feet, I put as much distance between us as I can manage, which so happens to be the three steps we cleared of the room.

I’m sorting through a box of baseball items when suddenly a mitten is snatched from my grip.

I gasp in shock as I spin to find Grayson’s blue eyes wide with such unending sadness that I’m momentarily stunned.

“Grayson?”

His name breaks him out of the daze he was trapped in. He shoves the mitten back into my hand. “Burn it,” he snaps.

Blinking furiously at the sudden anger in his tone, I take a step back. “Pardon me?”

“Burn it, throw it out, I don’t care. Just get rid of it.”

And with those parting words, he not only storms out of the room but out of the house.

The front door slams shut, sealing me inside Grayson Crawford’s large house, along with my confusion.