Page 23

A week after that embarrassing 3–1 loss—and subsequent tie and second loss—I’m still angry. Letting two goals in was enough to bench me, and Coach never let me go back out. Probably a safe call. I was not in the right headspace. I’m still not, but I’m on my way to fix that.

I pound my fist on her door.

Startled sounds and a few curse words filter through the other side before she spies me through the peephole.

The deadbolt slides and she unlocks her door, whipping it open to reveal her standing there like a shock to my system.

It’s been a week since I’ve laid eyes on her—I couldn’t get up the nerve to go running with her. The right thing to do would’ve been to text her, but with the mood I was in, it only would’ve made things worse.

Whenever I see Leah, she’s usually wearing tight clothes that hug her curves—black spandex pants accentuating her ass and tank tops that hint at full breasts .

But the shorts and tank top she’s in now are nothing like that. The grey fabric of her tiny sleep shorts looks so soft I have the urge to plant my hands on her hips and feel the texture for myself.

Her matching tank is loose, the same soft fabric equally as tempting. She’s not wearing a bra, and I watch as her nipples pebble under the weight of my perusal. Her athletic wear’s hints were accurate.

I follow the lines of her curves up her slender neck to her face. Her beautiful, angry face. Her short hair is tousled like she recently got out of the shower.

“What do you want?” Her tone has a lot of bite to it. I was expecting it, hoping for it, even. Although it must be worse than I thought because she doesn’t even swear at me.

Before I can answer, a delicious smell wafts out of the apartment, making my mouth water. She’s baking something, and the aroma of cinnamon coats her with a scent I want to taste.

She’s still standing in the doorway, making no move to let me inside.

“What are you making?” I ask.

She huffs but doesn’t answer, looking at me expectantly.

I sigh, barking, “Can I come in?”

“No.”

That’s it, just no. No rambling, no lecture, nothing. I’m starting to see why she hates my one-word answers so much.

“Leah—”

She puts a hand up, peering over her shoulder before placing her palm to the middle of my chest. The sight of her slight hand over my heart distracts me from noticing her pushing me back so she can close the door, leaving us in the hallway.

As soon as the door softly clicks shut, she drops her hand. I want to drag it back to me.

“Do you have a man in there?” I feel the anger surge again. Mine.

Except she’s not mine. Not yet.

“How is that any of your business?” she hisses, looking down the hall to make sure no one’s coming.

“Tell me,” I command.

“Why?”

I can only blink. I don’t have the words. That’s why I brought the gift. Like my thoughts pushed her to realize I’m holding a box, and a rather big one, her eyes flash with anger.

“What’s that?”

“A gift.”

She scoffs. “Trying to buy me off?”

“No.”

“What is it?”

“First, tell me if you have a man in there.” It’s unfair of me, I know that, but the chorus of possessive growls in my head couldn’t give a fuck at the moment.

She puts her hands on her hips and asks, “Does Levi count?”

The relief that hits me almost knocks me off my feet.

“Good. Let me in,” I order again. I see it, I’ve struck a chord in her.

“You think you can come here after ignoring me for a week, after making me wait for you every morning without so much as a word or a simple text telling me you can’t show? No, there’s no way I’m letting you into my home.”

Her anger thrills me. I take a step into her personal space, shifting the box to my side so our fronts are almost touching. She has to arch her neck if she wants to keep scowling at me, which she does, as I tower over her. I want to lift her up and pin her against the wall.

Not until we get inside.

“Let me in.”

She glares, looking more like the woman I ran into on that houseboat than the one I’ve been running with.

My step forward forces her to step back. And again, and again. Until her back presses against the door. I reach out my hand, grazing the fabric of her pajamas to grasp the door handle. I was right, the fabric is so soft.

“Can I come in?” My voice is low and practically comes out as a growl.

“Oh, let him in, honey!” A squeaky voice from down the hall makes us both jump in surprise.

Leah whips her head in the direction of the intruder, and I catch a whiff of her scent, fresh, like rain and vanilla mixing with the cinnamon of her baking.

The self-control it takes not to lick her, to see if she tastes as good as she smells—she’s nearly irresistible. But we have an audience.

“Please go back in your apartment, Mrs. Hastings,” Leah says with so much exasperation, it’s probably not the first time the lady has eavesdropped. She better not have had men in her hallway for the old lady to spy on. Fuck, I’m a jackass .

“I’ll go back in, Ms. Harrison, when you let him in.”

The two women have a staring contest, and in a surprise outcome I wouldn’t have seen coming, Leah relents first, sighing before turning to open her door. She’s close enough to me that her ass brushes against my thighs, near where I’m already achingly hard for her.

I turn and mouth a quick thank you to the old lady.

She winks. “I’ll put my earplugs in tonight.” And then she’s back in her apartment, leaving me there stunned.

Leah has walked into her apartment, leaving the door open for me to follow. I shut it, sealing us in, the silence so loud as I face her. She’s standing in the middle of an impressively clean living room. Everything is neat and organized—even Levi’s toys are all put away in labelled bins.

The blankets are uniformly folded on the couch. There’s a cutout in the wall where I can see the kitchen, a pie sitting on a cooling rack on the counter. No dishes in the sink, and the counters are spotless.

She’s a neat freak. That doesn’t surprise me. Since she likes to control everything she can, I would expect nothing less of her apartment.

A beat passes, and a trickle of unease slithers down my spine, settling uncomfortably in my stomach.

“I-I’m sorry, if you didn’t want to let me in, I c-can go.”

There’s a calculating look in her eyes, like she can’t decide whether to laugh or yell .

“What are you doing here, Julien?” she asks in that same exasperated tone she used with her neighbour. The way my name slips off her tongue ... Damn. She’s the only one I want saying my name.

Screaming it.

I stick the box out towards her, but she doesn’t take it.

“What is it?” She eyes me suspiciously.

“Have you never been given a gift before? Open it.”

“Stop ordering me around,” she huffs.

I glare back. “I have no choice, ma têtue .” Her face transforms, softening, melting a fraction before she catches herself. She likes it when I speak French. I’m not above using everything I’ve got.

I take a step closer, watching her reaction. “ Toi, ma têtue, tu vas ouvrir cette bo?te, sans ajouter un mot .” The heat in her eyes wavers between anger and desire. I feel my lips curve into a smile. She watches my mouth with what looks like fascination.

“ J’ai hate d’avoir tes jambes enroulées autour de moi pendant que je m’enfouis en toi .” She may not understand the words, but I see the flash of understanding at my tone. Fuck, I want her.

I’ve moved right into her personal space, closer than what’s polite. “Open it,” I whisper in English.

Like her hands are not her own, she reaches for the box without taking her eyes off me. When I let go, she finally releases me from her spell.

“It’s lighter than I thought it would be.”

“Open it,” I repeat .

Some of her irritation returns, but she doesn’t say anything. Balancing the box with one hand, she opens it up with the other. I see the confusion on her face when she removes the tissue.

Her brows knit together, as if I’m a puzzle she can’t quite solve.

“You got me a jersey?” She doesn’t take it out of the box, as if waiting for me to explain before she accepts.

“You came to the game without one,” I say.

“So?” She doesn’t get it.

Does she really not understand? “No one knew who you were cheering for.”

She rolls her eyes again. “I was sitting with Paige who was all decked out, behind your coaches’ bench. It was obvious I was cheering for the Whales.”

That stings. Cheering for the Whales, not for me.

“You need to wear a jersey if you come to another game.”

“Okay, but I could have just bought a jersey. One of your players has the number twenty-four, that’s my favourite—”

“I think the fuck not,” I growl. No way in hell I’m letting her wear Bartosh’s number.

Her anger rises. “Excuse me? I’ll wear whatever the fuck I want.”

“No, you’ll wear this,” I say, tapping the box in her hands. I try to breathe in through my nose, but all I can smell is her—and pie—and it’s doing nothing to help calm my senses.

She focuses on the gift again, eyes narrowing. Placing the box on the coffee table, she finally takes the jersey out. It’s enormous, showcasing the difference in our sizes .

“I’m trying not to be offended, Julien, but what the fuck? Why is it so huge?” She regards the mass of fabric with doubt. I snort and she turns, her emerald stare on me again.

“It’s mine.”

“What?” She turns the jersey around and sees my name and the number forty-two, my number. “Oh, you got me your jersey,” she says, her voice softening. “But why did you buy one so big?”

I shake my head. “It’s mine.”

I see it when she understands. Something crosses her face that’s gone before I can decipher what it means. She lowers the jersey back into the box and with it, my heart sinks into my stomach.

“Why did you give me one of your jerseys, Julien?” Her voice is carefully guarded, suspicious.

“For you to wear.”

“I can’t wear it.”

“Why not?”

“I may not know a lot about hockey, but I’ve read enough hockey romances to know wearing a player’s jersey, their real jersey, is something a hockey wife does.”

Fuck. The word wife on her tongue does something to me.

“Put it on.”

Her fingers trace the fabric gently, outlining the number.

“Forty-two,” she says, almost to herself. I track the movement of her fingers, aware that I have very little restraint left.

She looks back up, her eyes searching mine. “If I wear this, if I put this on, what does that mean? Because I’ll tell you one thing, I am no one’s wife.”

That word again. She may not be my wife, but she is mine .

“Put it on, ma têtue .”

“Tell me what that means first,” she orders.

I feel the corner of my mouth twitch. “My stubborn one.”

She blinks for a few seconds and then bursts out laughing. Her anger is exhilarating, but her laughter is irresistible. I’m about to tell her to put it on again when she picks the jersey back up, eyeing it again, the laughter still lingering on her face.

Her features turn stern. “Don’t ignore me again,” she orders. Then she slips the jersey over her head and it cascades down her body, skimming the tops of her knees.

Fuck me.

No woman of mine—not that there have been many, and screaming fans don’t count—has worn one of my jerseys before. I’ve never cared enough about the silly tradition, always thought players who did were possessive assholes. Seeing her in my jersey? I get it.

I thought I was hard before, but blood rushes downwards and my dick is now in physical pain, straining against the zipper of my jeans.

She’s swimming in it, the jersey covering her thighs, sleeves stretching long past her hands. Though she’s covered, I’ve never seen anything as sexy as her standing there looking like she’s naked underneath my jersey.

Even though I know she’s got those skimpy shorts and tank on, her legs are bare, the neckline showcasing the line of her collarbones.

I’m rooted to the spot with so much heat coursing through me I’m worried I’d burn her with my touch.

“I can’t wear this, it’s huge!” she says, swirling her body around in it, completely unaware I’m about three seconds away from pouncing. She twirls again but stops abruptly, as she catches a glimpse of the other gift I tucked in the box. Her brows furrow as she bends over, lifting the last piece of tissue.

She sees what it is, this time understanding immediately, and drops to the couch as if her knees have given out. Her hand trembles as she slowly reaches in and lifts the small jersey to look it over.

“I did have to buy this one,” I whisper, not taking my eyes away from her face as she admires the small forty-two and my name on the back of it.

When she lifts her face, there are tears in her eyes.

“You got Levi one of your jerseys?”