Page 33 of One-Time Shot

I waited outside the rink, half-hidden in the shadow of a giant elm. Not that I was hiding. I wasn’t. Jett’s teammates and coach knew he was aiding my experiment, and no one had seemed to mind my occasional presence. In fact, they’d pretty much ignored me. I was used to that. As a scientist, I was a consummate observer of my surroundings…a fly on the wall in plain sight.

And if this was my last occasion to use the “experiment” excuse, I planned to milk it for all it was worth.

Unfortunately, my lecture had run late, so there’d be no final ogling while he practiced today. Jett wasn’t expecting me anyway, and that was fine. I was here to leave a message—quickly and unobtrusively.

His teammates passed me in groups of threes and fours on their way out of the main exit. No sign of Jett.

Another batch of hockey players exited the building, followed by two coaches.

Where the heck was he?

Five minutes later, I gave up and slipped inside the rink—and immediately ran into a wall of man.

Jett lifted his brows. “What are you doing here, Maloney? It’s Thursday.”

I took a moment to appreciate his broad silhouette as he fished sunglasses from his pocket. He wore a sleek leather jacket, jeans that hugged his thighs, and he carried a huge duffel slung over his shoulder with an air of casual strength and masculinity. Geesh, he was dreamy and?—

Ugh, snap out of it.

“Yes, um…Thursday. That’s right, but I had some free time and I wanted to talk to you about—” I narrowed my gaze and leaned in. “The light is terrible in here, but you look pale. Are you all right?”

He pushed his glasses on in the dark lobby and shook his head. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not. You’re hurt.”

Jett grimaced. “My knee is bugging me, but it’s not a big deal. I just need ice.”

“Oh. Well, let me help.”

“You got a bag of ice on you?”

“No, but…I have some at home,” I replied.

“Me too and my place is closer. Come with me. We’ll walk and talk.”

We strolled through the quad under canopies of trees decked in fading autumnal splendor, past the Humanities building and Smithton Hall. The fifteen-minute walk should have taken ten, and I couldn’t be sure if the delay was due to Jett’s knee pain or the half dozen stops he made to bump fists with friends and student hockey fans.

I’d known Jett was popular, but the mini sensation he stirred on Main Street surprised me. Everyone either greeted him like a long-lost friend or pointed, twittering his name as if he were a rock star. Between the frenzy of onlookers and Jett’s drawn features, I’d forgotten my reason for stalking him—excuse me…seeking him out this afternoon until he opened the door to his one-bedroom apartment, dropped his bag and jacket on the floor, and made a beeline for the refrigerator, triumphantly excavating an ice pack.

“You should get off your feet,” I advised, following him into the adjacent living room furnished with a gray sofa, a large flat-screen TV, and a coffee table.

There was no art on the walls, no photos of friends or family either. Just a lot of blank space. I had a passing thought that he could use a plant or two, but I kept it to myself.

Jett flopped on the sofa, propped his right foot on the coffee table, and groaned. “Fuck.”

“Is it bad?”

“Meh. It just flares up every once in a while.” He made a funny face. “I should probably change out of my jeans so I can feel the ice better. Or just…take them off. Do you mind?”

Gulp.

“Good idea,” I squeaked.

I could have sworn his cheeks were flushed, which in all fairness, might have been from the walk. Still, Jett hesitated for a moment before standing to unbuckle his belt, unbutton and unzip his fly, and lower his jeans. His black boxer briefs snagged on the denim, pulling the fabric to expose his V-line and the root of his thick cock.

Oh. My. God.

Was I staring again? Yes.