Page 46 of One-Time Shot

He leaned on the board and squeezed my hand affectionately. “What’s up? Before you tell me, I just gotta say…you look hot as fuck.”

“Thanks.” I raked my teeth over my bottom lip.

His gaze dipped to my mouth and stayed there. “Shit, you’re distracting.”

I chuckled. “Sorry.”

“No, you’re not,” he huffed, pointing at the bench. “I left skates for you. Where’s the tracking stuff?”

“I forgot it. Or I thought I’d have time to go home after meeting with the professor, but I didn’t.”

I plopped onto the bench, dropped my bag, and shoved my feet into the borrowed blades.

The skating part was a new development. We’d decided to stick to our original plan of meeting at the rink—once a week, instead of twice—as a sort of currency to cash in if we were spotted together in town. Jett liked the idea, but only if I tried to skate. It wasn’t as painful or scary as I’d feared. I was slow and methodical and probably looked like a newborn foal finding its legs.

But my new vantage on the ice gave me perspective that would certainly be useful in my thesis. And even if it wasn’t, being in Jett’s orbit while he raced by me on a sheet of ice was a rush.

“How’d it go?” he asked, reaching for a stick propped against the board and then handing it to me.

“Great, I—” I wrinkled my nose, holding the stick out like a dirty diaper. “What’s this?”

“A hockey stick. C’mon, hot stuff. We got twenty minutes before the guys start rolling in for practice.”

I peered at the pile of pucks between the face-off circles. “I don’t need a stick.”

“How else are you gonna shoot the puck, Maloney?”

“I’m not going to shoot any pucks. I’m here to measure your…attributes.”

“Oh, yeah?” He waggled his brows.

“Allegedly.”

“Hey.”

I snickered. “I meant for the sake of appearances.”

Jett frowned as if unhappy with my choice of words, but he smiled again and motioned me to his side. “Let’s make mincemeat out of these pucks.”

“I don’t?—”

“No sass. This is what you get when you forget to bring your supplies. An in-class assignment with the expert. That’s me, by the way. I’m the expert.”

“I can barely stand upright on these things. I’ll fall if I try to do anything else,” I argued.

“I’ll catch you.”

My heart did a cartwheel and a somersault that momentarily left me breathless. I knew the sentiment wasn’t meant to be taken literally, but gosh, it sounded utterly romantic. I waddle-skated toward him with my head in the clouds, too bewitched to put up further resistance.

“Now what?” I asked, grasping his elbow for balance.

“Now you go for it.”

I went for it. Result: The puck didn’t move, and my inexpert stroke propelled me to the ice. Or it would have if Jett hadn’t grabbed my arm.

“See? I told you I couldn’t do it.”

“Yes, you can. You need some pointers, though. Let’s talk about your grip. You’re right-handed, so you’re going to hold the stick like this.” He demonstrated, adjusting my hands till he was satisfied. “Good. Now bend your knees, put your weight on your back foot, and—not that far back.”