Page 22 of Playing Dirty

My body tenses, feeling the intensity of his stare as his eyes dart back and forth between mine, and it tightens into a coil when my brain registers his face getting closer to mine now.

“What—”

“Unbuckling your helmet,” he says while he reaches for the strap beneath my chin.

“I thought you said to leave it on.”

He nods, eyes flashing up to mine. “I am. It just looked like it was pressing on your throat.”

Something’s pressing on my throat all right, or rather creating a knot nearly impossible to breathe around when he’s this close.

The brush of his smooth, cool skin against my jaw while he works on the clasp has the same effect as his hand did earlier—both at breakfast and last night at the front desk. It’s almost like he’s a ball of static electricity, sending little shocks into my body every time we touch.

I turn my head slightly when I glance away, feeling squirmy and off-balance from his nearness. But the hand that was beneath my chin gently corrects the move.

“Stay lying straight if you can,” he murmurs before a few fingers slide backward. His touch lights a path of fire over my skin before coming to rest at the side of my neck.

And, God, he’s close.Tooclose.

At this distance, I can see his irises are more of a warm, rich brown when the sunlight hits them. I notice the slightest dotting of freckles on the bridge of his nose, giving him an air of innocence that doesn’t quite fit with the whole tattooed bad-boy vibe.

His lips part slightly, creating little puffs of steam and vapor in the air between us, and I swear, I might combust on the spot when his gaze drops to my mouth for the briefest moment. Because, with one little glance, my mind latches on to the ridiculous, illogical thought that…he’s going to kiss me. It screams in my brain like a banshee, causing my blood pressure to skyrocket with equal parts fear and anticipation.

Shit, shit, shit.

In a panic, I knock his hand away and sit up, ready to put as much distance between us as I can. Only it’s a mistake, because we’re now inches apart and damn near breathing the same air, our helmets clipping each other with my sudden movement.

“Can you just get out of my face?” I ask, my tone nearly a plea.

But it’s not enough. He doesn’t move. Not a fucking inch.

Instead, he presses his palm to my chest slowly, attempting to push me back to the ground as he murmurs, “You really should stay lying down and wait for the ski patrol to take us down.”

“What do you care,MadDog?” I snap, feeling my blood pulsing throughmy veins. “And don’t you dare say it’s because we’re family when we both know that’s horseshit.”

The sharpness in my voice doesn’t cause him to physically pull away like I’d hoped, but there’s a flare of frustration in his eyes before his jaw tenses ever so slightly.

“I don’t know, Theo. Maybe because I’m not some heartless douche who’d just leave you here alone and in pain,” he says bitterly, adding, “Or for you to make it even worse if somethingiswrong. Which you’re going to if you don’t—”

“I’d argue that me breaking my neck or having Jell-O for a brain would be a good thing for you,” I cut in.

This time he does recoil, his hand drawing back and falling to his lap.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“That you and the rest of your buddies at Blackmore would have one less Leighton player to worry about this season. A power hitter, no less.” A sneer pulls at my lips, and I continue digging in harder, hoping to finally push him to the point of leaving me alone. “Come to think of it, I’m a little surprised you didn’t take matters into your own hands and push me off the ski lift when you had the chance.”

He stares at me like I’ve lost my mind, blinking a few times and shaking his head before a humorless laugh leaves him. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

I don’t say anything at all, just glare at him. In the silence, I can hear my pulse pounding in my ears. Can feel the blood rushing beneath my skin to the point where I feel like an artery might burst. Every muscle in my body is knotted up tight, coiled in anticipation, in frustration, in…something else I can’t really describe.

All I know is I don’t fucking like it.

Him.

“You know what? Fuck this,” he growls.

Shoving up from the ground, he takes a few steps away and grabs his board from where he’d speared it into the snow. His movements are jerky as he buckles his feet back into the bindings. It’s all happening so quickly, I don’t even have time to breathe in relief from the newfound space between us. Yet even without the panic and ample distance from one another, my throat still feels thick as I watch him.