Page 16 of Playing the Pucking Game

My teeth grind at the thought.

In all the years I’ve known her, I have never, ever seen her wear my jersey. She was there the day I played my first Vipers game. Even then, my name didn’t grace her shoulders.

There’s this determined part of me that wants to figure out a way to make it happen. I want to see what she looks like withStormwritten across her back like I own her. But there’s also this other part of me that refuses to think about it.

I can’t. It…it’s too much.

So instead, I force those kinds of thoughts from my head and focus on more rational things like what Parker is going to need to do tomorrow, and what I can do to make all this easier.

She might be adamant that we’ve never been friends, but I have a very different opinion.

She’s been a part of my life for almost as long as I can remember. I might be closer to her brother, or at least I was growing up. Hell, the two of us were inseparable, both on and off the ice. We were until the day we got drafted. Sure, we’re not worlds apart with him up in Seattle and me living out my childhood dream of playing for the LA Vipers, but we’re not as close as we once were.

Parker is still here, though. She’s still a part of my life in a way Rett isn’t. And with her new job, she’s about to become an even bigger part of it.

My skin prickles as I consider how I’m going to cope with her running her hands all over me on the daily.

She’s a professional, I have no doubt about that. She’s worked too damn hard to secure this role, beating out all the men who applied. There isn’t a single chance in hell of her doing anything to put that at risk.

Me though…I’m an entirely different story. I live for the adrenaline rush, and having Parker rub me down is undoubtedly going be to a high of the very best kind.

I continue lying there for the longest time, creating a mental list of all the things that need to happen next.

Hours pass, and I’m still wide awake. I tell myself that it’s because I’d been prepared to be out partying all night. But I know that’s bullshit. I can’t sleep because I’m on high alert. Parker is right on the other side of the wall, and our headboards are almost touching. Every single noise has me hyper-focused in case something is wrong, in case she needs me—which will never happen, but a guy can hope.

Right now, as far as I know, I’m the only one aware of what’s happened tonight, and I want to be there for her.

My legs twitch with my need to go and check on her.

Is she sleeping? Or is she pacing the room, trying to get her head around what’s happened? And if it’s the latter, does she need someone to talk it out with? Does she need my shoulder to cry on again? Because I’ll loan that motherfucker out time and time again for her to make use of.

Eventually, the not knowing gets too much, and I roll out of bed, pull on some boxers, and silently pad toward her door.

Everything is silent, leading me to believe that she’s sleeping. Just like the bathroom door earlier, I find it ajar, and when I poke my head around the door, I quickly find that I’m right. She’s curled up on her side, facing away from me with the covers bunched at her waist.

But my eyes only focus on one thing.

My name.

My heart rate increases and my fists curl at my sides.

Finally, after all these years, Parker Donnelly is wearing my name and number.

Lifting my hand, I rub my chest, right above my racing heart.

Fuck, that is a sight to behold.

I stand there for a good minute before I realize that I’m acting like a total creep and back out of her room.

I’d be lying if I said that my boxers weren’t a little tighter on the return journey. The image of her wearing my name and number is ingrained in my brain, and I’m pretty sure it’s going to live there rent-free for the foreseeable future. I’m equally sure my wild imagination will also get a hold of it. I groan, sinking my hand into my boxers and squeezing my length.

It’s wrong. She’s just experienced probably the worst night of her life, and here I am getting hard over the fact she’s in my space and wearing my clothes.

I’m hardly surprised, though.

It’s Parker.

She’s been under my skin since I was eleven, and after all these years, I’ve resigned myself to the fact that I’m never going to get her out.