Page 46 of Something to Prove

“Not me. I’m a germaphobe. I mean…not really. I’m not obsessive, but I have standards. Not eating off the floor isn’t even a high one.”

“Oh, brother,” I’d snorted, widening my hands like a director painting a scene. “Zombie apocalypse, access to candy and treats is limited. Something rolls onto the floor in an otherwise empty market and it’s your favorite thing ever. What is it, and are you eating it?”

“M&M’s, and no.” Walker had lifted his chin regally and retied his robe. “Especially not if there was a threat of zombies. They might be contaminated, and I told you I’m not monster material.”

I’d pursed my lips, loving this playful side of him.

“You like M&M’s?”

“Love them.”

“Plain or peanut?”

“Plain.”

I’d narrowed my eyes and leaned in to pluck at the tie. “Sorry, but that kind of makes you a monster.”

“Excuse me?”

“Peanuts are better than plain.”

Walker had scoffed derisively and slumped in his chair with his knees parted, giving me a perfect view of the goods. “You’re wrong.”

“I’m right.”

“Wrong.” He’d given his cock a glancing stroke that made my toes curl.

“What are you doing?”

“Touching myself.”

Christ.This redheaded demon was the fucking sexiest man on the planet. “I, uh…I don’t think my dick works yet. Give me another twenty minutes.”

“You don’t have todoanything,” he’d purred.

“Are you…did you want to top?” I’d choked out.

Sure, I’d bottomed in the past, but it had been a while—years. So would I? I thought so. If it was something he wanted.

Walker shook his head. “No, it’s not my preference. But I have toys. You haven’t seen my dildo collection. I have a fabulous twelve-inch one you might like. I can fuck you with it. Or…I could rim you. I’m pretty good at it.”

Don’t quote me, but I was pretty sure I’d gaped for a solid minute and nodded. But before I could sweat over the idea of Walker fucking me with a dildo or rimming my ass, the timer buzzed. He’d stood, retied his robe, then tousled my hair and sashayed toward the oven to rescue our pizza while I’d stared after him in a daze.

A total fucking daze.

That was the Walker effect for you. He was in my head, distracting the hell out of me. I wasn’t used to splitting my focus.

For me, hockey came first. Always.

I might have joked about the extra attention, but I’d always had my head on straight where my sport was concerned.

My dream coming into college had been to sign with a professional team. That was a lofty-ass goal for a kid who’d played with borrowed sticks and had relied on sponsorships throughout high school. My parents had never had the money, and hockey was expensive. Equipment alone had always cost a fortune.

Mom and Dad had supported us however they could, but I doubted they’d thought my siblings or I would pursue hockey beyond college. They were more concerned with education. Me? I wanted to play with the big boys.

I’d worked my ass off proving that I had what it took to succeed, and I was very aware of the tiers of measured success. It was like a video game. You hit one level and had seconds to adjust to the next round of expectation. I’d been one of the best forwards in high school, but I’d had to start from the bottom in college. Now I was at the top again—a big fish in a small pond, as Toby reminded me. I’d be a guppy next year. And if I had my sights set on the NHL—the mega dream I didn’t dare speak aloud—I’d be chum.

I was unproven and expendable. And while a connection with an influencer was nice and all, it meant nothing if I suddenly forgot how to play hockey.