Page 36 of The Wildest One

We were both beyond single. We’d made that clear.

He made no promises.

But that was then.

In the time we spent together, I saw hints of the man behind the hockey mask. I saw flashes of his heart, a rawness that was usually covered by his uniform.

Sure, Beck Weston was a hockey star, and that was what had initially attracted me to him. But he was so much more.

My hands went over my face. “It doesn’t matter, Ginger. He’s gone.”

“Yes, it does matter.” She clenched my arm, forcing my fingers to fall and land on top of the sweatshirt. “He said he wished he could bring you to LA with him. He said in a perfect world, he would. And he told you he liked this—meaning what was going on between you guys.”

I could hear his voice saying those words.

They had been replaying nonstop since I’d gotten home.

“He even gave you his number. He didn’t have to do that.” Her hand stilled. “But by doing that … babe, he was showing you.”

My eyes left the screen again. “Showing me. I?—”

My voice was cut off by the commentators announcing the press conference, and I quickly glanced back at the TV. The screen changed, showing a long table, wrapped in the NHL’s logo, with two players from LA sitting in front of mics.

One was Beck.

I found Ginger’s hand, squeezed it in mine, and slid to the end of my bed.

He hadn’t showered. He’d come straight from either the ice or the locker room. His hair was wet, his face sweaty. He didn’t even bother wiping it off with the towel that hung around his neck.

Something I was strangely grateful for. The way sweat looked on that man should be illegal.

“I’m about to die,” I confessed.

“I don’t blame you. I kinda am too.”

A group of reporters, not in the angle of the camera, were calling out questions for Beck and his teammate. I saw Beck’s mouth moving in response, I heard his voice, but I wasn’t processing anything he was saying.

I was too fixated on his face. On his eyes and how riveting they looked. On his lips. Ones that I’d kissed not that long ago. On his beard that was untamed and devilishly sexy.

“What the heck is on his mustache?” she asked.

I couldn’t glance at Ginger. Nothing in this world could pry my eyes off my TV. “What are you talking about?”

“Right above his lip and below his nose, like halfway, stuck to the hair … is that … a … piece of a protein bar? Or something like that?”

“A what?” My heart was pounding so fast. I released her hand, got on my feet, and walked to the TV to get a closer view. “Oh my God.”

Ginger was right. There was something woven into the hairs above his lip. It wasn’t large, and if you weren’t looking as intently as we were, you would probably miss it. But it was definitely a …questionable crumb.

“I don’t know what it is,” I admitted. “It’s brownish, almost tannish.”

“But it’s something,” she pressed.

I sucked in some air and nodded. “Yeah. It’s … something.”

“Definitely food, right?”

I took another step, knowing that wouldn’t give me the answer, but it was still worth a try. “A piece of a cookie? Or a protein bar, like you said?” I touched the screen. “Or maybe pizza crust?” I laughed. “At least crust that isn’t burned, like the kind I make.”