Page 9 of The Wildest One

“Beyond.” He winked.

“Because of time?”

“Time is a factor, yes. Travel is another.” He rubbed his lips together, and when he released them, they weren’t as thin as I’d originally thought. They were still on the small side, but a little bit girthier. “Plus, I just haven’t found someone I want to commit to.”

“I get it. You have multiple games a week from preseason in September all the way through April, and then the playoffs start. That’s a short window of downtime.”

He slowly nodded. “You know hockey?”

“I grew up watching it. My dad has season tickets. If he wasn’t traveling for work, we never missed a home game.” I turned quiet. “That’s how I knew who you were.”

“Considering you’re from Boston, I’m surprised you don’t want to fight me.”

I laughed, and it felt so good to just loosen up for a second. “As a hockey fan, I’m in awe of your talent. As a diehard Boston fan … let’s just say, you’re skating on thin ice.”

His tongue tapped the center of his top lip, edging the line of hair around his mustache. “How thin?”

I took another drink. “Why are you asking?”

He took a step closer, and I caught a whiff of his scent. It was a combination—a hint of a shower that he’d probably taken after the game plus a dash of something spicy, like the most perfect cologne.

“Can I be honest?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“How honest, Jolie?”

“What’s the worst that can happen? I walk away? Never talk to you again?” I shrugged since I assumed we were going to part in the next few minutes anyway. “Try me.”

He reached forward, and I thought he was going to cup my face, but he was only moving a piece of hair off my lip.

But still … that touch.

It was electric.

And I could feel it, even after his hand was gone.

“I’m here for three nights, and then the team is flying out to DC for our next game. I want to spend those three nights with you.”

My eyes bulged. “You …what?”

“I told you I was going to be honest.”

I couldn’t control what was happening in my body. The feeling, at this point, was indescribable.

“Define exactly what you’re asking for. I want to make sure I understand you correctly.”

“I want you to show me Boston. Show it to me your way. Someone who’s from here, who knows the secrets of the city. Secrets a newbie wouldn’t know.”

I held on to my stomach, my arm pushing tightly against it so my insides wouldn’t burst through my outsides. “You’re saying you want me to take you to the dive bar Ginger, my best friend, and I go to because they don’t card? And to the overlook in Beacon Hill that has the very best views of the skyline? And to my favorite running path in Cambridge because I love being next to the Charles River?”

“Yes.”

I laughed—like really laughed. “You’re Beck Weston. The most famous player in the NHL and, at this moment, the most disliked man in the city of Boston.” I winced, apologizing. “Do you think I can just bring you anywhere? You’re a celebrity. You’re going to draw a crowd.”

“I haven’t in here.”

“That’s because everyone is too hammered to see you. But youwillget noticed, trust me.”