Page 9 of Trick Shot (Bainbridge Hockey #4)
He tucks my medium-sized bag into his larger one before zipping it up and slinging it over his back.
He grabs some rain parkas from one of the main bins he just loaded up and lobs one in my direction before donning one himself.
“Come on,” he urges, tilting his head toward the path and leading the way.
A bolt of lightning illuminates the darkening sky, so I throw on my newly-acquired rain gear and hurry after him.
As I haul ass, I thank my high school cross country coach for every grueling run he sent us on.
I may have chosen journalism over sports once I got to college, but muscle memory is a beautiful thing.
The rain starts to fall, but we don’t slow our strides.
The main campus is about two miles away, so I’ll be a wet, soggy mess by the time I get back to my room, but it could be a lot worse.
As though the universe heard my internal thoughts, a clap of thunder rings out just as the sky lets loose. Two seconds ago, it was raining. Right now, there are sheets of water pouring down from on high. Either we’ve stepped under a magical, portable waterfall, or this storm is no damn joke.
Pete looks at me, his thick, curly brown hair plastered to his head and face. “Fuck,” he mutters, looking around. “Follow me.”
In any other circumstance, I would argue.
Or at least ask him where the hell he’s taking me.
Since I have a feeling that the sidewalk is about to turn into a riverbed, I keep my mouth shut and trail behind him.
The downpour is relentless, though, and I can barely see two feet in front of me.
Thank god the plastic rain gear we’re both wearing is a hideous shade of safety orange, or I might lose sight of him as we wend our way through the woods that separate the west side of campus from the beach.
Unless Pete is aware of some secret shortcut, I have a feeling we’re not heading back to the dorms. My sense of direction is decent at best, but nothing looks familiar.
I’m about to question every decision that he’s ever made, but then he turns back toward me and gestures about twenty yards ahead to an outbuilding nestled among the trees.
I trudge closer, my sneakers squelching in the mud and muck as I try to get a closer look at the little hut Pete has led me to.
My reporter’s curiosity has kicked in, though, to be honest, I don’t really give a shit if this place is a secret meeting spot for serial killers.
If it’s dry, I can deal with just about anything.
Pete jimmies the lock and when the door swings open, I could kiss him. I don’t obviously, but if I would have, I’d blame the ecstasy I feel at the prospect of waiting out the rest of the storm under a roof instead of out in the elements.
“What is this place?” I ask as we step inside. It’s musty and dim, but it almost looks like a little cottage—emphasis on the word little.
“We’re on state park land right now,” he tells me.
This is a ranger’s cabin. It’s mainly used for when they’re doing observations or checking on wildlife.
It works as a storm shelter, too,” Pete says, dropping his bag on the small, empty desk in the corner of the room before crossing over to a little mudroom and shedding his rain poncho and hiking boots on the linoleum floor.
I do the same, discarding my sopping wet poncho on top of his and toeing off my sneakers.
The space is so small that we’re practically on top of each other, so I turn quickly to move out of the way.
Unfortunately, my drenched socks have other ideas.
I can feel my feet moving rapidly, trying to gain purchase on the slick floor and losing their battle.
I probably look like a cartoon character gearing up to dash out of the room, but I don’t make it that far.
Instead, I’m about to land ass-first in a spectacular display of clumsiness.
But I don’t fall.
Before I topple into a soggy heap on the yellowed floor, strong hands reach out and catch me.
Pete’s scooped me up and before I fully realize what I’m doing, I’ve wrapped my arms around his body.
For a moment, we’re frozen. I’m not sure either of us even takes a breath.
We just stand here, clinging to one another.
His clothes are just as wet as mine are, but none of that even registers in my brain.
All my receptors are focused on how good his strong, solid body feels.
On how capable those giant paws of his are. On how well our bodies fit together.
Pete clears his throat, breaking the spell and releasing me from his grip.
My brain starts urging me to retreat, so I scramble off him, but we’re both waterlogged from the storm, so my body just slides down his until I regain my balance and take a step back.
Damn.
Is that a rain gauge in his pocket or is he just that damn happy to be out of the storm?
His board shorts are plastered to his thighs, making the outline of his thick cock very apparent. He’s hard. Our bodies were pressed together a moment ago and now he’s standing in front of me, his dick at attention, or maybe begging for it .
He shuffles past me, clearing his throat again and reaching for his backpack. A minute later, he’s handed over my tote bag and laid out enough emergency supplies to keep us here for a week.
And based on what I just saw beneath the thin layer of his shorts, it could be a hell of a week.
But one glance at the stony expression on his face tells me the attraction I’m feeling is one-sided. Or if it isn’t, he’s not happy about it.
Well, that makes two of us. Does he think I like the way he makes me feel? Does he think I enjoyed listening to his hour-long lecture yesterday when every low rumble of his voice made my pussy ache? Because this isn’t fun for me.
“This isn’t fun for me either,” he snaps back.
Dammit . I’m always in need of a filter, but I really need one when Pete is around. Unfortunately, when he’s anywhere near me, I have the awful habit of blurting out whatever my brain has conjured up.
I brace myself for the shouting match that’s been nearly four years in the making. But Pete doesn’t unleash his frustration on me. He doesn’t even stand there like a statue while I let loose. Instead, he’s busying himself with some compartment of his backpack, mumbling as he messes with the zipper.
This man really thinks he’s going to ignore me? Now? Like fucking hell he is.
“What did you say?” I ask, stepping up next to him and leaning in close.
“Nothing,” he mumbles, his thick fingers still fighting with the zipper.
“Are you sure?” I ask, taking an inordinate amount of pleasure in needling him. “I could have sworn I heard you say something about free beer. Or maybe you said to stay near?” I ask, deliberately invading his space .
Immediately he takes a step back. His hair is still dripping wet, so when he runs his hands through it in frustration—courtesy of me—his fingers get caught in the tangles. “I said be here ,” he practically growls. “Or rather, that we wouldn’t even be here if you weren’t so damn stubborn.”
“Are you kidding me right now?” I ask, my hands going to my hips. “You’re blaming this on me? Please, tell me how the fuck a freaking downpour is my fault?”
“Obviously it’s not,” he says, scrubbing a hand down his face like he’s done with this day, done with the storm, and done with me.
But I’m not done with this conversation. It’s been a long time coming, and we’re having it out right here and now. “Then I’m confused,” I say, knowing damn well I’m poking Bainbridge’s biggest teddy bear. “If it’s obviously not my fault, then how is it my fault?”
“You couldn’t just let me do my job,” he says, waging a war with his temper and losing the battle.
“I was almost done loading the truck. I didn’t need any help.
I didn’t ask for any help. I didn’t want any help.
I just wanted to pack it all up and get back to campus.
Instead, you had to fight me every step of the way and now we’re stuck all the way out here, our clothes are soaked, and it could be hours until the roads are clear enough that we can make it back. ”
He's taken a step closer to me, or maybe I’m the one who’s crowding him. Either way, we are inches apart. I can feel the heat of his frustration rolling off him in waves as his eyes lock on mine. “Fucking hell, Claire,” he says, his voice low and gravelly, “why do you make everything so hard?”