Page 123 of Twisted Play

I shoved him off, checking to make sure my backpack was still dry. Thankfully, it was. “It’s fine,” I snapped, relief flooding through me as the vibrations finally stopped.

“But you’re soaked,” he answered, holding his hands up in surrender. “Look, I’m sorry. I wasn’t paying attention.”

I raised my eyes to look at him—brown, windswept hair, a jersey, jeans, and a watch that cost as much as my tuition.

You should let him make it up to you, a voice whispered in my head, a voice that sounded suspiciously like what Rory would say if she were here. I silenced it—the last thing I needed was another man interfering in my life. I had quite enough of that at the moment.

“I have to work,” I said quietly, already scanning for the nearest bathroom. I had ten minutes before I had to be in place.

“How about—” He ran a hand through his hair in frustration, and idly, I admired the effect mussing it had on him, making his cold beauty more human. “Please, let me fix this.”

“Unless you have a spare jersey in your pocket, I’m not sure there’s much you can do,” I said, rapidly doing the math on my bank account, as if I would ever buy a new sweater at the outrageous prices they sold them for here.

His eyes lit up. “Actually, I do.” He grabbed the hem of his jersey.

“Oh no, I couldn’t?—”

But he was already doing that hot thing hot men did, where he lifted the jersey off by the nape of his neck, baring chiseled abs while he did so. He watched my gaze drop to the strip of skin he revealed then caught my eye with a cheeky grin. He wore a t-shirt underneath the jersey, and it hugged the tight muscles of his biceps.

“I’m Miles,” he said, sticking out his hand and the jersey. “And I insist.”

I took in the number, and my heart stopped. Haruto’s number. Shit.

“Eva,” I said, accepting the jersey and the handshake. His grip was firm, and he held on a moment too long. “Thank you. I’ll find a way to get it back to you.”

“Or you could let me take you out after the game to make up for ruining your clothes,” he suggested with a smile.

“I don’t date.” I smiled back. It wasn’tquitea lie. “But I’ll absolutely take that jersey.”

“Let me give you my number at least, in case you change your mind.”

“I won’t,” I said but handed him my phone anyway. “Thanks for the clean jersey, though.”

Once my phone was safely back in my hands, I dashed to the nearest restroom to change, only to find an “Out of Order” sign on the door. Fuck. The next one was close to the main entrance, and I didn’t have time for that. The staff area was even further. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

The vibrator buzzed to life again as the warm-up music started, and I had to lean against the wall until it passed. Bythe time I blinked back to attention, I only had a few minutes to get into place.

Fuck it. I lifted the edge of my tank top, prepared to change right there. To my surprise, two girls walked by, giving me a double take when they saw me. Their expressions turned to sympathy when they realized what I was doing,

“Someone spilled on you? Ugh, I’m so sorry.”

They arranged themselves in front of me, and I gratefully removed my shirt, leaving me in only an emerald-green, lacy, Cole-approved bralette, not quite indecent, although close. I yanked Haruto’s jersey over my head and stuffed the wet tank top into my bag.

“Thank you,” I said. The girls just laughed and waved their hands at me as they moved on, leaving me blinking with astonishment.

“Solidarity!” one called over her shoulder. Indeed.

I slid into my seat just as the teams took the ice for warm-up—staff seating was just to the left of the bench, behind the plexiglass barrier that kept fans safe and off the ice. Dr. Parker looked at me from the bench and raised an eyebrow at my lateness but didn’t comment. I shrunk down in my seat, crossing my arms over my chest to hide the number.

“Haruto’s jersey? Bold move,” Elijah, the student assistant to the equipment manager, said. “What’re your boy toys going to think of that?”

Tristan skated by first. His eyes widened when he saw me then narrowed dangerously. Before I could shake my head or mouth any sort of explanation, he’d already turned, skating straight for Haruto.

The hit was brutal, even by hockey standards. Harutoslammed into the boards with enough force to rattle the plexiglass.

Shit shit shit.

But Haruto just laughed, throwing an arm around Tristan’s neck and rubbing his helmet. “Jealous, cowboy?” he called out, his grin visible before he slid down the mask he wore as goalie. He gave me a cocky thumbs up. Guess he’d seen it too.