Stephanie Archer

"Wait." My eyebrows snap together, and I tilt my head, replaying it. "I didn't tell you Zach and I went to high school together."

Jamie's eyes widen a fraction, and my lips part in surprise. Is it possible that he remembers me from high school? No. No way.

A guilty look passes over his face, and my jaw drops. "Jamie." My tone is accusing, and I wear a curious smile. "Fuck," he mutters to himself, rubbing the back of his neck. His expression is sheepish, and it's adorable. "You probably don't remember, but we went to the same high school."

A laugh bursts out of me. Don't remember him? How could anyone not?

"I remember you," I admit. "Of course I remember you."

His expression stills. "You do?" I can't help but roll my eyes. "Jamie. Come on. You were on your way to the NHL. You were one of the popular kids. All the girls swooned over you. You were gorgeous, even back then-"

His eyebrow goes up, and there's that look again. Teasing, focused, and determined. "You think I'm gorgeous?" Sparks dance up my throat, and I swallow. I'm blushing. "Uh," I say stupidly. The corner of his mouth twitches. "You said even back then. That means you thought I was gorgeous then, and you think I'm gorgeous now."

"I have feelings for you, songbird." My heart pounds, and the rest of the bar falls away. "I like you so fucking much. I don't want to pretend I don't anymore. I flew out here for you." Something expands in my chest, filling every corner with an intense warmth. Our gazes are locked, and my arms are still around her, keeping her close. "I don't want to fight this anymore."

Her eyes are bright and full of vulnerability. "Me neither." "Really?"

She nods, laughing lightly like she's relieved.

"Wait," she says, handing me the cupcakes. "Take these with you. You can give them to the team or whatever."

I give her a strange look. If I show up with cupcakes, I'll never hear the end of it. Nevertheless, I take them. I can't see that look of disappointment on her face again.

On the street outside, I open the container and shove one into my mouth. My eyes roll back in my head as the sugar hits my tongue, and I nearly moan in ecstasy. It's the best fucking thing I've ever tasted.

I pull the navy and white jersey out of the box, turning it to read the back. STREICHER is stitched in bold white lettering, and my body hums with something pleased, proud, and possessive. "You don't have to wear my name on your back," he says quietly, watching me carefully. "We can take that part off."

"Don't you dare." I hold his gaze as my insides melt into a puddle. "I want to wear your name."

"Okay." The corners of his mouth hitch, and his eyes warm. "I want you to, too."

"Why did you buy that toy for me?" Her lashes flutter. "The real answer." I take a step toward her. The thread holding my willpower together is close to snapping. "Because I wanted to give you something he couldn't." Her gaze drops to my erection, and more blood rushes there.

"Because," I continue, because I can't seem to keep a fucking secret around this girl, "I wanted to make you come harder than ever, and that was the only way. And I don't want anyone else to do it."

"I'll do whatever it takes to get my job back."

The air thickens with tension, and we both stare at each other. Is she...? In my head, images appear of us tangled up in bed. She's beneath me, head tipped back, eyes closed, with an expression of pleasure on her face as I thrust into her. I'm going to be thinking about that later with my hand around my cock, and I hate myself for that.

"That's not what I meant," she says quickly, cheeks flushing a deeper shade of pink.

I raise an eyebrow at her. "You call me a dickhead, and then you ask for your job back?"

She shifts, wincing. "Yes, I did." She flattens her lips, looking up at me with a guilty expression, and the determination in her eyes plucks at a muscle in my chest. "Sorry."

I like this girl. She's scrappy. It took a lot of guts for her to show up and call me a dickhead. No one talks to me like that..

"Hey." I lean down so my eyes are level with hers, and my hands come to her upper arms. There's that incredible chai smell again. "When I was nine, I got hit with the puck."

Her eyes widen. "Really?"

I nod and point to my wrist. "Right here. The puck pinged off the pipe, and I had forgotten my gloves, so I was wearing spares that were too big, so they shifted. It hurt like a motherfucker."

"He would do this thing with his hand," she whispers to me, and I lean in, even though I can hear her just fine. She flattens her fingers and then shifts them back and forth fast, like she's a DJ, and she's baring her teeth.

A rusty laugh scrapes off my chest. "What is that supposed to be?" She laughs, and when her sparkling eyes meet mine, my pulse trips. "That's Zach rubbing my clit."