RACHEL

“Thank you for tonight, I had a lot of fun.”

Calder squeezes my hand, his thumb still rubbing my skin, the feeling so comforting. “So did I, especially when you manhandled me in the movie theater and took advantage of me.”

“Excuse me?” I put one of my hands on my hip. “Manhandled? Took advantage? You were the one begging to be made out with before we even got to the theater, I was just throwing you a bone.”

He raises both eyebrows, his forehead creasing with surprise. “Throwing me a bone?” There is humor lighting up his voice. “Are you saying . . . you felt bad for me?”

I shrug, not committing to his statement and loving the way he’s so easily joking around with me, how comfortable he feels. We’ve spent a few hours together, but it almost feels like we’ve known each other for years.

“I see.” He releases my hand and steps away, pulling on the back of his neck while staring down at me. I’m about to take back my teasing when he pins me with one of the most consuming and sexy looks I’ve ever seen. Eyes dark, heady, full of lust. His body powerful, heaving, ready to pounce. His lips wet, desirable, addicting.

Stepping forward, in one motion, he pins me against the door of my apartment, his hand to my hip, the other one by my head. His gaze locks on mine, the air suffocating me with his scent. His chest is so close, his head mere inches away, his lips glistening and ready.

I’m aware that we’ve already made out, that we’ve explored each other’s mouths all night, but right here, right now, this feels more intimate than anything we’ve done thus far.

“I don’t like it when people take pity on me, Rachel.” His voice is low, sultry, so freaking smooth. “I want a woman to want to kiss me, I don’t want her throwing me a bone.”

He knows I’m joking, there was so much humor in his voice a few seconds ago, but right now, it almost seems like he’s trying to prove a point, and oh boy, am I going to let him.

“Not only do I want a woman to want me, but I want her to crave me, to want to breath the same air as me.”

“You want them obsessed?”

He nods. “I want to consume them so I’m the only thing they can ever think about.”

“That’s pretty cocky of you, isn’t it?”

He shakes his head. “No, because I know when I’m with someone who I really like, someone who makes me laugh and smile, and someone who challenges me . . . someone like you, I will feel that exact way about them. I’ll be consumed by their scent, by their smile, by the way they gently take my hand in theirs. I’ll crave to hear their voice, to make them laugh, to catch a quick glance in my direction. They will be the only person I think about, the only person I want to hear talk on the phone, and the only person I want to see at night.”

I take in a deep breath, my lungs feeling shaky and my heart beating a mile a minute.

Calder’s eyes burn a path down my shirt, back up my neck, to my face, where he gently licks his lips and leans forward, his mouth a centimeter from mine.

“I like you, Rachel, I like you a lot. You’re someone I can get lost in, easily, without even trying.” His lips skip my mouth and direct back again, where he whispers, “Have a good night. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

And with that, he pushes off my door and without a retreating glance, he takes off, hopping in his car and driving away.

My hands are pressed against the door behind me, granting me balance. My heart is nearly beating out of my chest while my lungs try to recover from the lack of oxygen inflating them.

On shaky legs, I make my way through my apartment and straight to my bathroom, where I grip onto the counter and look at myself in the mirror. There is a light smirk on my face, my eyes seem brighter, clearer, and there is a warm feeling inside my stomach—it’s all fluttery and gooey and excited.

God, I like him.

Scratch that, I’m borderline infatuated with him.

And that whole speech back there? He’s unlike any man I’ve ever met. One second he’s wearing fairy wings and a tiara for his daughter, and the next he’s handing out free hockey tickets to an unsuspecting fan, and then he’s pushing me up against my apartment door, telling me all the things that make me swoon and swoon hard.

There’s no denying it, I’m more than thrilled with my bladder, because if it wasn’t for its inability to hold onto one more ounce of Coke Zero the other day, I never would have run into Calder.

This is life-changing, I can feel it. You know how you can sense when something is so right deep, down in your bones? That’s what I’m feeling. This is so right.

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Calder skates across the ice, determination in his movements, and slams into the glass, his opponent being the cushion for his check. The sound of them both hitting the glass, followed by the roar of the crowd, sends shivers up and down my spine.

He’s hot.

Yup, Calder Weiss is extremely hot on the ice.

And it’s not just because I know the man outside of the rink and minus the giant pads on his body. His current hotness is distinctly superficial. There is nothing I can say to keep this from sounding superficial, but there is something about a grown man, playing a sport at the highest of levels, owning the game, taking charge, that turns me on so hard.

Like, I’ve been clenching my thighs this entire game because every time I look over at Calder, a long, deep yearning takes root inside of me. Oh, I want him, and I want him bad.

And the worst part about all of this is I can’t even sit here with my shirt up and over my breasts, flashing Calder just for the hell of it. Do you know why? Because the frog-like man cheering next to me is my father. And how awkward is that, to tell your father how turned on you are by watching a grown-ass man play hockey? Pretty awkward.

“Wooohooo!” My dad fist pumps the air then shakes my shoulder for the hundredth time. “What a game, what a game!” He clasps his hands together and shakes them, almost as if he can’t believe he’s sitting in the stands right now.

The Brawlers, Calder’s team, is up by three goals thanks to Calder’s superior defense and their goalie’s uncanny ability to do the splits every other shot made at him. I kind of want to yell, “We get it, you’re flexible!”

“I’m glad you’re having a good time, dad.”

“And your boy, look at him go.” He shakes his head. “I wouldn’t want to be caught in an alley with him. He looks really big in person, is he? I’ve only seen him on television, but even from this vantage point, he looks like a destroyer.”

If only my dad knew the kind of sensitive and caring man Calder really is.

But in real life, not on TV, Calder is huge. Larger than life, almost, with his broad shoulders, tapered waist, and long, thick legs only someone who’s grown up skating back and forth on ice would develop.

“He’s very large.”

My dad slaps his hands together. “I knew it.”

I hold back the roll of my eyes.

“And he’s nice? He was nice to you last night? Treated you like a gentleman would?”

“Yes, dad.” I smile to myself, loving how he’s still protective. Balding and older than ever, my dad, despite his age, still has a little spark inside of him, and there is no doubt in my mind that if given the opportunity, my dad would kick butt for me if he had to. “Calder is super sweet and thoughtful.”

“Not an asshole? You know all I hear about athletes is their penchant for having gaggles of women surrounding them. Is he a cheater?”

“No.” I scrunch my brow together. Honestly, I don’t know the true answer to that, but from what I gathered last night and through our texts, Calder is not the type of man who would cheat.

“Ohhhhhhh,” the crowd erupts as Calder slams into another opponent, this time, with his right shoulder leading the way. They both fall to the ice, the puck sputtering away.

I keep my eyes trained on Calder and watch as he slowly gets up from the ice. He rotates his shoulder in small circles before his coach changes the line.

Concerned, I watch Calder speak with a trainer and try to stretch out his shoulder while spraying water all over his face, trying to cool down from the fifteen pounds of gear he has to wear. I think it weighs something like that, at least that’s what Wikipedia told me, and you and I both know how reliable that is.

“Looks like Calder is hurt,” my dad points out, standing on his toes, trying to get a better look.

“That was a pretty hard hit.” I bite the side of my lip. Is he going to be okay? I sure as hell hope so, because I have plans for him. Wicked-hot plans that require him to be fully functioning.