Watching Steele play when we’re on the same page is way different than when I hated his guts. Or when he hated mine. I wear his white away jersey while he slams opponents into the glass, and gets hit a few times, himself. He pushes off one of the players and charges after the puck, and our crowd goes nuts.
It’s a home game, and Crown Point never slacks in attendance.
Thalia, Willow, and the rest of the dance team aren’t here, though. They have a competition across town. Violet is absent, too. I think she went to cheer on her best friend, since Willow’s boyfriend is currently on a warpath on the ice.
Someone drops into the seat beside me.
I jerk, then look over at the beaming face of Chase King.
He’s wearing a CPU football sweatshirt and a Hawks beanie, and he’s got a beer in his hand. “Mind if I join you?
I shake my head and turn my attention back to the game. He’s in Violet’s empty seat—the one that Greyson buys whether or not she can come.
“How are you?” he asks.
“I’m surprised you’re talking to me.” I watch him out of the corner of my eye.
Really, I’m more curious about what Steele is going to do when he sees who I’m sitting beside. It’s only a matter of time before he notices. They’re on the other side of the rink for now, fending off the opposing team.
“Eh.” He leans back. “You seemed lonely. Wouldn’t O’Brien rather have someone you know sit with you than risk anything else happen? I heard what happened with that asshole a few games ago.”
I wince.
“So. How are you?”
“There’s been a lot going on.”
But I’m fine. I’m not going to explode, or implode, or have any sort of meltdown. The past is the past, and it’s staying there.
“Uh-huh.” Chase nudges me. “I think he’s noticed us.”
It takes me a moment to locate Steele. He’s off the ice, and I scan the bench, only to find him staring at me. Or at least, in our direction. But it sure as hell feels like his gaze is on my face.
Glaring daggers.
“I don’t think he takes the same viewpoint as you,” I say lightly.
Chase shrugs. “Maybe it’ll make him play better.”
“Maybe,” I agree.
But I’ve got to admit—it is nice to have a little company. And the anticipation of Steele’s fire later on sends a curl of heat straight between my legs. It’s made even more obvious how pissed he is when he charges back onto the ice and flattens the first player he comes across.
The crowd oohs at the display of violence.
Chase chuckles. He’s not touching me—I don’t think he has that much of a death wish—and in the end, the Hawks decimate their opponents. Chase and I follow the crowd out of the stadium, and we wrap around the building toward where the players will exit. A short time later, Steele emerges.
His gaze goes right to Chase, who backs up with his hands raised.
“Take it easy, jackass,” Chase says. “I was just making sure your girl was okay. None of her friends were with her.”
On that note, he turns and saunters away. Not that it really matters, because Steele consumes my vision. And Steele seems to think the same, because he smiles when he sees me. Smiles.
My stomach flips. I’m not sure if the smile is a good or bad thing. Like a shark smiling… it’s gotta be bad news. Right?
And I’m the prey he’s stalking.
I swallow. He either doesn’t notice my trepidation or chooses to ignore it, coming close and taking my hand. He reels me in and plants a kiss on my lips, and for a second I forget my wariness. My whole body wants to be kissed by him.
His lips move against mine, and his tongue slips into my mouth.
I’m a goner.
My knees go weak. He wraps his arm around my back, binding me to him. I mean, it’s right out of a movie—and I’m breathless by the time he pulls back.
Steele smirks at me, still holding me close. “You wear my jersey well, little viper.”
I blush.
Blush, like a teenager.
I shake it off as best I can, and we head toward the parking lot. Greyson waits by his truck. Steele hugs me from behind, holding me back as Knox, Finch, and Miles all pile in the back. I narrow my eyes, but Steele just smirks and swings up into the passenger seat.
He pats his thighs. “Climb aboard.”
“We don’t have all night, Monroe,” Greyson calls.
I grimace and step forward, letting Steele manhandle me onto his lap. He rearranges my limbs to his liking, gripping my hips.
“No funny business,” Greyson warns, glancing at his friend.
I snort and elbow Steele. “Yeah. No funny business.”
Steele drags my back flush to his chest. His lips touch my ear. “Nothing funny about it.”
Oh, great.
I keep my gaze on the road as Greyson drives us to the hockey house, where the party has clearly already started. He parks on the front lawn and hops out, and the rest of us follow. There are already a million people spread out across the front porch and in the house.
“Fucker,” Steele calls to Knox. “You gave Erik a key, didn’t you?”
Knox grins and jogs past us. “Obviously.”
People are noticing our arrival. Well—I suppose with Greyson’s parking job, it would be unrealistic to assume otherwise. But they cheer and whoop, lifting their cups toward the hockey players.
Steele lurks behind me. Knox, Miles, and Greyson lead the way, accepting congratulatory pats on their shoulders and backs. Within seconds, girls have pressed red cups into their waiting hands.
Like royalty.
I wrinkle my nose.
Someone tries to give Steele a cup. A girl with rather impressive cleavage, her breasts on the verge of bursting out of her neckline. I glare at him over my shoulder. He winks at me and rejects it with a quick shake of his head, saying something to the girl.
Whatever he says makes her face go red.
She disappears back into the crowd. The music is loud, the bass vibrating in my chest. The furniture has been pushed aside in the living room, leaving a space for dancing. Beyond it, the kitchen looks packed with people pouring themselves drinks.
I scan the party, taking note of Greyson in the corner, greeting some football guys. Of Knox already dancing with someone. And Miles shoving his way toward the back door. My curiosity toward the younger Whiteshaw brother is piqued.
Steele steps up beside me, distracting me from my musing. He puts a cup in my hand—where it came from, I don’t know—and takes a sip from his own. He watches me steadily over the rim. It feels like a dare. Or a promise.
I don’t know what it means—but there’s a part of me itching to break free. My heart skips, and I take a sip.
Cold beer slips down my throat. I lower the cup, but Steele puts his finger under the bottom. Tipping it back up. I finish the cup, and he tosses it away. Then wraps his hand around mine and pulls me toward the dance floor.
