The rink was quiet except for the faint scrape of my skates on the ice and the low thud of pucks from the other side. He was there, of course—sweaty, cocky, and annoyingly attractive in that “I don’t try but still look good” kind of way. His helmet was off, hair a mess, laces undone. I almost turned around.
Instead, I walked up and dropped the book on the bench beside him. Icebreaker. Bright cover. Bold font. Impossible to ignore.
He gave it a once-over and raised an eyebrow. “What is this? You think I can’t pull without reading romance?”
I crossed my arms. “I think you can’t hold a conversation without grunting, but sure—start with chapter one.”
He laughed under his breath. “This supposed to impress you?”
“Not impress,” I said, tilting my head. “Educate.”
He looked at me for a beat too long, then grabbed the book. “Fine. But if I start quoting kissing scenes, I’m blaming you.”
“You can quote them at me,” I said, already turning to go. “Might improve your game.”
The next day, he found me before I even stepped off the ice. One second I was unlacing my skates, the next, I was up against the locker room wall, breath caught in my throat.
His hand slid around my waist, firm and just shy of inappropriate. “Chapter twelve,” he murmured. “The part where she finally admits she’s been thinking about him all night.”
I swallowed hard. “You memorized it?”
He leaned in, eyes too close, voice low and smug. “You gave me the book. You tell me—was it a challenge... or a confession? (Go to @xyyz_ for original)