Page 22 of Grizz

I have no fucking clue what comes over me.Maybe it’s that burning need for control, maybe it’s because I want to see her squirm, but I reach out, hook a hand behind her neck, and pull her in before she finishes the sentence.

The kiss is ecstasy, sudden and electric.She gasps against my mouth, a sound halfway between shock and surrender.Her hand finds my chest, but she doesn’t push away, and that tells me a universal truth between us.

We’re both incredibly attracted to each other, despite the animosity.

The world narrows and all I sense is the faint burn of high-end vodka, the scent of her perfume.Everything else disappears and I use the oblivion to kiss her again.

When she finally pulls back, her breath catches, her eyes searching mine.

I sit back, teeth still clenched, voice rough.“Guess I found a way to shut you up.”

For a second, neither of us moves.Then she exhales, cheeks flushed and pupils wide.

“This is the moment you need to tell me that was inappropriate and you’re going to report me to HR.”

She shakes her head, almost smiling.“You’re unbelievable.”

I grin faintly, relieved that she wasn’t offended.Not because I care about HR, but because for some reason, I want to kiss her again with impunity.“You’ve got no idea.”

“Well, this has been lovely,” she says, lifting her drink and draining the rest of it.“But I need my rest because you are exhausting to deal with.”

I don’t say a word and resist the urge to pull her to me.She rises from the stool and nods at her empty glass.“Drinks are on you tonight.”

I lift my chin in acknowledgment and we both pretend nothing just happened.

I stay behind after she’s gone, finishing what’s left of my beer, the taste of her still in my mouth.

Outside, the Dallas night sings its tune with heat and noise, but I can’t hear any of it.All I can think is that I just made a mistake.

And that I’ll probably make it again.

Chapter 8

Grizz

Thepostgamebuzzstillcourses through my blood hours after our victory against Dallas.I’m pumped with adrenaline from the win… and all the caffeine from the locker room espresso machine.

We’re back at the hotel, where the air is cool and filtered and soft light spills from fancy sconces affixed to the wall on either side of the beds.

The win was huge—statement-making kind of huge—and the energy’s bursting out of Tanner like a busted fire hydrant.Room service plates litter the table as we demolished some thirty-dollar burgers.I had a few cold craft beers but Tanner started with shots of vodka alongside his meal.

He’s currently sprawled across the couch in nothing but a towel, phone in one hand, a french fry in the other.He’s narrating his own postgame highlight reel to whoever’s unfortunate enough to be on the other end.“You should’ve seen it, baby.Bar down, goalie didn’t even move.Pure art.Michelangelo couldn’t have painted that goal better.”

I snort as I plop down on my bed.“Michelangelo didn’t play for the Vipers, dipshit.”

“He would’ve if he could’ve skated backward,” Tanner fires at me.

I shake my head, watching him, half amused, half exhausted.This is contentment that only comes after a win in a hostile arena.

Tanner disappears into the bathroom, music starting up from his travel Bluetooth speaker.It’s loud and with too much bass.He’s whistling as he comes back out shirtless but with jeans on, spritzing himself with a hit of cologne like he’s misting for battle.He pours another shot of vodka and tosses it back with a hiss.

“That shit could knock out a rhino,” I say.

Tanner grins, admiring himself in the mirror, although I can see his eyes are already glassy.He smooths his hair at the temples, fusses with his bangs.“It’s this new line.Custom blend.Got it imported from Milan.”He tugs on a tight-fitting T-shirt and gestures toward the mirror.“Tell me I don’t look like trouble.”

“Trouble is scared of you.”

Tanner laughs, adding gel to his hair.“That’s the point, my man.Dallas doesn’t know what’s about to hit it.”