Page 220 of Off Limits: The Firsts

“I feel you on that. Not a problem. I’ll send over who’s interested but nothing else. You’re focused on the Cup. I get it. I like the way you’re thinking.”

And when he walks away, I wonder if he’ll still like the way I’m thinking when all is said and done.

It’s late and freezing as I stand in the lot of the arena and wait for the rest of the guys to load the bus that will take us back to the airport with my cell to my ear.

“Hey.” She sounds half asleep. Sexy. Like home.

How did her voice become the first thing I wanted to hear after every game? When did it start drowning out everyone else’s?

“Did I wake you?”

Her sleep-drugged chuckle brings a smile to my face. “I fell asleep going over contracts.” She shuffles papers, and I can picture her snuggling into that big blanket on her couch with SportsCenter on mute, and an empty glass of wine on the table next to her. Papers will be spread everywhere and her laptop will be half-charged on the pillow beside her.

“Sounds exciting.”

“You gave me more than enough excitement tonight, thank you very much.” She pauses. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you play this well. You guys are like a well-oiled machine. It was so much fun to watch.”

“We’ve still got two games to win before we can celebrate anything,” I say holding up my finger to Jünger who’s waving me over.

“I’m all for celebrating every victory, no matter how big or how small.”

“You are, are you?”

Her seductive chuckle vibrates through the line. “I’ll show you just how much when you get home.”

My balls tighten at the thought. Will I ever get enough of her? The prissy business side, the stubborn softer side, and the vixen I hope no one else knows about?

I hope not.

Because hell if I’ve ever felt at peace like this. I’ve still got a long way to go, but this—she—is definitely a really good start.

“I’ll tell the pilot to hurry.”

Her laughter is all I hear as I end the call and head toward the bus.

Dekker

All I can do is laugh.

All I can do is hope he feels the same way.

Dekker

Hunter’s sitting at the kitchen table with the soft glow of the overhead fixture the only light in the room. He’s slumped in his seat, but his attention is completely fixed on the laptop in front of him.

He’s exhausted. I can see it in his eyes, in his posture, in the way he crashed when he hit the pillow earlier tonight.

So why’s he up now?

This second round of playoffs has been grueling for him. With Finch out from a blown knee and Katz limping to the finish, if the Jacks can clinch a spot in the finals tomorrow, they’ll have a few extra days rest while the other series still has at least two games left.

Regardless, the pressure on Hunter is tenfold, whether it’s self-inflicted or not.

Not wanting to disturb him, but also wanting to be near him, I stand where I am at the bottom of the stairs and look around the common area of his house. Where my place is orderly and every piece has its place, his is an array of mismatched things that don’t look cluttered when they should, and that shouldn’t fit together, but do.

Kind of like us.

“Hey,” he murmurs and pulls my attention to him.