Page 14 of Cross the Line

“Do you mind?”

“I mind if this chick is fucking with your head.” He gave me a meaningful look.

“Don’t worry about me. Worry about yourself. I’m focused.”

He raised a brow, expression doubtful. “Are you?”

“Fuck off, Boone,” I bit out, but there was a playful edge to my tone.

My fellow defenseman and I were finally getting along after struggling for months to play together, and I had Logan to thank for that. Logan… Who. Still. Hadn’t. Texted. Me. Back.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

I didn’t chase women—not that I was chasing Logan. She’d made it very clear that she wasn’t interested in me or a relationship. And I wasn’t looking for anything serious either.

So why couldn’t I stop thinking about her?

Probably because she’s your kryptonite.

The woman was obsessed with hockey. Anytime I listened to her podcast, she was astute with her critiques, observant. But also funny.

She was fucking talented. She skated with a natural grace and athleticism that most players would envy. She had incredible puck awareness. And that was hot. She was hot.

That dimple. I clutched my armrest. That ass.

Fuck me.

I’d seen her once since last summer—when the Hawks had played Dallas. She’d been there to cheer on her brother, but I remembered what it felt like to know she was watching me play. Electric. I wasn’t sure I’d ever been more locked in during a game.

Levi had ignored me almost the entire game, just like he’d ignored me for the past five years. We used to be teammates—best friends—and now he couldn’t even look at me.

Logan had texted me after the game. Our conversations almost always focused on the sport, which should’ve told me something.

KT: Nice gap control. Way to force them into a turnover.

Boone was right—I needed to focus. And right now, agonizing about why Logan hadn’t texted me was a distraction I didn’t need. Knowing the answer wouldn’t help me win our upcoming game. And after our latest loss, we needed to win that game.

Eyes on the prize, Kovi.

My phone buzzed, and I groped around on the bed, groaning when I finally wrapped my fingers around the device. It had taken me forever to get comfortable, and now my body remembered just how sore it was from the game with Toronto. I’d had a shower and a celebratory beer, and I was lying on the bed in my briefs, ice wrapped around my ribs. I held the phone above my head, squinting at the screen before plucking my glasses from the nightstand.

KT: You cleared out the crease tonight. Fiz owes you a beer for that one.

I grinned, some of the pain fading into the background. It was so damn good to hear from her. I wanted to ask if everything was okay, but that wasn’t the kind of relationship we had. Nor was it the kind of guy I wanted to be—eagerly waiting by the phone to hear from her, even if that was exactly what I was.

This was casual. Fun. Easy. Most of our conversations focused on hockey. Not our families, not our love lives, not anything else. And I got the feeling Logan wanted to keep it that way. Even so, I couldn’t help pushing a little. I’d always gotten a secret thrill from pushing the line, especially as a kid growing up in a very conservative household with strict parents. It had been my own secret rebellion.

Even now, free from those constraints, I liked pushing boundaries because I could. Because I wasn’t going to let anyone stop me or tell me what to do anymore or ever again. I’d had enough of that to fill a lifetime.

Me: So, you watched my game.

KT: No. I watched the Hawks game, you just happened to be playing in it.

I chuckled, low and deep, trying to imagine where she was and what she was doing. Probably at her apartment. Thanks to some of her posts on social media, I could imagine her curled up on her sofa in soft clothes, twinkling lights draped over her plants in the background.

Me: Wish we hadn’t had to fight so hard for that win.

KT: A win is still a win. But yeah, I know what you mean.