Page 6 of Cross the Line

“Cocky much?” I teased, desperate to dispel the growing tension.

“Not cocky.” He took a long draft from his beer. “One—” He ticked off a finger. “I used to play with your brother in the NTDP. Two—” He ticked off another. “You’ve mentioned me on your podcast.” Interesting. So he’d listened to the pod. “And three—” Another long finger made an appearance. “I figured you’d seen my face on your brother’s dart board.”

“Actually, it was a voodoo doll with your picture,” I joked.

Carson chuckled, the sound low and deep. It was sexy, and it spread through my insides, making me yearn to hear it again.

Now that my eyes had adjusted to the lower lighting, I realized he was shirtless. I couldn’t help but scan every muscle on his chest, every tattoo. I was wearing my swimsuit, a bikini that was relatively demure, compared to some of the other ones I’d seen tonight. My hair was pulled up into a messy bun, and I could feel his gaze on me like a physical caress.

I should go.

Too much alcohol and too little clothing. It was a dangerous combination.

I should go, I thought again. And yet, I didn’t move.

We were quiet for a minute, but then I felt compelled to say something. I opened my mouth to speak, but Carson beat me to it. “First time in Nashville?”

I nodded. “Well, apart from when I was here for the PWHL tour. But that wasn’t the same.”

This was good. Safe. We could talk about hockey.

Carson tucked some of his curls behind his ear. I’d seen enough pictures of him to know why women went nuts for his wicked gray eyes and curly hair—a rich brown with subtle highlights of gold. Georgia assured us all that both Carson’s eye and hair color were natural. No sooner had he pushed his hair back than it sprang out again, gracing his cheekbone and drawing my attention to his full bottom lip.

“I imagine not,” he mused, a smile curling the edges of his mouth.

Busted. He knew I’d been checking him out.

“When we travel for games,” he continued, “I rarely see more of a city than the hotel and the arena. Maybe a bar or restaurant if I’m lucky. I don’t want to seem ungrateful, but sometimes it would be nice to feel like I’m not living in a hotel all the time.”

“Very true,” I agreed. “I love playing hockey, but the travel can be a grind. And while our accommodations are nice, they’re not quite…” I gestured to the lake, the house. “Well, this.”

“Yeah. There’s not much that’s quite like this.”

“What?” I feigned surprise. “Don’t all the Nashville Raccoons have houses like this?” I bit back a smile.

He barked out a laugh. “Some of them, sure.”

“But not you?” I pressed. When he shook his head, I asked, “Why not?”

He lifted a shoulder. “I’m not a Raccoon anymore.” I wasn’t sure if I was reading into it, but he had a bitter edge to his tone.

“Right, but what about before you were traded to the Hawks?”

“I’m not one to put down roots.”

“Mm.” I arched an eyebrow, wondering what that was about.

As much as I loved my life in Minnesota, I wasn’t sure I’d stay there permanently, even given the chance. But my contract expired at the end of this coming season, and there was no guarantee the Wolves would re-sign me.

Where I lived in the future depended on what happened with my career. And I imagined that it was much the same for Carson, even if his salary would’ve easily afforded him a first, or even a second, home like this.

“What about you?” he asked.

“What about me?”

“Do you have a home, somebody, back in…” He sliced a hand through the air. “Minnesota, right?”

Interesting. He’d tried to so casually throw in that question about a significant other. I wanted to laugh.