“Always second best,” Gage joked, spinning toward Bentley. “Time to get off the ice, kid. The big boys are about to play.”
I hissed, laughing as Bentley slowly skated backward toward the bench. “Damn, Rory. You used to be counted on for a good scrap. Now you’re just as whipped as Gage.” He spun and entered the box, shaking his head.
Keeping pace with Gage, we circled the ice, and I scanned the stands. “I’m not as whipped as you,” I said.
“Keep telling yourself that.” Gage bumped me with his shoulder. “Who you looking for again?”
I snapped my eyes back to him and the smug grin on his face. “Fuck you. I’m not.”
“Uh huh.”
The argument was right there and ready in my head, but it wasn’t the truth. Even if I wanted to lie to myself, I couldn’t. Paige had me completely wrapped around the same pretty polished finger she used to sign multi-million dollar deals. I was ready to do whatever she asked at the drop of a hat and found myself dying for the next item on her list.
After the night in her bathroom—where the hot as hell mirror action had taken me to an entirely new level of fucking—she’d slowly started letting me know more numbers she needed help crossing off. She’d told me number one last night, which was sex in public. I didn’t have a clue how I was going to manage that one while also ensuring she didn’t get caught—the press backlash would ruin her name, regardless if we were in a relationship or not—but I was damn sure going to make it happen.
A thought hit me as I finally spotted a mess of red hair in the stands—I liked her there. I liked the idea of her being there to watch me. And I liked the idea of her being mine. Really mine, not just a definition in a timed contract. Maybe Bentley wasn’t far off the mark, despite his prick status. Maybe I was whipped.
Shit. When did that happen?
My best guess was somewhere between the balcony where she’d said she trusted me, to the bathroom where she submitted fully to my demands right before taking the reins and giving me the best orgasm of my life.
Fuck, head in the game.
I focused on the ice, on the opponents, and tuned out every other thought. There would be plenty of time for that shit later. Now I needed to show Coach that I was still Rory fucking Jackson.
Knowing she was up there watching me? I’d never played better.
We beat them in a shutout, and there wasn’t a goon on the opposing team that wouldn’t be sore tonight, not after what I’d done to them. It felt fucking great, too. At least on the ice, I could give in to the instincts that always bubbled near the surface with me and not catch shit for it—it’s why I was the best enforcer the Sharks had. And with Paige’s help, my nighttime brawls had been whittled down to zero. Turned out, when there was something at stake more important than just my ass, I could contain my short fuse just a little bit better. Or maybe it was because it was Paige that I gave a damn in the first place.
“Rory!” Coach shouted in the locker room, calling me into his office. I scrubbed my freshly showered hair with a dry towel as I hovered in his doorway.
“Yeah?”
“You did good out there today.”
“Thanks, Coach.”
“You’ve been doing well off the ice too,” he said, pointing to a picture he had up on his Mac on his desk. The shot was one of Paige and me outside the location for her future shelter—both covered in grime but grinning at each other like idiots. Thick bold lettering made up the headline: Rory Jackson steals wholesome heart of Paige Turner.
Damn, we’re really selling it.
I swallowed hard as Coach turned back toward me. “This change in you. Is it her?”
I nodded.
“I get that. There is something about a good woman who will turn us into the men we were always meant to be. And you were meant for more than bar brawls and bed-hopping.”
Fuck, when did Coach become my father?
He cleared his throat. “Anyway. Keep it up.”
“Will do, Coach.” I turned to leave, but he called to stop me. I glanced at him over my shoulder.
“I’m proud of you,” he said and then waved me off like I had knocked on his fucking door for the heart to heart.
“What are you laughing about?” Gage asked, slipping his duffle over his shoulder.
“Nothing, man.” I tossed the now wet towel in an overflowing hamper and tugged a white T over my head.
“Poker tonight?” He asked.
“I don’t know,” I said, grabbing my bag from my locker. “I’ll have to check with Paige.”
“See,” Bentley blurted out beside us. “Fucking whipped.”
Gage narrowed his eyes and whirled on him. “Dude, you’re being like twenty times more annoying than usual. Did you just get dumped? Is that why you can’t keep your mouth shut or are you simply hunting for pain?”
Bentley cowered in Gage’s massive presence and held his hands up. “Whatever man. I’m out of here.” He ducked his head and bolted out of the locker room.
“Oh shit, now I feel like an asshole,” Gage said, shaking his head. “How’d the guy even get a girl let alone one long enough to dump him?”
I shrugged. “You can find anything on the internet these days.” Gage laughed. “But I almost feel sorry for him,” I continued. “I’d be a wreck if Paige left my ass out in the cold.”
A shot of ice breezed through the center of my chest as the truth of my words caught up to me. I knew it was more than the contract we’d started with but the way I was acting, the way I was picturing a future together…fuck it was enough to freeze the blood in my veins. I’d never needed anyone in my life and a few weeks with Paige had turned me into…Gage. All lovestruck and moon-eyed and fuck!
I didn’t even know if what I wanted was possible. Didn’t know if I could dare to ask if Paige was feeling the heat like I was. Hell, I already knew I wasn’t good enough for her, never would be. She needed to marry someone like a Kennedy, not a Shark.
Marry? Holy shit.
Could I be that guy? The one who woke up next to her every morning and slept with her every night. The one who attended charity galas with her on weeknights and served food in the shelter on the weekends. The life looked nothing like mine, but the more I pictured it, the more I pictured her in a constant place by my side, the more I wanted it.