5
IS THAT MY FACE?
Olivia
I NORMALLY MANAGE MY LACK of height well. I keep a stool in my oce for whenever I need it, and I climb a mean kitchen countertop to reach the high things I don’t use all that frequently. The problem is after all these years, I still forget sometimes. I’ve pulled countless muscles trying to crawl up walls toward shelves, standing on tiptoes and reaching just a little bit higher, attempting to turn into Spider-Man and scale the volleyball net to disassemble it.
Today is one of those days where it’s me versus the volleyball net. The noises I’m making are bordering on the edge of sounds I reserve for when I’m alone in my bedroom with my vibrating pocket boyfriend, and I keep glancing over my shoulder toward my oce at one end of the gym. I can see the damn step stool right there, holding the freaking door open so I wouldn’t forget it.
Sue me for getting a little wrapped up in the last day of school before Christmas break. I’m about to have two weeks o with very little reason to wear a bra.
“Miss Parkerrr.” Amusement drips from one of the senior boys I can never seem to get rid of. “Wanna come to a party this weekend?”
I barely spare the sandy blond leaning in the doorway of the boy’s change room a glance. “Stop inviting me to your parties, Brad. I’m your teacher.”
“Yeah, the best teacher.” Brad saunters my way with the swagger of a man with all the condence in the world. It’s oddly reminiscent of Carter Beckett,
and I shudder to think there might be another in the future as arrogant as him.
“We’d love to party with you.”
I’ve got a strange urge to knee him where it hurts, but I resist, focusing on the task ahead: trying to get the stupid string out of the stupid loop so I can put this stupid volleyball net away until next year. Brad’s behind me a moment later, his chest brushing my back while I try not to choke on his cologne. One spritz is ne; seven brings me back to the Spring Fling in eighth grade where I had my rst kiss. It was intoxicating, and not because the kiss was great, but because he wore so much cheap cologne I felt woozy.
Brad puts me out of my misery, pulling the top string, and one side of the net oats to the ground.
“Thanks,” I mutter, folding the net into small sections as I move across the width of the gym. Brad strolls past me and leans against the pole that’s still attached to the remainder of the net. “Take it down, Brad, please.”
“Aren’t you at least gonna try rst?”
“No, I’m not, because that would be pointless, wouldn’t it?” I pin my arms across my chest and lift a brow. I’m a bit of an Attitudy Judy, which, admittedly, makes me a good t for the role of a high school phys-ed teacher. My teens can handle my sass, and I can handle theirs. “Take it down.”
“Geez. Testy.” He follows me to the storage room, propping himself up beside the garage-style door while I pack the net away. “You know, my birthday’s January third. When we get back from Christmas vacation, I’ll be eighteen.”
And I’ll still be twenty-ve, his teacher, and super uninterested. “Good for you.” I slam the door down, slide the lock in place, and stalk o toward my oce, tossing “Merry Christmas, Brad” over my shoulder.
But Brad doesn’t take the hint—he rarely does—and follows behind me like a lost puppy. “Will you ever stop playing hard to get?”
“Are you my student?”
“Yes.”
“Then no.”
“Fine. But in six and a half months, I won’t be your student anymore!”
For fuck’s sake. I’m so tired of these ballsy little piglets. Always thinking with the head in their pants, rather than the one on their shoulders. Then they grow
up to be men who continue to do the exact same thing.
“Go!” I shoo him out the door. “Come back in January without this whole irting-with-my-gym-teacher crap. It’s annoying, uncomfortable, and highly inappropriate.”
He dashes down the hall like his ass is on re, and I head back to my oce to pack up. On my way out, I ip through my text messages. One from my mom, wishing me a happy last day of school. Another from my brother, begging me to make his favorite blueberry pie for dessert on Christmas, a series of prayer emojis trailing the question. The one from my niece Alannah is a crapload of silly emojis and an I love you, Auntie Ollie. She’s only seven but Grandma and Grandpa spoil her to hell and back—likely because they go several months without seeing her—so she got an iPad for her birthday and she texts me every day without fail. I don’t mind; those I love you texts make my heart swell.
I don’t have time to even start on a string of messages from Cara before my phone rings.
“How do you do that?” I ask, sandwiching my phone between my ear and my shoulder as I dig my car keys out of my bag. “How do you know the moment I have my phone in my hand?”
“Call it a twin thing,” Cara replies simply.
“We’re not twins. We’re not even related.”
“We’re soul sisters, Liv, and you know it.”
I climb into my car, turn the ignition, and listen to the engine struggle before it shuts itself o. “Fuck me,” I groan, giving it another go.
“You need a new car.”
“No I don’t. Red Rhonda works just ne, don’t you, girl?” I pat the dashboard, say a prayer, and crank the ignition once more. The engine roars to life and I sink back in my seat with a sigh, waiting for the car to warm up.
“You are gonna run old Rhonda straight into the ground.” Cara laughs.
“Anyway, I’ve got an extra ticket to the game tonight. Wanna come? We’re going
out for drinks after.”
Hockey game? Drinks?
Tell me it’s a dangerous idea without telling me it’s a dangerous idea. I’ll go rst: I’ll have to spend the entire evening pretending I don’t notice Carter,
which is hard, captain of the team and all that. He’s bound to have a girl or two hanging o him later and that’ll irritate me even though I already know he’s a manwhore. He’s not likely to remember my name, which is likely to piss me o, and truly, I can only keep my knee out of the groin of conceited men for so long.
“I’m pretty tired” is the response I give Cara.
Not really, but I never turn down the opportunity to take o my bra, throw on my grubbiest sweats, and curl up on my couch with a good smut book or four hours straight of Netix.
“Ah, c’mon, Ol. Don’t you remember how much fun we had last weekend?
You’re on vacation! Let’s party!”
Do I remember how much fun I had? Which part? Grinding all over Cara because being a respectable human ve days a week is exhausting and I desperately needed to let loose? Or Carter Beckett telling me he wanted to fuck me silly and buy me breakfast? Maybe it was the two-hour post-pizza-and-Carter nap, followed by three hours of Brooklyn 99 reruns after I got home from my
brother’s house Sunday night.
I guess it was kinda fun.
“Livvie? Please, babe. For me.” The pout she’s denitely wearing is audible.
“I’ll be your best friend.”
“You already are my best friend,” I point out, but when she whimpers, I sigh.
“You’re utterly ridiculous.”
“And you’re soft as fuck. You should learn to say no to me every once in a while.” Her shrill squeal rings in my ear before she prattles o details for tonight, then promptly hangs up on me before I can change my mind.
“I DON’T UNDERSTAND WHY THE oors are already so sticky when the game hasn’t even started yet.” My nose scrunches as I listen to my Chucks peel o the oor with each step. “And especially all the way down here.”
I scan the arena as we move down the row and take our seats. We’re sitting directly behind the bench—perks of dating one of the assistant captains, I guess —so it’s not as if ve hundred people have walked down the row before nding
their own seats. Which begs the question: Why in the hell are my shoes sticking to everything?
“The oors are always disgusting.” Cara pops the top o a king can of beer, depositing it into my waiting hands. “That’s why I don’t bother with heels anymore.”
“That must have been such a tough decision for you to make, what with heels being such appropriate attire for hockey games.”
She icks me in the temple and I snicker, stealing a handful of popcorn from the giant bucket in her lap.
“Carter was asking Em about you this week.”
I hammer a st against my chest as a popcorn kernel lodges itself in my throat. “Pardon?”
“Carter,” she repeats, tearing open a bag of Skittles. She dumps at least a third of it into her mouth and gestures at the ice with the ick of her wrist. “Beckett.”
I follow her gaze, watching as the Vipers take their home ice for their pregame warm-up, and it takes me no time at all to locate the impossibly large frame of Mr. Beckett himself. He leaps onto Emmett’s back, wrapping his arms around him, their raucous laughter bouncing across the ice before Emmett shakes him to the ground. It’s an interesting sight, because Google may or may not have told me Carter has an inch on Emmett in the height department.
“No, I know who you meant.” I tear my gaze away before he can see me. “I must have heard you incorrectly, though. I thought you said he was asking about me.”
“That’s exactly what I said. Asked a couple times, actually.” She rips open a bag of licorice and gnaws on a piece before whipping it around. I’m fairly certain she’s got the entire snack bar in her lap. “Singing some song about you apparently.”
I stop twisting the lock of hair that’s currently cutting o circulation to my nger, and promptly bury my quickly heating face behind the cool lick of my beer can. “What?”
“My girl made quite the impression on him last weekend.”
I snort a laugh. “You mean because he’s never been turned down before?”
And two days in a row, to boot. Seeing the stunned expression on Carter’s face
when he doesn’t get what he wants is my single greatest achievement.
“Something like that.”
“Please, that man had a girl on his hip twenty minutes later.”
“He didn’t hook up with her though, which is weird. Left alone, right after Emmett put us in an Uber.”
I ick a dismissive hand through the air. Did Carter tell me the same thing the next day? Yes. Did I believe him? No. Do I now? Still no. Regardless, it doesn’t matter. He’s Carter Beckett, millionaire hockey captain. I’m Olivia Parker, broke high school teacher. We’re worlds apart. Hell, we’re not even in the same orbit.
Even if we were, one-night stands and polygamy aren’t my thing, and neither is the high risk of catching a venereal disease if we get too close and accidentally do the no-pants dance. I’ve already mentioned I sometimes don’t make the best decisions under the inuence of alcohol.
I’m not really into the whole dating scene. Cara’s been relentlessly trying to set me up with Emmett’s nicer teammates, her words, and I recently caught her making me an online dating prole. I guess I don’t have much time to meet someone, and I keep thinking it’ll happen when it’s meant to. I’m in no rush, and I’m okay with being by myself for now. I’d rather wait for someone whose priorities align with my own. I’m not interested in dating for the sake of not being alone, and I’m not interested in fucking just for the sake of feeling good.
That’s what battery-powered boyfriends are for, and I keep mine in a drawer at home. In fact, I pulled it out as soon as I got home Sunday afternoon after leaving Carter with his jaw dangling. And yes, I thought of his stupid, hot face
while I used it. I’m not ashamed.
I’ll never tell anyone.
Rather than trying to sort through my thoughts on Carter Beckett, I focus on the moment before me. Despite the warmth in the arena, a cool chill nips at the air as the players oat around, stretching out, ring o shots on their goalie.
Everything is amplied here, the sharp zip of the blades skating across the ice, the slap of composite sticks against rubber pucks before they whizz through the air, the smell of buttery popcorn, the ashing of lights, and the chatter you can’t quite make out, despite it being all around us.
It makes me miss playing hockey. There’s something about skating on freshly Zambonied ice, the frigid air whipping at your cheeks, the adrenaline rush when you head for the net with a puck at the tip of your stick. I get out on the ice every week with my niece’s hockey team but it’s not the same, especially considering the eighteen-year age gap and that I’m mostly trying to wrangle in a bunch of seven-year-olds.
Cara draws my attention with a deep sigh. “Well, he had eyes on you the entire time.”
“Did not,” I murmur, propping my feet up on the glass so I can stare at my shoes rather than search the ice for the man in question.
“Did too, you brat. I may have been birthday-girl wasted but it’s pretty hard to miss who the most famous guy in the room has his eyes glued to all night.”
Heat rushes to my face, and I hate it. The last thing I want to do is blush over a man who probably calls out the wrong name when he comes. I want to feel like I mean something to someone, not like he’s made it a challenge to get in my pants because I’m the rst woman who didn’t fall at his feet.
Look, I’d be lying if I said there hadn’t been a minuscule part of me that was tempted to take Carter up on his oer last weekend. It’s been a while, and it’s always nice to get politely drilled into the ground. According to Cara, these hockey men have amazing stamina and can go all night. And one as experienced as him must be absolutely mind-blowing in bed. Put me in a coma for a day or two, you know? I could use the chance to catch up on my sleep.
I’ll never nd out though. I shouldn’t, at least.
Right?
No. No, Olivia, damn it.
“I’m sure he’ll move on quickly if he hasn’t already,” is the lame response I nally give Cara.
A body collides with the plexiglass in front of me, and I clamp a hand on Cara’s thigh as I yelp.
“Jesus,” I mutter, one hand over my racing heart.
Cara snorts a laugh. “Uh-huh. Move on quickly. Right.” She nudges me with her elbow before wiggling her ngers at the person tapping the glass. “Think you’ve got yourself a visitor.”
I know who it is. I can feel him there. My stomach twirls and my heartbeat settles between my thighs. Why? I really don’t fucking know, other than this guy is sex on a pair of skates, and now I’m pissed o because I’m going to have to go home and give myself another underwhelming orgasm while I ick it to the mental image of this infuriatingly sexy man vying for my attention.
Cara’s mouth tilts with amusement. “You’re not looking, huh?”
I shake my head, frowning. “Nope. Can’t.”
“Olivia!” Carter Beckett yells. It’s unnecessary, really. For God’s sake, I’m right here.
There’s that damn tapping again. The longer I ignore him, the louder he taps. It’s incessant and irritating, and everyone around me buzzes with excitement, wondering why he wants my attention, and more than that, why the hell I’m not giving it to him.
They don’t understand. I may be entirely turned o by the way he carelessly collects women, but I’m only so strong. I’m afraid it might be possible to charm the pants right o me. If anyone can do it, it’s him.
“Liv, Liv, Liv, Liv, Liv,” Carter chants, punctuating each call of my name with a tap on the glass.
“What?” I whisper-yell, nally spinning his way, throwing my hands overhead.
His grin is explosive, handsome, sexy, infuriating. Leaning over the boards, he stares down the length of his stick at me, the tip resting on top of the glass. “Hi.”
Good Lord, I can’t. What is happening?
Carter watches as heat oods my cheeks just for him. I can pretend to be aloof all I want, but the man’s far more perceptive than he seems. He knows I like what I see, and what I see is him, a man entirely comfortable and condent in his skin, grinning in this goofy, irritatingly endearing way, those striking emerald eyes sparkling with mirth and too much arrogance.
Carter knows what he does to me, and that right there will be my downfall.
He leans closer and I hate myself for inching forward, like he’s got a secret just for me.
The corner of Carter’s mouth lifts, revealing a panty-dropping grin as he props his chin on his gloved hand. “I’m gonna score a goal for you.” There’s a
sureness in his deep timbre, an arrogance that makes my stomach tighten with anticipation. With a wink and the shimmy of his hips, he skates backward and drops to his knees, spreading his legs as he stretches his groin and blows a big, pink bubble, all without taking his eyes o me.
“You look like you’re wavering,” Cara mumbles around a handful of M&M’s.
I manage to tear my gaze away from Carter. An impressive feat, because he’s still staring at me and I’m silently undressing him with my eyes, wondering how big the stick in his pants is. Bet it’s huge, like the rest of him. “Huh?”
“I said you look like you’re thinking about giving in to his mission to fuck you.”
Any hint of desire turns sour in my mouth, and my nose wrinkles as I cross my arms. “I’m not a mission, nor am I looking to be the next girl pictured in the news getting down and dirty with Captain Syphilis over there.”
Half of Cara’s popcorn goes spilling to the oor as she bends forward with a bark of laughter. “You know, he’s actually a total dork and really sweet when he’s not trying to get into your pants.”
“Right, well, I guess I wouldn’t know.” I plant my feet back on the glass until they’re perfectly positioned over Carter’s face. He leans to his left, still smiling like a jackass. “And what happened to all your warnings? You spent the better half of your birthday party reiterating him being bad news and telling me not to fall for it. You’re sending me mixed messages.”
“Oh, he’s denitely bad news. I love him to bits, but if I were a single female, I’d probably want to rip his dick o and ram it down his own throat.” She motions at her crotch before pretending to stab an imaginary dick into her mouth. “But then he does stu like this.” She tosses a piece of popcorn over the glass, and Carter catches it on his tongue, pink glob of bubblegum nowhere to be found before he singsongs his thank-you, then promptly collides with Emmett in some sort of bear hug. The two of them go tumbling to the ice together, and when they nally make it to their feet, Carter whacks him on the butt with his stick. “I swear, sometimes I feel like I have children.”
A giggle slips free without permission, and I’m thankful to leave the conversation behind when the game nally starts. It’s easy enough because
Cara’s sitting beside me screeching at every play. She didn’t know a thing about hockey before she met Emmett, and now she never stops berating the refs.
“Oh come on, ref!” She bangs the glass with her st. “Don’t you have a wife to go home and screw? Quit screwing my boys!”
Carter hops over the boards, smiling at me before he turns and plops down on the bench.
Two minutes later, he lines up for a face-o, bending over, stick across his knees, perfect hockey butt in the air. And he smiles at me.
He skates by the bench. Smiling at me.
Squirts water into his mouth. Smiling at me.
All I can focus on is his tall, broad body moving uidly, the quick, eortless cross of his feet as he tears down the ice, puck on the tip of his stick. He’s constantly yelling, commanding attention, leading his team, cracking jokes with players on both sides.
And when he’s not doing that, he’s looking at me.
Halfway through the second period, Carter calls for the puck at the red line, hammering the blade of his stick on the ice. He takes o like lightning, twirls around a defenseman, leans forward on one foot as he winds up, and lets that puck y. My mouth hangs as the puck whizzes by the goalie’s head, his catcher coming up a split second too late. The buzzer’s already blaring and the warm spot between my thighs is already wet.
I mean—what? No. The ice. The ice is wet. I’m not… no. That’s… that’s ridiculous.
I squeeze my thighs together, watching Carter throw his hands in the air with a scream that echoes through the arena as his teammates smoosh him against the boards. He skates by the bench, knocking gloves with every player, spraying ice in the air when he comes to a full stop.
And his electric gaze locks with mine.
His stick lifts in slow motion, pointing. At me. Carter Beckett points his
damn stick right at me.
And he winks. He fucking winks.
For you, his perfect lips mouth to me.
Oh. No.
The cameras pan my way, my vision bursting with ashing white lights. I sink as deep into my seat as possible, ngers creeping up my face, burying it in my hands.
But Carter’s not done. Oh no, of course not. He wouldn’t be Carter Beckett if he simply ended it there.
He jumps onto the bench, gloves pressed to the glass, grinning down at me.
“You like that, Olivia?” he hollers. “That was for you!”
By far the worst part, though?
My crimson face all over the motherfucking jumbotron.
