This isn’t a great situation, and, based on how pale Ryan’s face has gone, I’m thinking he feels exactly the same way.

I’m so stunned I forget to be embarrassed about the fact that my dad pulled the father card in front of the entire team.

“Queenie?”

I drag my gaze away from my one-night stand—I’ve been staring at him—and give my attention to my dad. I smile questioningly. “Yes, Jake?”

His right eye twitches, like he has something in it. But he doesn’t. It means he’s irritated, likely because I’m calling him by his first name, and there’s some annoyance in my tone. I’m sure I also appear mortified, but not for the reason he probably thinks.

He passes me a stack of folders. “Can you hand these out, please?”

I want to say no, because that means I’ll have to make some kind of purposeful eye contact with Ryan. But since I’m my father’s assistant, my role is literally to do every single menial task that could potentially distract him from anything important. Which means I get the job of handing things out to the team, and collecting them and filing them. Riveting work, really.

If I’d been on the ball this morning, which I was not, I would’ve had the forms already set on the tables to make it easier on myself and the players. And then I could avoid some up close and personal embarrassment.

“Of course.” I take the folders with clammy hands and start on the left side of the room, setting one in front of each player. I get a lot of mumbled thanks and brief, uncomfortable smiles.

Maybe my dad was right about the dress not being the best idea. Most of these guys are wearing some kind of casual pants and T-shirts. A few wear jeans. Ryan has on a pair of gray casual pants and a white polo. I try to keep my breathing even and a smile plastered on my face as I hand him a folder. We make eye contact. My nipples harden further. Thank God I’m wearing a padded bra.

His lips part and his tongue peeks out to wet the bottom one. I remember, very, very vividly, how it felt to have that tongue circling my bare nipple, among other places. Some kind of sound, halfway between a groan and a sigh, slips out of my mouth.

His eyes widen and his cheeks flush. I’m still holding the folder, and he’s trying to free it from my hand. All of this takes place over a few short seconds, but I feel like there’s a spotlight on us and that every single person can read the thoughts in my head.

His deep, rich voice feels like a caress between my thighs when he murmurs thank you. I’m about to step away when his fingers wrap around my wrist to stop me from moving on. His hand is just as big, warm, and rough as I remember. I don’t expect the contact, so I jolt and nearly lose my hold on a few of the folders.

He releases my wrist. “You dropped something.” He leans down and picks up a piece of paper. I have no idea what I could’ve possibly dropped, since all I’m holding are folders. He slips the fallen piece of paper into my hand and mumbles something about needing to talk. I give him a strained smile before I move to the next table.

He’s certainly right about the talking part, but there’s no way it’s going to happen in a roomful of his teammates with my dad watching.

During the meeting—which lasts a good two hours—I find out my hookup’s last name is Kingston and he’s the team goalie. That certainly explains his incredible flexibility. It would be fantastic if I could stop thinking about the time we spent together while naked.

After the meeting there’s a team workout led by the coach, Alex Waters. He appears to be younger than my dad, by five years or so if I had to guess. He’s built the same as the hockey players and looks like he should be an underwear model or something.

I don’t have a chance to check the piece of paper Ryan gave me—or “King,” as everyone else seems to call him, including my father—because I’m too busy trying to decipher the players’ barely legible handwriting. Except for Ryan’s, which is ridiculously neat.

I don’t even have time to look Ryan up on social media because I’m too busy transcribing notes, making copies, and getting my father coffee. By five I’ve decided I need to wean him down to fewer than six cups a day, or at least alternate between decaf and caffeinated since he drinks so much of it. And I’m going to try to switch out the cream for milk to save his poor arteries.

I set the one-sugar, one-cream coffee on his desk. “Can I get you anything else?”