“You’re the first. Since college.”

“You’re shitting me, right?”

“Uh, no.”

“Wow. I hope I did okay, then.”

“You did better than okay. You were amazing. It was . . . I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it.” He turns his head and coughs.

“Me, either, if I’m being completely honest.”

“I wish you weren’t related to Jake.” Ryan’s voice is gritty and low.

“If you didn’t play hockey for the team my dad manages, I would totally get on my knees for you again.” I need to cut this honesty crap. I still feel bad for the poor guy. Being in a relationship for almost a decade with a woman who refused to blow him is reprehensible, really.

Ryan makes a sound somewhere between a groan and a growl. He’s so close I can feel his breath caress my cheek. I’m half-afraid and half-hopeful he’s going to try to kiss me. I don’t think I’d have the willpower to stop him if he did, and I’m banking on his Boy Scout morals to keep that from happening.

I settle a palm on his chest to keep him from getting closer. “Ryan.”

“It’s King, or Kingston.”

“You introduced yourself as Ryan.”

“Only my parents call me Ryan.” He covers my hand with his, and a warm shiver trickles down my spine as the hair on his arms stands on end. “Do you feel that?”

“Feel what?” My whole body is on alert.

“The same thing happened last time. Like there’s electricity in the air.”

My phone buzzes on the counter behind me, startling us both. His eyes flare and he raises both hands, stepping back so we’re no longer touching each other.

“It’s your dad,” he croaks. “What the heck is wrong with me? I shouldn’t be here. With you. Alone. Unsupervised.”

I put a finger to my lips, clear my throat, and answer the call. “Hey, Dad, what’s up?”

“I’m on my way home now. I figured we could go out for dinner, celebrate your first day.” A horn honks in the background.

“Or you could pick up takeout on the way home.” I glance at Kingston, who’s standing frozen a few feet away.

“I made a reservation at our favorite place for seven, but I can cancel if you’d rather I pick something up.” I detect disappointment over that possibility.

“How close to home are you?”

“About five minutes away.”

“I guess I better get ready, then.” And get Kingston the hell out of here.

“Sounds good. See you soon.”

He ends the call, and I drop the phone on the counter. “My dad will be home in five minutes.”

“I need to leave. Your dad can’t find me here.” Kingston takes a step toward me and then backs up again. “I’m so sorry. I just wanted to talk things out. I didn’t mean to get all up in your personal space, or make you rehash our night together.”

“Why don’t we just forget any of it ever happened?” I’m trying to give us both an out.

“Forget it happened?” He frowns.

I lift one shoulder in what I hope is a nonchalant shrug. “It was meant to be a one-off, right? Besides, it’s kind of a bad idea to get involved with a guy from the team my dad manages, you know?” I don’t want to open up a can of worms we might not be able to close if we allow ourselves to indulge in activities we shouldn’t. Kind of like the way addicts always say “Just one more hit,” I think Ryan Kingston could be my drug of choice.

“I don’t know that I’m going to be able to forget that night, but you’re right: it’s best if we keep it platonic.”

That bolsters my ego a little. “Shake on it?” I hold my hand out.

Slowly he clasps my hand in his much larger one. “We keep it platonic.”

“Deal.”

He’s still holding my hand, eyes locked on my face. Actually they’re locked on my lips.

I hear a crunch and the low hum of bass, which tells me a car has pulled into the driveway. “My dad’s home.”

“Oh crap. I really gotta go.” Kingston yanks me forward. I stumble and plaster my hands on his solid chest. I can feel his heart beating a staccato rhythm. His lips brush my cheek. “I promise I’ll do my best to keep it strictly platonic.”

He disappears out the back door before I can say anything else.CHAPTER 6

STRIDES

Queenie

Things I have discovered over the course of the last few days: my dad loves paper and forms. I’ve also learned how to decipher the nearly illegible handwriting of nearly thirty players. I glance at Bishop Winslow’s paperwork—I’m almost at the end of the list, thank baby Jesus riding a freaking unicorn—and try to figure out what the hell he wrote in response to a rather arbitrary question pertaining to the off-season workouts. I’m pretty sure it’s pithy and a sexual innuendo, but I can’t be sure because his handwriting is atrocious.