Kit (Chicago Blaze 8)

“I’ll punch you in the stomach if you eat anymore,” Anton says, shrugging. “So do what you want. Kit’s gonna be moving onto the first line soon, anyway.”

Vic looks at me, his eyes wide. “What the fuck?”

Anton’s dicking with Vic and we all know it. But Vic deserves it. He dicks with everyone on the team and pranks us every chance he gets. Anton’s playing on Vic’s insecurity—he’s always worried he’s going to lose his place on the first line.

“Kit’s scored in the past four games, what do you expect?” Anton says to Vic. “And you…” He wrinkles up his face and plasters on an expression of deep thought . “When’s the last time you scored?”

“I think it was last year,” Knox offers.

“You guys are dicks,” Vic mutters. “I scored in St. Louis.”

“We can’t wait for you to join our line, Kit,” Anton says to me. “Me and Luca, that is. Vic’s gonna be our new equipment manager, I think.”

“Laugh it up, fuckers,” Vic says, glowering.

We’re still jabbing at him a few minutes later on the walk to the bus that brought us to the ranch. I’m having a hot streak, but there’s no way I’m moving up from the second line, and I’m good with that. It’s fun to razz Vic about it, though.

I texted Molly earlier, and I turn my attention to my phone when her response comes in.

Molly: Lamont’s just pissed about the story. He won’t do anything.

Me: How do you know?

Molly: This is just part of my job, it’s happened before. He came in and talked to the editors and publishers here and they said the Gazette stands by the story. Now he’s pissed at all of us.

Me: Just be careful, okay? And don’t walk home alone at night.

Molly: Don’t worry about me. How’s Texas?

Me: Warm.

Molly: The wind chill is below zero here.

Me: We just ate a huge lunch and we’re going to the arena.

Molly: Good luck tonight.

Me: Thanks.

Molly: Have to go. I’m walking into a meeting.

Me: Just don’t forget about our date tomorrow.

Molly: What date?

Molly: Kidding. Looking forward to it.

Me: Me too. Text later?

Molly: Yes.

Me: Okay.

I put my phone back in my pocket and find a seat on the bus, trying to focus and get into game mode. It’s hard to think about anything but her, though. The quirky reporter who intrigued me the first time I met her has really gotten under my skin over the past month. I’ve never been so charged up to take a woman on a date.

Tonight, I won’t need to psyche myself up on the ice. I’m a fucking pent up ball of untapped energy. Molly will soon find out that I’m a nice, laid back guy almost all the time. Once I get my hands on her, though, she’ll see my other side. It’s inevitable—I already know she’ll bring out the beast in me.

Chapter Fifteen

Molly

* * *

Mr. Darcy cocks his head at me from his spot my bed, and I laugh.

“I know. I look ridiculous, don’t I?”

He lays his head down and I sigh heavily. I’m trying to get ready for my date with Kit, and it’s painful. When I’m going to work, I put on conservative dress pants and shirts, never worrying about whether it’s in style. It’s all about being professional. And on weekends, I wear sweats or old jeans and T-shirts.

It’s been a long time since I had to dress up for anything social. Tonight, Kit will know I deliberately chose my outfit in an effort to look good for him. And the black linen pants and red sweater I’m wearing right now don’t look fit for anything but an office Christmas party.

“I just need some green Christmas ball earrings to complete the look,” I mutter to no one in particular.

Gran knocks on my bedroom door.

“Come on in,” I say miserably.

She pushes the door open, her brow furrowed. “I was just going to ask if you paid the water bill, but you sound like you have bigger things on your mind.”

“Look at me.” I gesture at my outfit.

Gran looks my outfit over. “Well…you said you have a date tonight, right?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe you should try something a little…sexier?”

I laugh, because my grandmother is telling me to show some skin. That’s how uptight I am. And once I start laughing, I can’t stop. Within a minute, I’m sitting on the edge of my bed and the laughter has turned to tears. I put my hands over my face and cry, Gram sitting down beside me.

In that way I love, she lets me cry. Gram has never told me I shouldn’t cry. She always waits for me to release the disappointment, worry or exhaustion fueling my tears.

“Better?” she asks when I finish crying and take a deep breath.

“Not really, because now my eyes will be all swollen and puffy,” I say, leaning against her.