Home > Centered(4)

Centered(4)
Author: Elise Faber

Liam had half-expected another class to file in, for Ms. Caldwell to go to her ever-trusty clipboard and gather supplies.

Instead, she answered a few questions from parents who lingered, hugged a teenage girl who seemed to be having a bad day, and then began taking pads down and spreading them out, wiping them efficiently with a disinfecting wipe.

He was on his feet before he thought about moving, toeing off his shoes without being asked this time, and walking over to the pads, picking up the ones that were dry and stacking them onto the shelves. “This okay?” he asked when she was nearly through with the row.

Her eyes, dark chocolate with flecks of hazelnut, met his for a long moment.

Then she nodded.

And something inside him relaxed. He brought the pads—smaller than the ones she’d just cleaned—down and lined them up to clean, switching places with her when she’d finished the first row to put those back up.

They repeated the process in silence. Her wiping them down, occasionally swapping out her dirty wipe for a clean one, him bringing the pads up and down on the shelves once they were dry. Him trying to ignore the way her ass looked glorious as she bent over in front of him. Her barely looking at him, definitely not noticing his ass.

It wasn’t until he’d stacked the last pad that she spoke.

“What are you still doing here, Liam?”

But he could barely hear her words, not when the sight of her going up on tiptoe to stow the container of wipes had frozen him in place.

Bare feet with blue nail polish—because, of course, he’d noticed. Slender ankles, the right one with a thin gold chain wrapped around it, smooth olive skin, the loose pants of her gi tugging at all the spots on her legs that hinted at strength—her calves, her thighs—and juxtaposed by thin, almost fragile-looking wrists. Shining black hair that trailed down her back in a thick ponytail, cute ears (who knew he would ever think ears would be cute?), a tattoo behind her left ear that was small and tucked away, something he wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t found himself cataloging every single thing about this woman.

Obsessed.

It was how he, the smallest of all the Williamson brothers had gotten into the NHL in the first place, how he’d shattered the records in high school, in juniors.

When he loved something, he was obsessed.

Not that he loved this woman; he’d met her that day, didn’t even know her name, but when he enjoyed something, when he was fascinated by it, and Liam strove to understand every bit of minutia that came along with the subject.

Skating.

Shooting.

Stickhandling.

Using differential equations in applied mathematics.

Ms. Caldwell.

Each required attention to detail in order to be successful. But only one was bordering on obsession.

Probably because it was mere hours old.

Probably because while math was interesting, he didn’t want to spend his life with his nose in a book.

And probably also because somewhere along his transition from college to professional hockey, he’d lost his confidence. It hadn’t come easy any longer, and God that sounded arrogant and egotistical, but the truth was that his playing in the NHL was harder than he’d ever expected.

And he was struggling big time.

Failing.

Big time.

“Liam?”

He blinked and tuned out of the thoughts in his head. “Sorry, what?”

“Why are you still here?” she asked, sharper now as she dropped down onto the soles of her feet. Why did he like it so much when she snapped at him? Probably it said something bad about him, but all he could think was that he would love to hear her giving him those same terse orders in bed. “Why are you smiling?” she asked, eyes narrowed, feet silent as she crossed to him and plunked her hands onto her hips.

“No reason.”

She huffed. “Sure.” A roll of those pretty chocolate eyes. “No reason, my ass.”

“It’s a fine ass,” he said.

She moved so fast that before he could process the movement, his wrist was caught in a lock that Liam knew if he moved a single muscle, the ligaments would tear, the bones would break. “You do not have permission to speak about my body that way.”

He turned his head enough to meet her eyes. “Understood,” he said calmly, even though he felt anything but. “My apologies.”

She snorted. “I could end your season with the twitch of my pinky finger.”

His heart thumped, but he couldn’t decide if it was out of fear or anticipation. If he couldn’t play the rest of the season, he might not have a chance to impress the Gold enough to keep him on for another season. But, on the other hand, if he couldn’t play, maybe this would be the death knell on his career and force him to choose another route.

Maybe he could be free.

But . . . did he want to be free? Would he miss the game, the way the cold air of the rink seeped into his skin, bit at his nose? Would he long for the speed, the impact of the checks, the comraderie and competition?

He thought he would.

And so, Liam supposed he had a little bit of fight left in him.

Enough to at least say, “You’re sexy when you’re threatening me.”

He half-expected to feel shooting pain, but instead she just released him, shaking her head as she returned to her little set of shelves on the edge of the floor and began filing some papers away.

“You know,” he said, moving to the table to retrieve the tablet and bringing it to her, “You still haven’t told me your first name, Ms. Caldwell.”

Was there the barest hint of heat in her eyes?

Liam squinted, but it was gone before he could be sure, and anyway, then she was talking again, and the acerbic words were going straight to his cock. “You still haven’t asked.”

Going still for a few seconds, backtracking their conversations, he realized he hadn’t asked, hadn’t even introduced himself. If Brayden hadn’t used their names, they would still effectively be the same strangers from the street. Except . . . not. Because this woman was—

More.

And he had the feeling she was more than anyone he’d ever met.

Reining himself in, he stuck out his hand for her to shake. “I’m Liam Williamson.”

Her fingers brushed his first, sending sparks along his palm, up his arm. Then their hands were pressed together, and her grip was firm . . . and great, his cock was hard again. Going harder when she slipped her hand free, spun away, and said, “I know.”

She strode to the door, pushed it open. “Goodnight, Mr. Williamson. Good luck with your season. I think the Gold might have another shot at the Cup this year.”

He took a step, thinking to regroup and come up with a plan to get this woman to like him, to go out on a date with him, to kiss him. But also knowing that he needed to return another day to fight. Except . . . then his brain processed her words.

That was the second time she’d said season, and now she’d mentioned the Cup and the San Francisco Gold. She knew he played.

Liam hadn’t told her that.

So she either followed the sport . . . or—

He didn’t know. She was a stalker, somehow had tracked down all of the Williamsons and was ready to go puck bunny. Right. He stifled a snort. That was about as likely as him receiving the Hart Memorial Trophy.

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