Chapter 1: The Real Me
Maya's POV
The cold rink air always bit at my bare skin, but the heat coming off Jaxon Wilder as he skated toward the glass made me completely forget about the freezing temperature in the arena.
He stopped on a dime, spraying a fine shower of shaved ice against the plexiglass right where I stood, and he offered me a slow, wicked grin that dimpled his cheek and showed he knew exactly what he was doing to my heart rate.
"You're late, Vance," he said, his voice deep and gravelly from the workout as he leaned his forearms against the top of the barrier, the damp collar of his jersey pulling back to reveal the dark ink of a collarbone tattoo that disappeared under his gear.
"I am exactly on time, Wilder, but I suppose a superstar playmaker doesn't know how to read a basic watch," I replied, pulling my notebook tight against my chest to hide the way my fingers trembled under his intense, silver-gray gaze.
"Maybe I just like watching you rush in here, all flushed and pretty, looking like you actually care about seeing me," he teased, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he tilted his head, watching the color rise in my cheeks with absolute satisfaction.
"I care about my grade, and since my entire grade depends on documenting your public rehabilitation, I have to tolerate your presence," I said, stepping closer to the glass until the scent of cold air, mint, and his clean, masculine sweat washed over me.
"Is that what we're calling it now, tolerating me," he murmured, his gaze dropping to my lips for a split second before rising back to meet my eyes, the warmth in his expression softening the arrogant edge of his smile.
"Yes, and if you want your coach to let you play in the season opener next week, you should start taking these interviews seriously," I said, flipping open my notebook to a blank page while trying desperately to ignore the massive, powerful frame towering over me from the other side of the barrier.
"I take everything about you seriously, Maya, even if you like to pretend I'm just a giant headache in a helmet," he said, reaching up to run a gloved hand through his damp, dark hair, sending a few stray droplets flying onto the cold concrete.
"You are a headache, Jaxon, a massive, highly publicized headache that I have been saddled with for the next three months," I sighed, though the playful spark in my eyes betrayed my harsh words, making his grin widen.
"Then let's get started on the curing process, sweetheart, because I have a feeling we're going to be spending a lot of time very, very close to each other," he whispered, his voice dropping an octave as he leaned in, his face only inches from mine through the open gap above the glass, leaving me completely breathless as the heavy silence of the empty arena closed in around us.
