ZOE
Blake Thompson was freaking hot.
Like, rip-my-clothes-off-and-take-me-right-now hot.
I’d barely survived practice tonight without drooling all over myself. Watching him skate? The way his thighs flexed, his shoulders rolled, that cocky smirk when he scored? Yeah, I was gone. Totally and completely.
I bit my lip, shifting in my seat. My knees pressed together on their own, like my body was trying to keep it together. Spoiler alert: it wasn’t working.
It didn’t help that he looked even better now—hair messy, jaw tight, sweat still clinging to his skin. I wanted to drag my fingers through his hair, tug him close, and—
Focus, Zoe. Be cool.
But damn, how could I when he was sitting right there, all broody and quiet, practically daring me to crawl onto his lap and ruin both our nights
