Page 43 of The Fake Out

“What, you need a whistle?” He shrugs, smiling. “Go.”

The room explodes into chaos, and I grab Hazel’s hand, pulling her to the hall.

“We have to find one of those Nerf guns,” she says as we hurry, putting space between us and the others.

There’s a sharp crack in a room behind us, followed by a delirious laugh.

“Let’s go to the second floor,” I suggest. “We can let them fight it out downstairs. Maybe there are more Nerf guns up there.”

We bound up the stairs, and that tight, excited sensation jumps around in my chest like it’s trying to get out. I rub a hand over my sternum. This is fun, I realize. This is…sofun. More fun than I’ve had in ages.

Why is this stupid game, where we’re running around like kids at a birthday party, more fun than hockey?

I never laugh during hockey the way I am now. I never feel this expanding, crackling feeling through my limbs.

I grab Hazel’s hand as we run up the stairs, two at a time, and I’m struck by how strong and fast she is, even as she lags behind me in her heels. Arousal peaks in my blood as our eyes meet, and I shoot her a lazy grin, unable to look away from her pretty blue-gray eyes.

There’s another crack, and a foam pellet sails past us, bouncing off a picture frame. McKinnon is running down the hall toward the stairs.

I reach down, scoop her up, and flip her over my shoulder.

“Miller, put me the fuckdown,” she orders as I race up the stairs. “I’m going to barf.”

“You’re going to trip and hurt yourself in those heels, Hartley. Let’s get away from the others and then I’ll put you down.” I grin as she smacks my thigh. “You weigh nothing. I could probably win this game with you over my shoulder.”

“Cocky, arrogantass.” She delivers another sharp slap, and at the top of the stairs, I laugh, setting her down when I step inside a nearby room.

“Don’t spank me, Hartley. It turns me on.”

She lets out a choked noise that sounds like a laugh. When she straightens up, her face is red. “Ugh. Gross.”

McKinnon’s footsteps thump on the bottom of the stairs and another crack goes off. “Fuck,” he curses.

We’re in a library, with bookshelves that reach the ceiling, stiff-looking sofas, and a fireplace. McKinnon’s footsteps approach, so I do the first thing I can think of—I push Hartley down on the sofa and get on top of her. The back of the sofa is to the door, so unless he’s standing right over us, he won’t see us.

Hartley’s and my faces are inches apart, and her eyes widen. “What are you—”

I press my hand over her mouth and tilt my head to the door. Her heart is racing against my chest as we stare into each other’s eyes. At the door, footsteps thump. Red blurs across her cheekbones.

Are you blushing?I mouth with a teasing look, my hand still over her mouth, and her look of outrage nearly makes me laugh out loud.

We stare at each other in silence, barely breathing as we wait. He has to be standing in the doorway, but I’m half-focused, aware of every inch of my body touching hers. Her breasts press into my chest as hers rises and falls with each breath, and I wonder if she can feel my heart pounding. The male, possessive part of my brain likes being on top of her like this—likes pinning her down beneath me and looking into her eyes.

Finally, he leaves, heading down the hall, and despite wanting to spend the rest of the night on top of Hartley like this, I slide off her. She ditches her shoes before we reenter the game.

Ten minutes later, after finding a Nerf gun on a bookshelf, Hartley and I have a stack of Polaroids from players we’ve hit.

There’s a noise at the end of the hall, around the corner. Fast as lightning, I pull her through a nearby door.

It’s a dim closet, and tight quarters. I brush against Hazel’s chest. The upper half of the door has a stained-glass image, and as the light from the hallway spills through, colors splash over Hazel’s face.

My pulse jumps as I think about kissing her earlier. My gaze drops to her lips, so plush and soft. The perfect color of pink.

I wonder if her nipples are the same color. I wonder if they’d taste as soft and sweet under my tongue. If her breath would catch the same way, or if it would be more of a gasp. Or maybe a moan.

My eyes trace over the lines of her dress, the arc of dark fabric over each breast, and the slight swell of cleavage. I rest a hand on the shelf above her head, dragging a deep breath in. This small space smells like her—her hair products, her perfume, everything about her—and it’s making liquid heat pool in my groin.

Fuck. I want her.