“Who’s next?” Brax calls out, loud enough for everyone in the room to hear him.
“Me,” a guy with a deep voice booms, slipping through the crowd to approach the table.
I’m about to walk away when I come face-to-face with Tucker, and my breath catches in my throat. I haven’t stopped thinking about our kiss since the carnival.
His broad shoulders and thick chest fill out the black tee that’s plastered to his muscular frame. Dark track pants hang low from his narrow hips and hug every curve of his body as if made for him.
“What are you doing?” I ask him, my voice cracking as I speak.
He pushes his hands to his narrow waist, pushing up his shirt enough to reveal the V-line that forms his abs. I lick my lips, my eyes focused on the hem of his pants. Once I steel my eyes away from his lower half, he winks, as if he knew I was checking him out.
A smirk turns up the right corner of his mouth, causing the dimple in his cheek to pop. “I’m playing to win,” he informs me. “Hopefully, more than just the game.”
Holy shit, he means me. Be still heart.
I suck in a deep breath and blow it out slowly.
He hooks his arm around my back, his big hand inching toward my ass, hovering at the back pocket of my jeans. Tucker steers me over to the table, and then tells Brax he accepts his offer.
Tucker leans down to kiss me on the cheek.
I peek up at him, unable to stop smiling. “What was that for?”
“For good luck.”
My heart plunges into my stomach, stirring up nervous butterflies. It’s been years since I had this feeling around a guy.
Tucker lifts the strikers from the table and hands one to me. “Let’s see what you’ve got, Jemma with a J.”
Coming from anyone else, I would hate that nickname, but it sounds good coming from his nice, full lips. The air hums between us, a beat passing where we share a quick look, studying each other’s features.
He rakes his hand through his short, blond hair that falls onto his forehead. Sometimes, his hair is spiky, and I like it that way. But the casual look suits him all the same. No matter how he wears his hair or what clothes he has on, Tucker makes me salivate. I feel ridiculous for having this reaction to him and wonder if everyone can see the lust in my eyes. For my sake, I hope not.
We take our places next to each other in front of the air hockey table, the strikers held firmly in our hands. A pretty blonde girl replaces Zoe at Brax’s side, which leaves my sorority sister with a visible scowl. Zoe folds her arms across her chest, glaring at her replacement as if she wants to rip out her hair. But her anger doesn’t last long. A cute guy, with shaggy brown hair and big green eyes strolls up next to her. He bends down to whisper something into her ear, and she chuckles, her hand coming up to her mouth.
“Get ready to have your ass handed to you,” Tucker tells Brax, the striker raised in the air.
“Whatever, Kane,” he shoots back. “You’re all talk and no game.”
He laughs as if enjoying a private joke. “The last time I checked, the ice hockey team has twelve championships, and the football team has…” Tucker raises his other hand to his mouth, balling it into a fist. “Refresh my memory again,” he continues, clearly trying to intimidate him.
“Shut the fuck up and play,” Brax growls.
Tucker gives him one of his boyish smirks that go straight to my core. When he looks down at me, I feel a palpable energy, an electric pulse which dances along my skin, leaving a brush of fire in its wake.
Even though the game has four players, Tucker and Brax are playing against each other, not even bothering to give the blonde or me a second to hit the puck. Not like I care. My lack of reaction time and awful coordination led to the last loss. If Tucker wants to win, he’s better off taking control. And I don’t mind stepping aside, because the way he moves his body does something to mine.
For a big guy, Tucker sure can move, so light on his feet and quick to react. He adapts to each change, determined to win, as if he’s playing for an imaginary trophy. Men are so dumb with how they constantly need to compete against each other. I guess, to some extent, girls do the same, except we don’t show off our athleticism and rock hard bodies to prove a point.
After Tucker claims his victory over Brax, he drops the striker to the table and throws his hands above his head. A childlike enthusiasm graces his face along with an adorable smile, which causes me to do the same. He mouths off to Brax for a minute, bragging about his win, before his hand cups my shoulder. Tucker spins me around until we’re facing.