by Penny Reid
“Thanks, man. Listen—”
“Can I get your autograph, man? No one’s gonna believe this!”
“Yeah, sure.” Alex shoots me an apologetic look.
He’s genuinely trying to be nice to this guy whose social skills have lapsed in the face of idolization. The guy pulls out a piece of crumpled lined paper, rambling on about how he plays defense in Junior As and how he wants to go pro. He’s a skinny little guy and clearly a college freshman. Alex lets him go on for a few minutes, snapping selfies and asking questions. He gives them the “Keep working hard and you can reach your goals” speech. I understand why he’s the captain of his team. Once they’re done fawning, Alex gives me a pained smiled.
“I’m sorry.” He dips his pinkie into the whipped cream and slips his finger between his full, soft lips . . . and I’m wet. I want to skip the make out session and go straight to naked. I’ll suck the whipped cream off any damn thing he dips in there. Including the monster cock.
“It’s okay.” I clear my throat and shift around, trying to get comfortable. I need to get a handle on my hormones. We’re supposed to be having a discussion, and my mind is in the gutter.
“What were we talking about again?” He takes a small sip of his drink. Whipped cream forms a mustache he quickly licks away.
“You’re not the person the media portrays you to be. Yet, you sure seem to play the part.” I give him my resting bitch face: squinty eyes paired with pursed lips. It makes Buck run for cover, and Sidney usually finds somewhere else to be if it comes out. Alex sinks in his chair.
“When I started playing for the NHL, the rumors were somewhat justified. The media likes to blow things out of proportion. I won’t deny there was some accuracy. I was eighteen and a rookie. There were lots of girls . . .”
I guess I can understand this. If you’re a single, hot professional hockey player, women are going to throw themselves at you. I’m a case in point, although his appeal was only physical before the Fielding comment.
“Anyway, the Hat Trick rumor is a load of crap. I threw a party when I bought my house, and my cousin came because she wanted to be introduced to one of my teammates. If I’d known then what I know now, I never would’ve entertained the idea, incidentally. Another girl was interested in me, but she . . .” He shudders. “Let’s just say she wasn’t my type. Anyway, the third girl they accused me of sleeping with was my sister. She was underage, and she crashed the party. I was trying to get her under control. Some jerk took grainy pictures and posted them, and the myth of the Waters Hat Trick was born.”
“You never deny it in the interview.” It’s all hearsay, anyway. He can tell me whatever he wants; I can’t disprove it either way.
“No. I didn’t.” He drops his head with a sigh. “It was a bad move on my part. All it’s done is made me look like a total jerk.” He’s whisper quiet. “You have no idea what it’s like, Violet.”
“You’re right, I don’t. I can’t fathom why you would want to come across as a womanizer.”
“Did you know Buck took figure skating lessons?”
The abrupt change in topic throws me. I learned of this after Buck became my stepbrother. I found the idea of Buck in spandex hilarious and disconcerting. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“It’s standard, really. Most of the guys who play professional take figure skating to develop their skills on the ice.”
“It’s usually a year or two, right?”
He lowers his voice to make sure no one eavesdrops. “Usually. I was in figure skating for ten years.”
I almost choke on my latte. “Pardon?”
“I started when I was seven. My mother wanted me to be a figure skater. I picked up hockey when I was nine. I didn’t want to disappoint her, so I did both for a long time. I think she believed one day I’d change my mind and pick it over hockey. Until I was drafted into the minors, she was positive I’d make the Olympics.”
I feel bad for Alex. Why would his mother force him to do something he didn’t love for so long?
“I got razzed a lot for it, especially in high school. Teenagers aren’t always tolerant. The stereotypes were absurd.”
“And yet you choose to perpetuate a totally different one. I’m not seeing how that’s better.”
“I know.” His eyes are on the napkin he’s folding into some origami magic. I can tell this has caused him a lot of unnecessary frustration. While it pulls at my heartstrings, I don’t understand his motivation for the playboy angle.
“Within a matter of months I was drafted to the majors, and the press took notice of me. My years in figure skating came up. There were questions as to whether I could handle the demands. The tabloids got a hold of some footage and pictures of me in skating competitions. I had to work to prove myself on and off the ice. It wasn’t easy.” Alex looks up from the tiny bird he’s crafted out of his napkin. His eyes are soft, pleading for me to understand.
I try to imagine what it would’ve been like, but I’m not a hockey player or a figure skater, so I can’t relate.
“I started playing for the Flames . . . which led to more bad jokes.” He rolls his eyes. “So I did the one thing guaranteed to dispel any misconceptions, and it worked. I spent a lot of time at bars during the after parties surrounded by women. The media ate it up, and my agent even encouraged it. It got me a lot of coverage. At the time it was beneficial, even if it made me look like a player.”
He’s not lying; I’ve seen the pictures.
“The reputation followed me even after I was traded to Chicago. For a long time, I didn’t care. The rumors were easier to manage than some of the other crap. Until now, I haven’t had a reason to want to challenge the reputation.” Alex runs his fingers through his shaggy, unkempt hair. “It’s not an excuse, but can you understand where I’m coming from?”
I can. Judging from his torn expression and the way he can’t stop fidgeting, there’s more to this story, I’m sure. He’s made himself vulnerable by pouring his heart out in the middle of a crowded café. What’s more, I believe him. Teenage boys can be cruel, and men can be ruthless with each other. I’ve seen Buck in action with his friends. I can imagine the ribbing Alex would’ve taken as a rookie. It might have been all in fun where his teammates were concerned, but at eighteen it would be hard to take, especially with the media throwing it at him, too.
“It makes sense.” I poke at my cake with my fork, wary. “It doesn’t explain what you said to Buck about regulars.”
“‘Regulars’?”
“Yeah. When you were at my place and Buck forgot his wallet.”
Alex’s eyes go wide, and the color drains from his face. “Oh God. This explains what happened at the bar after the game last week.” He expels a long breath. “I wasn’t sure what Buck knew, if anything at all, and we hadn’t had the chance to really talk. So we’re clear . . .” He leans in closer until his knee is touching mine. “There are no regulars. There never have been. I don’t care if Butterson knows what happened between us. I’ll gladly take a shit kicking from him if you’ll go out on a date with me.”
“Oh.”
He touches my cheek with warm fingers. This immediately disconnects my brain from my body. All I want to do is lean forward and feel his lips on mine.
“Is ‘oh’ code for yes?”
“Um . . .” He seems genuine. It was easier to shrug off his advances when I believed he was a player. If he turns out to be a liar, I’ll be devastated.
“If you’re going to say no, I could ask your boobs. You’ve already said I can take them on a date, and I did get them a Victoria’s Secret gift certificate. They’d probably be happy to go out with me.” His smile is impish.
It’s hard not to return it. His sense of humor is as whacked out and as inappropriate as mine.
“They probably would.” My nipples tighten at their mention. Stupid boobs.
“Please say yes,” Alex whispers.
“My boobs are willing; the rest of me will
come along. I’m not one hundred percent sold on you like they seem to be.”
I can’t believe I’m acting like my boobs have a say in the matter.
“That’s fair.” Alex’s eyes dip down. “I’m glad your boobs are sold on me. I’m a fan.”
I roll my eyes. “I guess the feeling’s mutual.”
“Are you busy tomorrow night?”
“Tomorrow?”
“I leave Wednesday for almost two weeks. I’d like to see you before I go if you’re available. We could have dinner? I understand if it’s too short notice.”
“I can check my calendar.” I have no plans for tomorrow night. Even if I did, I’d cancel them. Alex sips his hot chocolate while I pretend to check my schedule. “It looks like I’m free.”
“Great.” He reclines in his chair, smiling widely.
This isn’t what I was expecting at all. I assumed Alex would feed me a load of crap, and I’d be justified in my disdain for hockey players. Instead I’m mentally reviewing my underwear options and worrying whether I have anything date appropriate. A trip to Victoria’s Secret is essential. My boobs want to look their best. So does the rest of me.
Chapter 10
WHY IS DATING SO DAMN DIFFICULT?
Violet
By the time we leave the café, it’s almost eight. Alex insists on walking me to my car. I’m not opposed. While downtown bustles with business types during the day, it’s a prime club crawl location at night. The University of Illinois is only a few blocks away, making the poorly lit parking lot a perfect meeting spot for delinquent kids. Sometimes I find half-smoked roaches and empty Colt 45s on Monday mornings.
Alex keeps his hand on my waist as we walk to my car. The contact makes me aware of how much I’d like him to touch other parts. I have to remind myself it’s not going to happen tonight. Tomorrow is a different story altogether.
My 4Runner is parked in one of the few well-lit areas in the middle of the lot.
“Is this thing safe?” Alex asks as I shove the key in the lock. It takes a few jiggles before it turns. The automatic locks stopped working six months ago.
“It passed the safety inspection last year.”
He pokes at a rusty spot on the side panel. “I can’t imagine how.”
“Stop! You’ll make it worse!” I put my hand over the rusty spot. “I have it serviced regularly.”
“By who?”
“Sidney has a guy. It’s driveable.” This is only mostly true. There’s a clunking sound my mechanic can’t seem to identify and some issues with the rear axle. I’m not allowed to take it on bumpy roads or the freeway.
Alex frowns as he continues to inspect my vehicle. “You’re sure he’s reliable?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
My 4Runner has been on its last leg for a good year. I bought it with my own money, and I’m sentimental, so I won’t get rid of it. I refuse Sidney’s repeated offer to buy me a new car. It’s too extravagant an expense.
“At least it’s big,” Alex mutters.
“Bigger isn’t always better.” The tank on this beast is bottomless.
“Oh?”
It takes a few seconds to clue in to the double meaning. Maybe he thinks I’m insulting his manhood. I consider his manhood—and how much I hate the word manhood. In Alex’s case, bigger is awesome. The only drawback is how hard it is to walk the day after said manhood has plundered my womanhood. I need to cut it with the historical romance references.
“In some cases bigger, isn’t better. Like with this.” I pat my SUV. “It’s a real gas guzzler. I try to limit my driving to work and the grocery store so I don’t ruin the environment. I’d invest in a hybrid if they weren’t so ugly and expensive.”
Alex is wearing a sexy-as-hell amused smile while he listens to me ramble. One hand is braced on the vehicle, and he’s leaning in. If he moves an inch or two closer, it might feel like he’s planning to kiss me. I want him to kiss me. My brain has stopped working, and I continue with the nonsensical babble.
“For you”—I point in the general direction of his groin—“bigger is sort of better. I mean, huge is nice, too. You’ve got huge covered well. I like it.” I bite my lip to stop the words.
“So what you’re saying is bigger is only sort of better in my case?”
“What? No, no. It’s fantastic, hard on the . . .” I gesture to my crotch. Dammit. I’m making it sound bad. I don’t want to offend him. “I’m sure I could get used to it after a while . . . with some practice.”
“I’m good at practice.”
He moves closer. He smells like chocolate and sandalwood or whatever he washes his hot, firm body with. He’s wearing one of those beanie things, like a ski cap, with a band logo on it. The Tragically Hip, maybe. His hair has grown in the past month; it curls around the edges. I want to press my lips against his and finger those errant strands. Him. Me. I want.
“Can I kiss you?” His palm is on my cheek, his fingers sliding into my hair. “I’d like to kiss you. If that’s okay.”
And he reads minds, too. “It’s okay.”
He’s an inch from my lips. “I’ve been dying to taste you since . . .”
I wait for him to finish his sentence or follow through and kiss me already. Hold up, did he say taste? Hell, I’ll let him devour me.
He traces my bottom lip with his thumb. His fingers are cold. I shiver and inhale an asthmatic breath. Our eyes lock. I can’t look away.
I do that weird thing people do when someone they want to get it on with puts one of their digits—except for toes—near their mouth. I allow my tongue to peek out and taste his skin. It’s yummy, probably residue from the sugary chocolate beverage he stuck it in earlier. I have the urge to bite his thumb. So I do.
He mumbles a quiet curse. Then his thumb is gone, and his mouth is on mine. Our bodies are flush; he presses me heavily into the frame of my shit heap. If I wasn’t wearing a thick wool coat, I might be able to feel whether or not he’s hard.
He angles my head to the side and sucks on my bottom lip. The kiss grows deeper and more frantic. Well, I’m frantic. I grab for his hair, but his hat’s in the way and my fingers are frozen—courtesy of the mid-March cold. It’s annoying and inconvenient.
Meanwhile, Alex has turned into a jacket-MacGyver. He manages to get two buttons undone. Now I can feel him and he can feel me up. I molest his mouth with my tongue and shamelessly dry hump him for all I’m worth.
It’s fabulous until someone shouts, “Woo-hoo! Give it to her good!”
The mouth fucking ceases instantly. Alex spins to face the would-be voyeur. Taking a protective stance, he blocks me from view. I hide behind his jacket for extra cover. Public dry humping is not something I want to be recognized for.
I peek around his shoulder. Two guys, maybe a year or two younger than I am, stand not more than ten feet away.
“What did you say?” His voice is eerily calm.
One of them loses the cocky edge. He elbows the other in the ribs. I assume this may have something to do with them being skinny and dorky and Alex being broad and angry. Nervous guy’s buddy doesn’t get the hint. Instead he holds up his hand like he’s waiting for a high five.
“Spread the love, man.” He must be drunk. It’s the only explanation for his level of stupidity.
“Uh, Gene, we better go.” Skinny guy eyes Alex nervously.
“Wait.” Gene holds up a finger in his much smarter friend’s face. “It can’t be. No way!” He squints and pushes his black rimmed glasses up his nose. “Oh, dude, it totally is. Alex Waters!”
Word to the wise—NHLers shouldn’t hang out near colleges.
“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” Alex’s irritation is evident.
“S-sorry.” The guy who isn’t an idiot hauls Gene away.
Once they’re gone, Alex shoves his hands in his pockets and turns to me. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get carried away. It’s just . . . it been a while since I’ve seen you, and you taste really g
ood, and it makes me want . . . yeah, anyway . . . sorry.”
“Oh, uh . . . it’s okay.” I wave my hand around like it’s no big deal. I enjoyed the dry hump as much as he did. Maybe more.
“So we’re still on for tomorrow night?”
The question confuses me at first. It’s not like it’s his fault a couple of drunk kids walked by while we were making out. Against the side of my SUV.
Alex rushes on. “Please don’t back out on me. I promise I’ll be a perfect gentleman.”
It never crossed my mind, not even for a half second, to flake out on the date. “I won’t as long as you drop the perfect gentleman crap. That’s a deal breaker. My boobs won’t tolerate it.”
“I love your boobs, they’re so fun.” His smile is panty wetting. “I’ll pick them up at seven?”
We’re so weird. I like it. “Seven is great.”
“Perfect.”
“Perfect.” I return the smile. I’ll be counting down the hours until we can resume our make out session.
“I should let you go home.”
Alex holds my door open as I climb in. If I’d been thinking, I would’ve started it while we made out. However, such actions may well have led to an invitation into the backseat where he could have demonstrated how much better bigger is. Those drunk kids would’ve gotten the free show of a lifetime.
I turn the engine over. Alex waits patiently in the freezing cold for me to roll the window down manually.
“Thanks for the latte and the cake.”
“Anytime.”
I motion him closer and kiss his cheek, right where his dimple lives. It pops out at the invitation, and if it wasn’t so dark, I’d swear he was blushing. He’s as sweet as the dessert I polished off in the café. “See you tomorrow.”
“Looking forward to it.”
The 4Runner makes an awful grating noise as I shift into gear. I should get it checked out.
Later on, Alex sends me a cute text to make sure my SUV hasn’t exploded and left me stranded on the side of the road. After forty-five minutes of texting, I say goodnight and shut off my phone, otherwise I’ll be tempted to message him all night. If I’m going out with him tomorrow, I have work to do. By work, I mean some beaverscaping.