by Gina Azzi
I blush at the meaning underlying his words and order a vodka soda.
Noah rests his lower back against the bar beside me. He crosses his arms over his chest, his biceps bulging. How do men make casual look so enticing? I tap my fingertips on the top of the bar, wracking my brain for something smart to say as Noah studies me.
The bartender slides over my drink. “Thanks,” I say, picking it up, relieved I have something to do with my hands.
“You’re the most interesting woman in here, Indy,” Noah says after a beat.
I rear back, surprised, wondering if he’s joking with me. But when I meet his gaze, his eyes are as black as midnight, intense and potent.
I take a long pull of my vodka soda, needing the liquid courage to interact with him.
Especially since I’m happy I decided to stay.
4
Noah
Indiana Merrick could tempt a saint.
While nearly every woman in the club tonight and definitely the women up here partying with the team would do almost anything to impress one of the guys, Indy sets herself apart.
She’s dressed sexy as hell, with long, shapely legs, delicious curves, and hair I want to fist my hand in. But it’s her face that’s gold. Her damn expressions, so genuine and honest, ripple across her features with an openness that most of the women I know learned to conceal years ago.
Her eyes burn with curiosity and excitement and a self-consciousness that’s more endearing than it should be.
“How do you like Boston?” I ask, wincing at how lame I sound. The truth is, I don’t have much practice with small talk. Most people I interact with want something from me, like an autograph or tickets to a game. Most women I engage with offer something up on a silver platter, like an opportunity to get naked and not talk.
The thought rattles me a little. It’s been too many years since I’ve had to put any type of work in with a woman and because Indy isn’t a regular woman I can just sleep with and never see again, I feel out of my depth having a normal conversation.
“I like it.” She wrinkles her nose. “Not a huge fan of winter so I’m not sure what the next few months are going to be like. But I like being closer to my cousins and aunt and uncle.”
“And your parents moved up here too?”
She nods, taking another sip of her drink. “I guess in that sense I’m lucky to be an only. With Dad retired, they could move anywhere and they’re pretty set on being close to me.”
I scratch my cheek, wondering what the hell that must be like. My parents struggle to tolerate East and me for the one or two visits a year we make upstate. They would never move anywhere just to be closer to us, even if it was all expenses paid. I’ve never been my parents’ focus or priority, just an added burden on the periphery of their lives that child services demanded they pay attention to every now and then. As long as East and I cut them monthly checks, they don’t care about what’s happening in our lives. “Yeah, I remember how much your dad would try to drag you to all our hockey camps whenever you guys came up to Boston in the summer.”
Indy rolls her eyes. “He may have been mildly disappointed I turned out to be a girl more interested in ballet and books than in perfecting a slap shot.”
I chuckle, recalling Indy sitting on the bleachers, her eyes scanning line after line, devouring chapters like it nourished her soul, while her dad ran an impromptu session that any of the players attending would talk about for the next year straight. Jeremiah Merrick is a hockey legend and while I’m sure part of him is disappointed that his only child couldn’t care less about hockey, I doubt he was ever disappointed he had a daughter instead of a son. “Nah, your dad straight up dotes on you.”
She blushes, grinning. “I am a massive daddy’s girl.”
“You and Claire and Savannah. I feel bad for the Merrick dads.” I rattle the ice in my glass before draining my drink.
“Yeah. Our dads are pretty great. They give good advice.”
“Such as?”
She wrinkles her nose. “Never date a hockey player.”
I tip my head back and laugh, nodding in agreement with that nugget of wisdom. “Yeah, on that front, I’d bet your dad was relieved you were too lost in your books to pay attention to us on the ice, doing our best to impress you.”
She quirks an eyebrow. “You guys tried to impress me?”
“All the time!” I turn toward her, so I’m facing her straight on. Even in her heels, the top of her head barely comes up to my chin. She’s so petite, I could probably wrap my hands around her waist and my fingers would touch. It’s strange, but the observation makes me feel even more protective of Indy than I did when Austin left her in my care. “Don’t you remember those skating races we would have?”
She shakes her head, looking genuinely confused.
“Oh my God,” I moan. “I don’t know whether to be jealous that your fantasy fiction books were more interesting or impressed that you were that devoted to your reading and studies.”
She blushes again, biting the corner of her mouth. It’s sweet and tempting, contradicting gestures that make me want to wrap my arms around her for being so damn irresistible.
“Wait a minute.” I frown, remembering the only guy I’ve ever heard her speak about. “Didn’t you date a hockey player?”
Her blush deepens and a ripple of pain crosses her face, her lips pinching. While I mentally swear at myself for bringing up some douche who obviously hurt her, I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that my curiosity is piqued. What hockey player had a shot with Indiana and fucked it up for the rest of us?
“It didn’t work out,” she says softly, her fingers toying with the straw in her glass. She glances up at me, her eyes tender. “We were together for years and then he got drafted…” she trails off, shrugging. Even though I haven’t seen her in years, even though I don’t know her that well, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to realize he hurt her. And that whatever led to the demise of their relationship is a hell of a lot deeper than just him getting drafted.
I shuffle forward half a step, so close now that I can feel the heat of her body. My fingers run up the length of her arm and she tips her head back, meeting my gaze head-on. We’re both a little tipsy now but I won’t use that as an excuse. The truth is, my fingers itch to brush across her skin. I want to provide her even the smallest semblance of comfort, anything to make that look of dejection slide off her face.
“Who is he?” I growl, wondering if it’s a guy I know. Is it someone I consider a friend? Or a player I can’t fucking stand? The fact that I don’t know irritates me.
She shakes her head. “It was a long time ago. We were kids.”
I definitely know him. I wrack my brain, trying to guess, but come up blank. “What’s his name?”
She rolls her lips together, pinning them between her teeth. Her green eyes are bright, shimmering with flecks of gold. “Jace Edwards.”
I blanch, recalling the douchebag with perfect clarity. “From the Vancouver Eagles?”
She nods, her fingers twisting together in front of her waist, her empty drink placed back on the bar.
“He doesn’t fucking deserve you,” I bite out, not caring that I probably sound deranged. But Jace fucking Edwards? That dude cheats on every single woman I’ve ever seen him with. He’s a shit boyfriend and an even shittier player. He didn’t even start last season.
She winces. “You don’t even know what happened.”
I snort. I could guess what happened. He dipped his dick in another girl, or several girls, and one of them made sure Indy found out about it. Stupid guy is still playing the same dumb games with women, looking for some type of notoriety among his peers since he sure as hell can’t get it on the ice. “You want to tell me?”
She shakes her head, her lips pressing together in a thin line.
My hand curves around her elbow. “I know Jace.”
“I figured.”
“I don’t like him.”
�
�Sorted that one out too.”
“Your dad was right, Indy. Don’t date hockey players.”
She lifts her eyebrows, surprised. “Because you’re all the same?”
“No.” I shake my head. I haven’t been a saint these past six months but I’ve never stepped out on any woman I was seeing exclusively. Not once. “We’re not all the same. But you’re too good for all of us. Maybe even for all the men on the planet.”
She tips her head back and laughs, some of the sadness fading from her eyes. I can tell she thinks I’m messing with her but I’m dead serious. I don’t know a guy worthy of Indiana Merrick with her sweet expressions and quirky habits. The women who would rather read Harry Potter at the Stanley Cup Finals and study when her girl cousins were curling their hair for a night out. She’s in a league all her own, one far, far removed from the NHL.
“Shots!” My teammate Torsten knocks into me from behind, pushing me into Indy’s space.
My hands wrap around her waist to keep her from falling and I roll my back against the ledge of the bar, tucking her against my chest to keep her upright. She stumbles in her heels, a mixture of my knocking her off balance and the alcohol buzzing through both of our veins, causing us to falter. Once I find my footing, I hang onto Indy. I know I should drop my hands but she fits against my chest perfectly and it’s nice, to hold on to a woman I genuinely like.
“You guys are in.” Torsten snaps his fingers at us counting out how many shots to order.
“Oh no,” Indy protests, taking a step forward. “I don’t need one.”
My hands slide to my sides as I watch her try to convince Torsten that she’s not going to take a shot.
“You’re Indiana Merrick, aren’t you?” Torsten asks her, his gaze cutting from her to me and back again.
She nods, her brow furrowed as if wondering what that has to do with anything.
“Torsten Hansen.” He holds out a hand.
“From Norway,” Indy adds, shaking it.
Torsten grins. “So you’ve heard of me?”
“Saw that wicked slap shot against Chicago,” Indy admits, causing Torsten’s and my mouths to pop open.
“I thought you were too busy reading to watch hockey?” I place my hand in the small of her back, noting that Torsten catches the movement.
It’s wrong, because I’m not laying claim to Indy.
And yet, I’m laying some type of claim to Indy because no way in hell are any of my teammates touching her tonight. Or any night for that matter.
Torsten chuckles. “That was three seasons ago.”
“I still remember the highlights.” She waves a hand. “It’s good to meet you. You should rush the puck more. You’re really great at reading the ice and setting up the play. Don’t pass up on opportunities to create offensive play. Lean into them.” She gives him unsolicited advice and his mouth twists before a bark of laughter pours out.
He nods, agreeing with her observation. “Your dad tell you that?”
“Nah.” She shakes her head, grinning at him cheekily. “That’s all me.”
“I’m impressed, Indiana,” he says, flashing ten fingers to the bartender. “Patrón,” he calls to the guy lining up shot glasses.
“It’s just Indy,” she says.
“What?” He turns back toward her.
“You can call me Indy,” she repeats.
“Okay, Indy. Now that you’ve unmanned me by dissecting the weaker points of my game, you need to take a shot with me so I can somehow save face in front of this group.”
She chuckles, shifting from one foot to the other before nodding in agreement.
“Line ‘em up!” Torsten shouts, beckoning other guys from the team to step up to the bar.
When we’re a group of ten, with little Indy Merrick in the center of us bickering and snickering players, we hold up our shot glasses.
Torsten glances at Indy expectantly. “What are we cheers-ing to?”
A wave of panic flares in her features but in a blink, she pushes it down and replaces it with amusement. “To Torsten’s slap shot!”
The guys all laugh with Torsten cracking up. A few of the guys drop interested glances Indy’s way and I step even closer, making sure my body language signals that they need to back the hell up.
Indy, of course, is oblivious to all of this. Instead, she tosses back her shot and winces as the strong alcohol blazes down her throat.
Placing her shot glass back on the bar, she wipes the back of her hand across her mouth in a very unladylike gesture. I grin.
“That was awful,” she says accusatorially.
“That was awesome,” I say instead, enjoying tonight more than I have enjoyed any night in a long time.
5
Indy
Tequila shots. Vodka sodas. And it’s a beer that puts me over the edge.
I am drunk. Not wasted like Claire, but tipsier than I’ve been since Savannah’s bachelorette party three years ago. That night, I thought I was embarking on this exciting new path that was going to lead to an unbelievable, impactful job and a marriage proposal with my dream guy. Ha! I take another swig of beer.
Guys from Austin’s team—Noah, Torsten, and the goalie everyone calls Panda—sit around me, chatting and laughing. While being around hockey players is nothing new, tonight feels different.
These guys have already made it. While they admire my dad, they’re not talking me up for an autograph or a chance to meet him. All of them have met him dozens of times, worked hockey camps with him, and aren’t starstruck anymore. They’re also not tolerating me because I’m Austin’s cousin, a new transplant to Boston.
They’re genuinely interested in the words coming out of my mouth. The conversation is easygoing and effortless. I feel like one of the girls I always used to admire from afar, a girl like Claire or Vanny. One who could sit amidst a group of strong, successful, desirable men and be comfortable in their skin.
Buzzed on a mixture of alcohol and a heady sense of confidence, I’m having more fun than I have in years.
“You dated Jace Edwards?” Torsten asks next to me, his face contorting in disgust.
I giggle. Giggle! “He’s not that bad.”
“The fact that you have to say that means he’s even worse,” Torsten points out.
Tipping my head to the side, I nod, agreeing that his logic makes sense. Jace Edwards really does suck.
Him cheating on me devastated me. He broke my heart and dashed all the dreams I was conjuring up about our future. But that wasn’t the worst part. The worst part is the way he chipped at my confidence for years, always nagging that his career was the one that mattered, that his goals were more important than mine. He made an impressive case for why his future was so much brighter than anything I would accomplish, and at some point, I started to believe him. I began to make myself smaller so that he could feel bigger. By the time he publicly cheated on me with a girl that should grace the cover of a magazine, my self-confidence was shattered. I spent the past two years trying to make myself even more invisible and sticking to the only thing I’m good at: school.
The reminder makes my stomach twist and the club to spin around me, colors and sounds blurring together. I grip the underside of the bar to keep from sliding off the barstool and feel the heat of Noah’s body as he steps up behind me.
Torsten is chuckling at whatever Panda is saying so when Noah’s palm rests in the center of my back and he dips down, whispering, “You okay?” in my ear, no one notices.
Goosebumps travel over my skin as his breath skates over the shell of my ear. I turn my head until his lips nearly brush my cheek.
“Indy? You doing okay?” he repeats, his mouth so close to my skin that the wildly irrational thought of turning into his touch crosses my mind.
I nod, feeling Noah’s hand slide up my back, under the curtain of my hair, until his fingers are cradling my head. He turns my face to his, his eyes like two pools of black. They flicker with worry and flare with heat. Such cont
radicting emotions and yet, both send a thrill throughout my body.
“Are you ready to head out?” he asks, his fingertips brushing along my scalp, his hand traveling from my head to the side of my face, cupping my cheek. My eyes flutter closed, and this time, I can’t stop myself from leaning into his touch.
He swipes his thumb along my cheekbone and I force my eyes to open. “Okay,” I say.
A soft smile plays over his lips. “Okay, babe. Let’s say good night.”
Babe. It drops from his lips so casually, he must say it to hundreds of women. Thousands. But the look in his eyes when he said it to me was anything but casual and I latch onto that instead.
We say good night with Torsten kissing my cheek and Panda giving me a big hug. They both give Noah extra-long glances but he ignores them, focused on guiding me out of the roped-off section, down the winding staircase, and out the back entrance of Firefly.
“You called a car?” I ask, surprised that a driver is already waiting for us.
Noah shrugs. “I always keep a driver on standby for nights like these. Something is bound to go sideways.” He holds open the back door and ushers me inside.
I slide all the way across the bench even though I expect him to take the passenger seat. Surprise and excitement lick low in my stomach when Noah climbs in beside me and closes the door. With his too big frame folded up in the small space, our knees touch. I place my palm down in the space between our thighs, and as the driver pulls out of the parking lot, Noah’s large hand covers mine.
“You have fun tonight?” he asks, his gaze curious.
“I really did.” I’m grateful for the delicious buzz still swirling in my bloodstream because otherwise this—being alone and so close to Noah Scotch—would fill me with nerves instead of anticipation.
“Where to, Scotch?” the driver calls over his shoulder.
Noah looks at me. “What’s your address, Indy?”