A Secret for a Secret

by Hunting, Helena

  As usual he makes brief eye contact, then looks away as his face turns progressively redder. He jams his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels. “I can drive you home.”

  “You don’t need to go out of your way; I can grab an Uber.” I fit my laptop into my oversize purse.

  “I really don’t mind. Besides, Ubers aren’t always the best. I’m a very safe driver.”

  “I bet you are.” I shoulder my bag and head for the door, Kingston falling into step beside me.

  “So I can drive you?” he asks as we walk down the hall toward the arena parking lot. “Friends do that for each other, don’t they?”

  “I guess, yeah.” Two people who know each other intimately and try to avoid each other don’t exactly qualify as friends, but he seems to be insistent on this, so I guess it won’t hurt to let him drive me home this once.

  “Great. Then it’s settled. I’ll give you a ride.”

  I bite back a snicker at his inadvertent sexual innuendo.

  CHAPTER 8

  GIRL FRIEND

  Kingston

  I lead Queenie across the parking lot to my car. I’ve spent the past couple of weeks feeling like an idiot for following her home that first day. Every time I see her, I get tongue-tied and I remember things I shouldn’t. I figure offering her a ride home is a good way to smooth things over. I unlock my car and round the passenger side so I can open the door for her.

  I wipe my sweaty palm on my pants and hold it out.

  She looks at it questioningly.

  “I can help you up.”

  “Oh, uh, thanks?” It’s more question than response, as if maybe she’s surprised by the offer of assistance.

  She slips her fingers into my palm, which instantly causes goose bumps to travel up my arm. Heat shoots down my spine, and other, less appropriate parts of my body react in ways they should not to the brief contact as she climbs into my SUV. I wait until she’s settled before I round the hood of the Volvo, reminding my body that now is not the time to get excited.

  I repeat that mantra in my head as I settle into the driver’s seat, set my phone in the dash charger, check all the mirrors, and turn the engine over. I also lower the windows, because my car is filled with the scent of Queenie, and while I can certainly appreciate it, it also makes it difficult for me to think.

  I turn my blinker on and check both ways before I pull out of my spot and head for the arena exit.

  “I guess you don’t need me to tell you where I live, huh?” Queenie asks.

  Heat—the kind that comes from embarrassment—works its way up the back of my neck and settles into my cheeks. “I’m sorry I did that. I just didn’t know what else to do, and we needed to talk.”

  “I’m playing around with you, King. You don’t need to apologize.”

  “Right. Okay. I’m still sorry, though.” I turn the radio down so it’s not a deterrent to conversation before I signal out of the parking lot and drive toward Queenie’s house.

  “It’s really fine.” Queenie pops the button on her cardigan and shrugs out of it. She’s wearing a tank top under it. One with lace accents.

  “Should I put the air on? Is it too warm in here for you?” I sound like I’m doing a repeat of puberty and my voice is halfway to changing.

  “This is good.” She rolls her window all the way down and rests her arm on the edge. “Do you always drive like this?”

  “Like what?”

  She motions to my hands. “Like you’re taking a driving test.”

  “Nine and three are the safest places to hold the wheel. And in an accident, you’re less likely to break fingers if the airbag deploys.” Also, keeping both hands on the wheel means I don’t give in to the urge to tuck the pink strap of her bra back under her tank.

  “Good to know.” She glances at the speedometer. “Careful: you’re over the speed limit.”

  I glance down and notice that I’m driving five miles above the posted limit, so I take my foot off the gas and slow down until I’m back where I should be.

  “I was kidding.” Queenie crosses her legs and shifts in her seat so she’s turned toward me. “Have you ever had a speeding ticket?”

  “Never. I’m a very careful driver.”

  “I can see that.”

  The light we’re approaching turns yellow, so I slow down instead of risking it turning red while I’m in the intersection. A horn blares from the car behind me, and the alarm on my phone goes off.

  Queenie glances at the screen. “You have an alarm set for dinner?”

  “I have to eat frequent meals, so it helps if I set a reminder, particularly at the beginning of the season, or when we’re traveling. Otherwise it can interfere with my workout schedule, since exercise on a full stomach isn’t particularly effective.” I don’t generally touch my phone when driving, but since we’re stopped at a light, I silence the alarm.

  “That makes sense. You guys must get hungry often, considering how hard you all push yourselves,” Queenie replies.

  “I try to eat every two to three hours.”

  “Or for an hour straight,” she mutters.

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing.” Her cheeks flush pink to match mine. I’m pretty sure she just referenced our night together. “If you need to stop and grab something, go ahead.”

  “Are you hungry? We could grab something together.”

  “Uh, that’s nice of you to offer, but it’s probably not a good idea.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, that’s kind of like a date, isn’t it?”

  “Friends go for dinners, don’t they? Bishop and I go for food all the time.”

  “Yeah, but you haven’t ever wet humped Bishop, have you?” Queenie slaps her palm over her mouth. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that.”

  I grip the wheel tightly, trying not to let the memories surface. “I can take you home if that’s what you prefer.”

  “I’m sorry, Kingston, I didn’t mean to make this awkward. We can grab something to eat. As friends.”

  I glance over at her. “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah. I’m sure. It’ll probably help us get over all the awkward, right?”

  “Definitely.” Or at least it should. I hope. “How do you feel about a steak house?”

  “I feel good about it. How do you feel about it?”

  “Also good.” I signal left and switch lanes, slowing down so I can make the turn, then heading away from Queenie’s house and toward one of my favorite restaurants. It’s nice but also casual, so it should feel less like a date.

  Except they seat us in a cozy corner in the back of the restaurant, at a private table.

  Our server, who is a guy in his midtwenties, tucks Queenie into the table, which is what I should have done if he hadn’t gotten to it before me. “Can I get you something to drink? Would you like to look at the wine menu?”

  “Oh no, that’s okay,” Queenie says. “I’ll take a root beer, please.”

  “And for yourself?”

  “I’ll take a large milk. Two percent if you have it, please.” I wait until the server leaves before I turn my attention back to Queenie, who looks like she’s trying not to laugh. “What?” I swipe at my chin, worried I have something on my face.

  “Milk?”

  “I have a glass with every meal.”

  Queenie props her chin on her fist. “So did I as a kid; my dad insisted on it.” She’s grinning, and obviously poking fun at me. I’m used to it. The guys on the team like to razz me about it all the time.

  “I have a sensitive stomach. It helps coat it before a big meal. Also, it’s good for your bones; has lots of calcium, essential vitamins, and minerals; and is a good source of protein,” I explain.

  Queenie chuckles and bites her lip. “I’m just playing with you. I think it’s cute.”

  “Cute?”

  “Mmm, cute.” She ducks her head. “You’re an interesting guy, you know that?”

  “Bec
ause I drink milk with every meal?”

  She makes a general motion toward me. “Because you’re you.”

  “That’s not much of an explanation.”

  The server returns with Queenie’s root beer and my glass of milk. We order our meals, and I opt for chicken and pasta with a salad so I can cover all my food groups and everything is easily digestible. Queenie orders steak, truffle fries, and a garden salad. I have to remind myself that this isn’t a date, just two friends having dinner together.

  Once the server leaves us alone again, I prompt her to elaborate.

  “Well, you’re this famous hockey goalie, except you’re really low key about the whole thing.”

  “It’s my job, that’s all.”

  Queenie rolls her eyes. “Well, yeah, but you make seven figures a year, and a lot of your teammates are all about social media and showing off, but you’re just . . . not like that at all. Plus you have this incredibly wholesome image, from the milk with every meal, to the driving the speed limit all the time, to the whole khakis and polos deal. What’s that all about, by the way?”

  I run a hand over my chest. “Is there something wrong with khakis and polos?”

  “No, but other than a suit or goalie gear, it’s the only thing I see you wear.” Her gaze shifts to my chest and then back up.

  “Well it’s like semicasual, semiformal, isn’t it?” When she cocks her head to the side, I continue. “And jeans can be uncomfortable, but khakis are always soft, and you can always dress them up or down with shoes. If I’m going to a barbecue, I can throw on a pair of tennis shoes and it’s casual, but if I’m going for dinner, like tonight, I can dress them up with a pair of loafers or dress shoes.” I stick my foot out so she can see my black, polished shoes. “Plus, white shirts are easy to wash. I can always put a capful of bleach in the load, and I don’t have to worry about faded colors, or mixing colors.”

  “So it’s a convenience thing?”

  “Mostly, I guess. Once I accidentally put a red shirt in with my whites and everything turned pink, which I’m not opposed to, and I was in the middle of a breast cancer campaign for my cousin, so it wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, but you can see how the colors can be an issue.”

  “Okay, so let me get this straight. You drink milk because you have a sensitive stomach and it’s good for you.”

  “Correct,” I supply.

  “And you wear khakis because they’re convenient and white shirts because it’s easier than colors.”

  “Also correct.”

  “And you’re a famous goalie.”

  “I’m not famous.”

  “You are, at least in the hockey world, and it’s not something to feel bad about.” Queenie taps her lip. “How many long-term serious relationships have you had?”

  “What does that have to do with my wardrobe and sensitive stomach?”

  “Nothing. I’m just curious and trying to figure you out. Plus, I know what you’re like when you get naked, and it doesn’t match the milk-drinking, khaki-wearing Boy Scout.” She’s smirking, and her eyes glint with mischief and maybe some memories of that night.

  “That’s not really what I’m like.”

  “That’s not what you’re like, period, or that’s not what you’re like with anyone but me?”

  “That’s . . . I don’t . . . I’m not—” I stumble over my words, unsure how to respond, because I’m not sure the truth is something I should divulge if we’re supposed to be keeping this platonic.

  “Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked that.”

  “The alcohol made me less inhibited,” I blurt.

  “So, lowered inhibitions are to blame?” Based on her grin, I think she’s still poking fun at me.

  “Yes. No. I don’t know. I’ve only been drunk three times.”

  Queenie’s eyes flare. “Like, ever? In your entire life?”

  “Yeah. I had a bad experience as a teenager that I haven’t wanted to repeat ever again.”

  “Did you get trashed at some hockey party in high school or something?”

  “Uh, no. Let’s just say my older brother wasn’t a great influence.” And not much has changed since I was a teenager.

  “Still, sort of an extreme reaction, to never drink again.”

  “I drink, but usually only one, and never shots,” I explain. “What about you?”

  “I’ve made plenty of bad decisions while under the influence; unlike you, I don’t seem to learn from them.”

  “But you said you don’t usually go home with random strangers.”

  “Oh, I don’t. That was a first for me. And just so we’re clear, you were actually one of the best bad decisions I’ve ever had the misfortune of making.” Queenie winks.

  I focus on my glass, wishing this situation were less complicated, and that I’d taken her out on a date before we’d ended up in bed, naked, and then almost had sex. “I’m glad you feel that way. And I’m still sorry about . . . how overzealous I was.”

  “I happened to enjoy your overzealousness.” Queenie blows out a breath. “Anyway, let’s change the topic, since this one is probably going to get me into trouble. What’s your favorite thing to do when you’re not playing hockey?”

  “Trouble how?”

  “It’s probably not a good idea to stroll down that memory lane, you know? Especially since we’re working on the friend angle.”

  “Right. Good point. I like pretty much anything that’s a physical activity.”

  Queenie laughs. “Well, you’re good at physical activity, so that makes sense.”

  “What about you? What do you like to do when you’re not at work?”

  Queenie shrugs and focuses on cutting her steak. “I used to like to do arty things.”

  “Arty like what?”

  “Whatever I felt like, really.”

  “So you’re creative, then? How did you end up working as your dad’s assistant?”

  “The crafty stuff is a hobby. And I ended up working for my dad because his old assistant’s husband had a heart attack and needed surgery, and she decided to take early retirement. I was between jobs, so I offered to help him out until I can figure what the heck I want to do with my life.”

  “You mean career-wise?”

  Queenie points her fork at me. “Whoa, hold up, it’s my turn to ask a question.”

  “I didn’t realize we were taking turns.”

  “You get a question and then I get a question.” She pops the bite of rare beef into her mouth and chews thoughtfully for a few seconds. “What’s your favorite TV show?”

  “The Big Bang Theory.”

  Queenie snorts a laugh. “Why does that not surprise me in the least?”

  “My turn. What’s your dream job?”

  “For a while I wanted to be a therapist.”

  “But not anymore?”

  She wags a finger at me. “My turn.”

  “You didn’t even answer the question, though.”

  “Sure I did. I said I wanted to be a therapist.”

  “For a while, which implies past tense.”

  “It’s not a realistic goal, hence the whole dream-job thing. I’d ask what yours is, but I think you’re already doing it, aren’t you?”

  “I am. Why isn’t becoming a therapist a realistic goal?”

  “I don’t think I’d be good at helping people.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t have it together, so I can’t very well help anyone else if I don’t even have my own life sorted out.”

  “How can you say that? You have a job that you’re good at.”

  “I’m working for my dad. I don’t think it really counts.” She waves her fork around in the air. “Anyway, this was supposed to be like a fun twenty questions, and you’re making it all serious. What’s your favorite dessert?”

  “Vanilla anything.”

  She chuckles and shakes her head.

  “What’s wrong with vanilla?”

  “Nothing.”


  “Then why are you laughing at me?”

  “It’s just ironic, that’s all.”

  “What’s your favorite dessert?”

  “It depends on the day.”

  We end up ordering the chocolate lava cake with ice cream for dessert so I get my vanilla ice cream and Queenie gets her chocolate fix. And as much as I remind myself that this is a platonic thing, my body and my brain aren’t synced up. At all. Because all I can think of is how good Queenie’s mouth would taste if I kissed her right now.

  “I had a lot of fun tonight. Thanks for dinner,” Queenie says when I pull into her driveway.

  “It was my pleasure, and me, too, about having fun. Maybe we can do it again soon?”

  “Sure. I’d like that.”

  “Next time it could be a real date.”

  Her smile turns rueful and my stomach sinks. “I really like you, Kingston—”

  “It sounds like there’s a but coming.” I try to make it sound like a joke, but it falls flat.

  “You’re a great guy, and a lot of fun, but I can’t date you.” Now she looks apologetic. “Not because I don’t want to, but my dad only laid down one rule when I took the job as his assistant, and that was not to date any of the players.”

  “But maybe if we talked to him—”

  “He did me a huge favor by giving me this job. I lost my apartment because I couldn’t afford it, and between the night I met you and him giving me the job, I got canned at two other restaurants, which, honestly, isn’t a surprise, because I really, really suck at waiting tables. I don’t want to put him in a weird spot or disappoint him. I just . . . can’t. I’m sorry, Kingston, but we can still hang out if you want, as friends?” She chews her bottom lip, looking hopeful.

  “Sure, yeah. We can hang out as friends.” It’s honorable that she wants to abide by the rule Jake laid down, even if it’s inconvenient for me.

  “Thanks for understanding.” She leans over the center console and presses her lips to my cheek. I fight with myself not to turn my head. Thankfully my restraint wins out over my hormones.

  “Oops.” She makes a cringey face and rubs at my cheek, presumably because she left lipstick behind. “See you tomorrow, King. Drive safe.” She winks and then she’s out the door.