The Prospect (Crawfield Football Club #3)

12. H A Z E L

TWELVE

H A Z E L

“I don’t, uh—usually dress like this, by the way...” I lie through my teeth as Hart focuses on the road ahead, only my comment alone is enough to make him peel his eyes away from the pavement and scan me up and down.

It’s a burning feeling. One that, despite wearing a baggy black tee and even baggier long pants, still omits a full smile on his face, especially as he says, “Doesn’t matter to me what you wear, love. You look beautiful .”

He has this effect on me, forcing me to blush with every syllable that leaves his lips.

I won’t lie, I don’t mind.

Even before he called, my Wednesday night was already revolving around Hart as I tucked myself away into the art hall to finalize my romantic gesture.

Now, with it secured safely inside my bag, here I am, in his car, on a date, headed toward a destination he has insisted must be kept a secret.

Thank gosh I was nearly finished.

“You’re sweet, but I would’ve dressed a bit nicer had I known we were going to go out.” I nervously run my hands through a few stray strands of hair. “You see, I was just at the art hall finishing up something, that’s why this shirt has so much paint on it, and if I’m being honest, Hart, I’m kind of embarrassed…”

Hart cuts my senseless rambling short and reaches for one of the many damp paint brushes that poke out of my bag. After I saw his text inviting me out, I didn’t have much time to clean them off, meaning that in my frantic state, I broke the number one rule of an artist.

Always. Clean. Your. Brushes.

“Hey, what are you?—”

Before I can waste so much as another breath, Hart uses the stark-white canvas of his T-shirt to dry off the brush, soiling it in an instant with the colors blue and yellow.

“Hart!” I scream out, yet my voice comes out as a laugh as I snatch the brush back. “Why would you do that?” I can’t stop giggling at the complete mess he’s made. “Now you’ve ruined your shirt too!”

“So?” He shrugs, a sly smirk cascading along his rosy pink lips. “You were all worried about being covered in paint, so guess what? Now I am too. We’re even. There’s nothing to be embarrassed about now, is there, love?”

I swallow deeply at the stupidly romantic gesture, one that magically washes away my insecurities as I fall victim to Hart’s longing face. Before I know it, we pull up toward an unfamiliar storefront and shift the gear into park.

“We’re here,” he tells me, unbuckling his seat belt.

I attempt to peer down through the windshield to take in a good look at our destination, but before I can, Hart steps out of the car and walks over to my side to help me out.

“C’mon, pretty girl,” he calls me.

My heart flutters.

“I’ve got something I want to show you...”

Intertwining our grasp as one, I rise to my feet and close my door. Hart's skin is rough on his calloused hand, yet his touch is soft—tender— careful .

Once I steady myself, I expect him to let go of my hand, but he doesn’t. Instead, Hart wraps his completely over the top of mine and squeezes down gently as he guides the way.

With the long strides of his legs, I trail behind in his shadow. There’s about a foot height difference between us, it’s intimidating yet somehow, comforting at the same time.

“You alright, Hazel?” Hart peers back at me over his shoulder, slowing down his pace so that I can catch up.

I hastily nod my head and step in close. “Mhm,” I tell him. “I’m okay. Why? Do I not look okay?”

“You look fine, it’s just…you’re so quiet, love.” He pinches along my cheek. “You’ve barely muttered a peep since I picked you up. Has anyone ever told you that you’re as quiet as a mouse?”

“I’ve actually been told the complete opposite.” I laugh, prompting him to raise a brow.

“By who?”

“Green,” I tell him and suddenly, hearing his name as it escapes my lips forces my stomach to drop.

Shoot.

I haven’t messaged him today, and today was the day he said he would tackle his step two with Amira.

Is he with her?

Are they out?

Did she like her flowers?

What did he end up choosing?

“Well do you wanna know what Green told me about you?” Hart’s voice, along with his unwavering touch, brings both my mind and body to a stop, and suddenly, I can no longer think about Green and Amira’s date. All I think about is how entranced I am by mine.

I smile up at Hart. “Enlighten me.”

“Well, when I asked Green about you, he told me that Hazel Collins only has two loves of her life—art and romance. Is that true?” he asks.

The low hum in his voice sends shivers down my spine and weakens my knees as he steps in closer.

“It is,” I tell him, despite knowing there’s a third love. There’s always been a third.

I brush away the thought.

“But what’s your point?” I can’t help but wonder teasingly. “What exactly are you trying to get at here, Hart?”

“I don’t know.” Dimples form behind the stubble of Hart’s cheeks as he steps aside and swings open a door. “How about you tell me, Hazel? What does this place remind you of?”

With his wide frame no longer blocking the view, the scene in front of me becomes clear as day. Somehow, someway, Hart has managed to combine two of my favorite things in one.

The storefront ahead is that of a do-it-yourself pottery shop, where individual work stations are perfectly lined up in order to allow customers to create whatever their heart …desires.

On its own, it may seem like a perfect first date spot, but to me, I see it as so much more. I know what Hart’s trying to allude to here. What comparison to romance he’s trying to make…

“You’ve seen Ghost ?” I’m left dumbstruck as I swing my head back over at Hart, reminded of one of the most romantic scenes in cinematic history, shared between Patrick Swayze and Demi Moore. A 90s classic.

“Maybe once or twice.” Hart winks, sliding off his dark leather jacket in the process and hanging it up on the coat rack to his right. “But don’t tell anyone, okay, Hazel?” He leans down, his breath warming against my cheek as he slides off my jacket next. “You know I have a macho-man ego to uphold around here.”

Macho man ego. Ha! Hart is nothing more than an oversized teddy bear, but from the outside, you’d never be able to tell, but being this close to him, I know it to be true.

For a moment I debate whether or not to mockfully roll my eyes, squirm beneath myself or completely fall apart in his gaze at his remark. I can’t bring myself to do any. Somehow, before I can even rationalize it, I’m pushing playfully against his chest— his firm chest —his chest that remains underneath my grasp until I’m commanded to pull back and redivert my attention toward a staff member who eagerly paces their way toward us.

“Welcome to Polly’s Pottery!” the lady cheers out enthusiastically. “I’m Polly, of course .” She points to her name tag before wiping some clay residue against her apron. “And you are…?”

“Christopher Hart,” Hart answers for the two of us before he places a strong hand on the low of my back, pulling me into his side. “And this is Hazel Collins. I called in earlier today to reserve two workstations for about an hour or so,” he explains. “I believe it was you that I spoke to, Polly.” He charms her with a flash of his radiant smile.

Polly lights up, seemingly recognizing their earlier conversation. “Ah, it was me indeed! You’re the Crawfield player, isn’t that right?”

“Sure am.” Hart nods proudly.

As he should.

The Crawfield reputation follows every player wherever they go and I’d be lying if I don’t reap some of the benefits through Green from time to time.

“Come right this way, Mr. Football,” Polly playfully calls him, gesturing for us both to follow. “I’ve got two workstations set up right over here for you and your date.”

Your date.

I knew Hart and I were on one, but hearing it said out loud by another somehow made everything feel suddenly real. I brush my anxious thoughts aside, focusing on another, more pressing one instead.

“You called ahead and reserved this for us?” Hart continues to prove to me that he’s full of surprises. “ Really ?”

“Of course, Hazel.” He peers deep into my eyes as if it was never even a question. “I couldn’t have run the risk of taking you here and not having a workstation available, could I, love?”

He shrugs as if it were nothing, but the truth is that the gesture alone proves to me there's a tender side to Hart. One that reminds me he’s a thinker, a planner, someone who always takes care of the people he’s with.

I guess we do have more in common than I’d realized.

Damn, Chelsie.

“Both of you, please, take a seat.” Polly gestures for us to sit once we reach our workstations.

I nod, releasing myself from underneath Hart’s embrace as I sink into the cool leather chair. He does the same.

“Now, before you both begin, let me give you the rundown on everything around here.” Polly rolls her way over to us on a small stool. “This is your clay, and this is your pottery wheel.” She gestures toward the two items laid out ahead of us. “Now, once it’s on…” She flicks on both of our machines simultaneously, prompting them to spin. “You’re going to want to place your clay on top. It’s soft, so it’s completely malleable within your grasp. The key here is to always make sure that you’re?—”

“Keeping it damp,” I subconsciously finish her sentence for her, immediately using my hand to cover my mouth thereafter to not only shut myself up but to hide away from this embarrassment.

“That’s exactly right, Hazel.” Polly isn’t fazed in the slightest. Instead, she’s beaming ear to ear. “Have you done this before?” she asks me eagerly, staring me down with intent.

“Well, uh…” I peer over at Hart, a sense of interest now in his eyes as he furrows his brows. “Yes, I uh—actually have.” I blush. “I’m an art major and in my first term at uni, I took a pottery class as one of my electives.”

“Well then, isn’t that just amazing?” Polly stands up gladly from her chair, placing her hands on her hips. “I absolutely love it when we have people come into the shop that are familiar with the equipment, it saves me from going through the whole spiel.”

I shake my head, sensing where she’s going with this. “No, no, no. I don’t mind the spiel,” I tell her. “The spiel is good for me.”

“Nonsense.” Polly shrugs me off with a wave of her hand. “I bet you’re a natural. Now, if you don’t mind, I have a party coming in soon that I need to set up for. So I’ll leave you both to it, give me a shout if you need anything. Have fun!”

“Wait…no…” My voice is so quiet that Polly doesn’t hear me as she rushes out of view, leaving both Hart and I to fend for ourselves.

Shit.

“Way to go, Hazel,” Hart remarks. “You just scared off our instructor.”

I know he’s joking given the way he’s laughing, but still, I can’t help but feel remorseful.

“I…I’m sorry.” A sense of panic kicks in. “I didn’t realize by saying that she’d just…leave! I’ll go get her.” I stand up from my chair, ready to do some damage control. “I’ll get her to show us how?—”

Before I can take a step forward, Hart gently clutches a hold of my wrist and brings me to a stop.

For a minute, I psychoanalyze the intentions of his touch, though I don’t need to. Hart shows not an ounce of resistance when it comes to telling me exactly what his grasp means, and when he does, I just about melt.

“I think I’d much prefer you to teach me instead.”

Forty-five minutes later, I’ve shown Hart at least a dozen times what he needs to do, but still, he doesn’t seem to be grasping it.

His clunky hands are covered in more clay than what's on the pottery lathe, yet his narrowed stare and intentful bite of his bottom lip tell me he’s so concentrated on perfecting his creation, he’s failed to realize just how dry the clay is.

It’s hilarious and adorable at the same time.

“You like?” Hart cockily smirks up at me, forcing me to shy away from his stare. I can’t tell if his question is a referral to himself or the creation beneath his grasp. Either way the answer is yes. One hundred percent yes.

I nod softly. “I do, but…” I dissect his clay, trying my best to come to some conclusion on what the heck it is that he’s been working so hard at. “What uh—” A snicker falls from my lips. “Is it?”

He leans back into his stool before he places a hand on either hip. “What’s so funny?” he mocks, playfully pretending to be offended. “Are you making fun of my masterpiece over there, Hazel?”

Masterpiece.

I’m practically compelled to burst into laughter from just the use of the word, yet brush it off. “No, of course not, Hart. I’m laughing because I genuinely can’t believe just how good you are at this,” I lie, having way too much fun playing along with this whole facade. “Your masterpiece is beautiful, Hart,” I compliment. “What is it?” I try yet again to hold out on the giggles, but I prove to be unsuccessful as I sputter out, “A rock?”

This time Hart chews on the inside of his cheek, smiling wide as he shakes his head and lifts it into the air. “You say a rock, but hey, maybe it’s a stone? Or a lump of coal? What do they call it in the art world… abstract ?”

My eyes light up.

He knows what abstract is?

“Don’t look so surprised, Hazel.” Hart abandons his workstation and rolls his way over to mine. “I mean, I knew what Ghost was, didn’t I?”

I gulp as he settles himself only a few inches away from me—a sense of comfort creeping in.

“That you did,” I whisper, trying my best to maintain conversation, but using my vase before me as a way to distract myself from looking at him directly. It’s so easy to lose my train of thought when I look into his eyes. “But did you know that Ghost just so happens to be one of my favorites of all time?”

“It is?” Hart tilts his head in interest. “Really?”

Reluctantly, I nod. “It was one of the main reasons why I actually took that pottery class in my first term at uni. I thought that scene between Demi Moore and Patrick Swayze was so romantic that maybe…” I lose confidence in what I was just about to say and disband the sentence altogether.

“Maybe what?” Hart’s quick to jump in, urging me to keep going. “C’mon, don’t leave me in suspense. Maybe what, Hazel?”

I sigh.“That maybe what happened in the movie would, uh—happen to me?” I can feel the red as it rushes to my cheeks. “It was stupid. I was naive to think that would happen…”

“You’re not naive, nor are you stupid, Hazel. In fact…” Hart scoots in close, working his way behind me as the remainder of his sentence gets hummed into my ear. “I actually think it’s kind of sweet.”

I grow breathless in the best way possible as Hart’s hands slowly trickle their way down my wrists and intertwine within my own. “You do?”

He nods his head. “I do.” His voice is light despite the sheer weight of his touch. “Now…” He brushes some hair behind my ear. “Do me the honor of recreating the scene with me, Hazel? Unless of course, you no longer think it’s romantic…”

I nervously peer over my shoulder, my throat dry, my heart racing, yet my lips tight as I suppress an aching smile.

“It will never not be romantic.”

And with my single remark, before I know it, just like Demi Moore in the movie, I lean back against Hart's chest, dampen his hands one by one, and guide them toward my vase ahead.

“Am I doing okay?” Hart asks, his fingertips gliding over top of the clay softly.

“Mhm,” I hum, continuing to guide his strong hands the exact way they need to go. If I go up, he goes up. If I go down, he goes down, and after a few minutes, when his hand falls beneath my chin, tilting my face upward to lean in, I follow his lead, bracing for a kiss when?—

“Alright, everyone!” Polly’s loud voice shouts, bringing not only Hart and I to a stand-still, but the entire storefront too. “Your time is up! Please finish what you’re doing and meet me by the kiln. It’s time to solidify your creations.”

I blink rapidly a couple of times to come back down to reality, all the while pulling back from Hart with some resistance and looming thoughts.

“Guess I, uh—better get my rock,” Hart jokes, wiping a smudge of clay away from my chin and planting a kiss on my cheek. “Join me, pretty girl?” He extends his hand out, towering over top of me.

It’s an unbeknownst sight.

I smile, embracing his touch and leaning in.

“Don’t mind if I do.”