13. Bridgette
Bridgette
W hen I walk out of the salon at the end of my shift, I find a devastatingly handsome man waiting for me.
He’s leaning up against his car, his stance relaxed and casual, though his face is anything but.
Dutton’s resting bitch face really is textbook, and even though I know what a softie he can be, it’s clear by the set of his jaw that something is bothering him.
“Thanks for coming to get me,” I tell him, happily surrendering to the hug he offers.
“I could have walked to my place, or even over to yours, though. You didn’t have to drive down here.
” I really do like the walk because it always gives me a chance to unwind after a long day.
I love being a stylist, and I love my business classes, but sometimes, by the time I’m ready to head home, my head is swimming and I need to recharge.
Walking back to my dorm is a good way to clear my head, but I suspect Dutton has other methods that will do the trick, too.
He shakes his head, waving off my protests. “This way I get to see you sooner. Besides, I thought we could drive over to this place in Murraystown. I hear they’ve got good milkshakes.”
I find myself smiling, which is something I do a lot around Dutton James. “Milkshakes, huh? Do they come with whipped cream?”
He mutters something to himself as he unlocks his car doors, then turns back to me. “Hell, yes, they do. I’m a changed man. You got me hooked on the stuff and now I need a fix.”
Laughing, I take a seat in his car and buckle myself in while he closes my door and rounds the hood before taking the seat next to me.
“I’m so glad you’ve seen the light. And if the only way to satisfy you is to get some whipped cream into your system, then who am I to stand in your way?
Let’s go to Murraystown, wherever that is. ”
Instead of turning the ignition or typing the location into his GPS, though, he just grips the steering wheel.
“Is everything okay?” I ask. We’ve only been together for a week, so I don’t know him all that well yet, but anyone could see he’s tense, but trying his damnedest to push past it.
“Yeah,” he says, clearing his throat. “Everything’s great. I actually have a funny story to tell you.”
“Really?” I ask, totally failing to keep the skepticism out of my voice.
“Yes, really. It’s hilarious. You’re going to laugh so hard.”
His monotone delivery does little to convince me to believe his words are true. “Okay…” I say, drawing out the word like I’m handing him a cue and waiting for him to take it.
“Don’t look so shocked,” he says, offering me half a smile. Well, it’s half a grimace, really, but I’ve spent enough time with him to know this is his joyful look.
“You’re not exactly known for your stand-up routine, so I’m a little leery,” I admit, setting my bag near my feet on the floorboard.
The car’s not even on yet, much less moving, and that’s another sign that something’s up.
From what I observed in the last week, when Dutton James wants something, he goes after it with everything he has.
So if he’s set his mind on a milkshake—and an evening with me—it makes no sense that we haven’t left the parking spot yet.
“Fair,” he agrees, turning to face me. “But no, this is wild. Seriously. You are gonna laugh so hard. So, you know how we said goodbye at the library earlier today? Well, my buddy was there waiting for me. My best friend.”
“Okay,” I say, even though nothing is okay because I have no clue where this hilarious story is going.
“And he recognized you. How crazy is that?” Dutton asks, the words sounding forced.
“He knows me from the salon?” I ask. Since I’m the new girl, I don’t have much of a client list built up yet, so I take a lot of walk-ins. It’s entirely possible that I cut his buddy’s hair at some point over the last few days.
He clears his throat again, sounding unsure. “No…uh…okay, let me try again. So…I think I know your brother.”
“Bran?” I ask, even though it’s a dumb question. Unless Dutton’s student-teaching a fourth grade class in New Jersey right now, in addition to earning his business degree, there’s no way he knows my little brother, Brody.
“Yep,” he answers, his mouth tight as he drums his fingers on the dashboard.
I shouldn’t be surprised. “Everybody knows Bran,” I explain. “He plays hockey for the school. And he’s like, the friendliest guy ever. How’d you meet?”
“Hockey,” he answers, still drumming along to a silent beat.
“You’re a fan?” I ask, feeling like I’m dragging each answer from his brain.
He nods, staring out the dashboard. “Yep. Big fan. My favorite team is the Bushtits from Woodcock U.”
I can practically feel my eyebrows recede into my hairline.
Is he trying to get me riled up? “Boooo,” I jeer.
“We hate them. Seriously. There are some guys on that team my brother despises. Well, they actually transferred, I think, so now they play for Bain—” I stop midsentence because pieces of a puzzle I wasn’t even aware of are starting to fall into place.
I’m looking right at them, how their curved edges align perfectly, but I don’t want to move them into position.
I don’t want to solve this puzzle. “No,” I say, letting that one useless little protest fall out of my mouth and float around us.
“Yep,” he says, still nodding.
“No,” I counter, and even though I know it’s futile, the hamster on the wheel in my brain is running furiously, trying to find a way for all of this to make sense.
“You can’t be. I know their names. I’ve even seen them play and trash-talked them the whole time. They’re Blue Halliday and Dick Wagner.”
“Dick Wagner?” he questions, the barest trace of amusement stealing across the features of his otherwise somber face.
“Well, Bran says Dickhead, but I think Dick is nicer. But that can’t be you. Your name is Dutton James.”
Instead of agreeing with me, or laughing riotously like this is all some crazy prank he concocted, he shakes his head and holds out his hand.
“Dutton James Wagner. Nice to meet you, Bridgette Mikalski.” His words hang in the air, just like his open palm does.
I make no move to shake it because, for one thing, I’m in a state of total shock right now.
And for another, I don’t want to shake his hand.
I don’t want to be his friend. I wanted so much more than that, but clearly, anything I thought I had with Dutton James is over.
Just as that awful thought is taking hold in my brain, I feel the warmth of his hand as it caresses my cheek.
His thumb is soft and gentle as it brushes a tear from my face.
I had no idea the waterworks were running, but I’m not surprised.
We’ve known each other for such a short time, but the feelings I have for him are already powerful.
I’m still holding onto a shred of hope that this conversation isn’t really happening, that it was such a long day that I dozed off as soon as my ass sank into the plush leather seats of his SUV, that this is all just a crazy dream.
It’s silly, but I have to ask him one more time.
“You’re really my brother’s teammate? The guy who drives him batshit crazy? ”
Dutton cracks half a smile. “I could say that he’s already batshit crazy, but then I’d be living up to the nickname he gave me. And I’d be pissing you off, which is not something I’m ever inclined to do. So, I’ll just say yes. I’m the team’s new center, and Blue’s the newest D-man.”
“How is that possible?” I ask as my muddled brain tries to figure this out..
“You’ve seen me play. You’ve even booed me, apparently.
Surely you know how it’s possible for me to play hockey?
And if you’re asking how we got late transfers without any penalty, well, that’s a longer story.
The basic gist of it is that my old coaches were involved in some shady shit, including hazing rituals.
They were suspended, but the few of us who weren’t involved were allowed to transfer and play for new teams.”
I nod, because I vaguely remember Bran talking about that mess, but that’s not what I mean.
“How is it possible that we’ve spent so much time together, but you never mentioned hockey.
I’ve been around hockey players my whole life.
They never shut up about their sport or their teammates or their workouts.
The guys who drive the Zamboni probably use their proximity to the team to land dates with girls, and you’re the freaking starting center and you never dropped a hint, not even once.
” That probably bothers me more than it should.
Was he hiding it from me? And what’s the point of that?
Dutton doesn’t seem like a manipulator or like the kind of guy who’d withhold information, but I really don’t know him all that well.
Maybe Bran has been right about him this whole time, and that hurts more than it should.
Brushing his free hand along his jaw and letting his blue eyes fix on my green ones.
“Maybe we skipped over some of the basics just to leap ahead and get to the really good parts,” he says.
“And when we did talk, my mind was never on hockey. Part of the reason for that is that at Woodcock, I got a fair amount of female attention, but believe it or not, that wasn’t because of my sparkling personality.
Maybe I really do sound like an asshole now, but it felt good when you liked me just for myself, not for all the perks of being with a hockey player.
That’s why I gave you my first and middle names.
It’s just a habit I got into after a messy breakup.
My practical side takes over, forcing me to pull away from him and reach for my bag. “My brother is going to lose his mind. If he finds out that you and I?—”
“He might go apeshit,” Dutton concedes, reaching his hand out to still my movement. “But he’ll get over it.”
“No, he won’t,” I insist.