Chapter 10
I've changed shirts twice.
Twice.
For a date with a girl who's already seen me sweaty, injured, and literally unable to walk. A girl who sat on my face and then gave up her entire placement just to avoid me.
And yet, here I am, standing outside her dorm with red roses, wondering if the black henley I chose is too casual.
“Should've worn the navy blue button-down,” I mutter before blowing out a breath and knocking on the door.
“Get together, Cross.” Another harsh whisper to myself as someone shuffles on the other side of the door. I take a step back just as it opens.
It's not Ally.
It’s Kinsey.
She leans her shoulder against the frame. With a Carolina Catfish jersey and shorts on, she takes me in, her brow raising.
“Oh, look who dressed up,” she says. “Didn’t peg you for a flowers guy.”
I hold the roses a little higher. “They’re for Ally.”
Kinsey’s grin goes wicked. Kinsey crosses her arms. “Relax, Cross. I know they’re for Ally. I’m engaged, not stupid.” Then she leans back and calls into the room. “Ally! Stick guy’s here! You can stop changing for the fourth time now!”
“I changed out of my work clothes. That's it!” Ally's voice comes from somewhere inside. “And don't call him that!”
“She's been ready for twenty minutes,” Kinsey whispers to me, clearly delighted. “But she kept second-guessing the dress. 'Is red too much? Does it look like I'm trying too hard? What if he thinks I'm desperate?'“
“Kinsey!”
“What? Considering you keep running away after he gives you world-class orgasms, he should know you put in effort. It's cute.”
“World-class orgasms?” I grin. “I think I like you, Kinsey.”
Ally pushes Kinsey aside. “Well, that makes one of us.” Her eyes narrow at her friend, but I don't care about that because all I see is her.
Fuck.
She's wearing a simple red dress that hugs her curves and stops mid-thigh, showing off legs I've definitely thought about way too often. Her hair is down, falling in soft waves past her shoulders, and she's wearing heels that make her almost tall enough to look me in the eye.
“Hart.” The word comes out rougher than I intended. “You look...”
“If you say 'good enough to eat,' I'm closing this door,” she warns.
Kinsey snorts. “Too late. Based on what she told me, you've already—”
“I hate you, Kins.”
“No, you don't. You love me.” Kinsey winks at me. “She really does look good in red, though. I told her it brings out her 'I want to murder you but also maybe make out with you' energy.”
“That's not a thing!”
“It's definitely a thing. You've been radiating it for two years,” I say with a chuckle. I hold the flowers out to her. “These are for you.”
Ally frowns. Her eyes go from the roses to me, back to the roses.
“…Seriously?”
“Yeah,” I say.
“Oh, uh,” she drawls out as she accepts the flowers. She gently brushes her fingers across the stems. “No one’s ever… brought me flowers before.”
“Aww,” Kinsey drawls out.
Ally shoots her a look. “Don’t start.”
“I’m not starting,” Kinsey says, hands up. “I’m just saying, it’s cute. My fiancé brings me baseballs and questionable things to launder. You get roses. We can all be happy in different ways.”
Ally’s cheeks go pink, which she tries to disguise with a headshake. “Well. Um.” She clears her throat. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” I say.
“Here, let me take those for you, Al.” Kinsey takes the flowers out of her hands. “I'll get these wet while Jay tries to match the energy.”
“Goodbye, Kinsey.” Ally grabs a leather jacket, her purse and practically shoves me back into the hallway, pulling the door shut behind her. Through the wood, I can hear Kinsey cackling.
“Have fun!” Kinsey yells. “And Ally—try not to sit on anything with a pulse this time!”
Ally closes her eyes and lets out a low, annoyed breath. “I'm going to kill her. I'm going to actually kill her.”
I grin, offering my hand. “For what it's worth, she has a point. Red looks so fucking good on you, Hart.”
She looks at my hand, then at me, and some of the mortification fades from her expression. “You think so?”
“I know so.” I thread my fingers through hers when she finally takes it. “Shall we get out of here before she decides to join us?”
“Sure.”
My car is parked right outside, and I open the door for Ally. “Such a gentleman,” she deadpans, sliding in carefully so her dress doesn't ride up. I try not to stare at her legs.
Obviously, I fail. Can't help it. I remember what they felt like wrapped around my head and I want more.
“I have my moments.”
I round the car and climb into the driver's seat, stealing another glance at her. So fucking perfect. Even when she's trying to hide the fact that she's enjoying my company.
We pull away from campus, and I watch her from the corner of my eye as she relaxes into the seat. The evening light catches the red fabric, making it glow, and I have to force myself to focus on the road instead of imagining peeling that dress off her later.
Focus, Cross. Don't be a creep.
Then she notices where we're heading.
“Jay.” She sits up straighter, and I can already hear the concern creeping into her voice. “Are we going to an ice rink?”
“Perceptive.”
She turns to stare at me with an expression that's equal parts horrified and furious—which is impressive given how good she looks in that dress. “You're taking me ice skating? On your leg? The leg that you nearly destroyed because you're a reckless idiot who doesn't listen to medical advice?”
“Wow. Tell me how you really feel.”
“I feel like you're about to undo weeks of recovery because you wanted to impress me with your skating skills!” Her voice is rising, and it shouldn't be adorable, but it is.
“Do you have any idea how much damage you could do?
One wrong move and you're looking at surgery, Jay. Actual surgery. And then what? Your contract with the Leviathans—”
“Ally.” I reach over and squeeze her knee, and we both freeze for a second at the contact. I force myself to focus. “Relax.”
“Don't tell me to relax when you're about to—”
“I'm not skating.”
She blinks. “What?”
“I'm not skating,” I repeat, trying not to smile at how worked up she got.
The fact that she cares this much about my leg—about me—makes my chest ache in the best way.
“I need a break after last night's win. Plus—” I wink at her.
“I need my thigh taped again before I try anything strenuous. Figured I'd ask my favorite therapist.”
“I'm not your therapist anymore.”
“Exactly. Which means there's no ethical issues if you want to get your hands on me.”
“You're insufferable.”
“You like it.”
She doesn't respond, but her cheeks are flushed again—though whether that's from my comment or the fact that my hand is still on her knee, I can't tell. I reluctantly move it back to the steering wheel.
I pull into the rink parking lot, which is busier than usual for a weekday evening. Ally frowns at the cars as I park.
“What's going on here?”
“You'll see.” I'm already out of the car, rounding to her side to open the door. “Come on.”
She takes my hand as she steps out, and I get another look at that red dress in the parking lot lights. I think my legs are even weaker now.
“You're staring,” she says.
“You wore a red dress. I'm allowed to stare.”
“You're not allowed to do anything.”
“We'll see about that.”
The inside of the rink is cold and loud—the familiar sounds of skates on ice, sticks hitting pucks, parents cheering from the stands. Ally shivers slightly in her dress and jacket, so I shrug off mine without thinking, draping it over her shoulders.
She looks up at me, surprised.
“What? You're cold.”
“I didn't say anything.”
“You were going to.”
“I was going to say thank you, actually.”
“Oh.” I grin. “Well, you're welcome.”
When we're inside the rink, there's a bantam league game in progress. Kids in green and blue jerseys are skating their hearts out, while parents cheer from the stands.
“Jay...” Ally starts, clearly confused, pulling my jacket tighter around her shoulders. It swallows her, and something about seeing her in my clothes makes my chest tight.
I guide her toward the stands, my hand settling on the small of her back. “Just watch.”
We climb up a few rows and find seats with a clear view of the ice. The game is in full swing. It's a little sloppy compared to college hockey, but with that raw enthusiasm that reminds me why I fell in love with this sport in the first place.
“Okay, I give up.” She turns to me with narrowed eyes. “Why are we watching peewee hockey? And why am I wearing a dress to do it?”
“It's not peewee. It's bantam, and you're wearing that dress because you look incredible in it.” I nod toward the ice, scanning until I find him.
Number seventeen in green, dark hair visible under his helmet, skating with the kind of reckless confidence that's definitely genetic.
“We're watching because that's my little brother.”
Her head whips toward the game. “You have a brother?”
“Owen. He's fifteen.” I watch him chase down a loose puck, and pride emanates from my chest. “He's been playing since he was four. Kid's got more natural talent than I ever did.”
As if to prove my point, Owen intercepts a pass and takes off down the ice, weaving through defenders with surprising agility. His footwork is clean, his positioning perfect. He winds up for a shot—
It goes wide, hitting the post with a clang.
I groan. “He always shoots too early. I've told him a thousand times that he needs to wait for the goalie to commit.”
“Sounds like someone else I know.”
I shoot her a look. “I don't shoot too early.”
“You pushed yourself too early. Same principle.”
“Okay, Doc. Point taken.”
On the ice, Owen recovers, chasing down the rebound with the kind of determination I recognize. He doesn't give up. Never has. Even when he was five and could barely stay upright, he'd fall down and get right back up, over and over, until he got it right.
“Does he know you're here?” Ally asks, pulling my jacket tighter around herself.