Chapter 12 #2
Fuck, this is just so typical of me. First guy I go home with in eons and he’s a gay, less hot Christian Grey.
I still haven’t moved, but Ryan has. He has both hands cupped around his eyes blocking the reflection as he peers into the back of the wagon.
Maybe I should make a break for it now while he’s distracted.
“Looking for something?” I ask instead, because I am a stupid nosy bitch.
“Just my rope.”
“Oh. Rope. Wow.”
Ryan straightens, his head turning like a possessed Chucky doll. “How do you feel about asphyxiation?”
McJesus dreams about skating as fast as I run. He would probably leave out the wailing, but who’s to say. All I hear is the thundering of my feet, my heavy panting, the cry of terror, and riotous laughter. “James, I was kidding. Stop running, you fucking idiot.”
It takes a few strides for his words to sink in, but when they do I come skidding to a halt, dropping onto my haunches. “Thank God. I’m so unfit.”
Still by his car, Ryan’s bent over too, he’s laughing though, not struggling to breath. “Anyone ever told you that you run like Kermit the Frog?”
Yes. Frequently. “No. I just run on the balls of my feet like a lot of autistic people do. I also have hyper-mobile joints. Flexibility is what made me a great goalie.”
“Ooohhhh, sexy. Maybe we should reconsider the harness.” Though I would like to head in the opposite direction and never stop, once I regain the ability to breathe I amble back over to the comedian I wish I never befriended.
As soon as I’m within reach, he pulls me in by the shirt and wraps his arms around me.
“Who’s the kid?” The first thing he says when he stops slapping my back.
“What kid?”
“The kid you kept looking at over my shoulder. The one that made your face contort whenever he touched the girl attached to his side. The kid that—” Fucking hell.
Shoving my palms onto Ryan’s chest, I push him away then fix my twisted shirt, then pants then hair.
Am I stalling? Absolutely. It fails. The second I look up.
“The kid with the glasses that looked like he wanted to stab me in the eyes with a tooth pic when you touched me.”
“He’s not a kid,” I say, feeling the tips of my ears burning. “He’ll be twenty-one soon.”
“Oh, you’re right. He’s practically geriatric.”
“See. And I wasn’t watching him. I was … monitoring. He’s on the team and I was just making sure he didn’t drink too much. We have an early practice tomorrow.” The last part is true. The start is not.
“Wasn’t aware a team physio’s role was to babysit. But I do know a way you can ease your mind.”
“One, I wasn’t babysitting, and two, how?”
Ryan tilts his head to the side then nods in the direction of something over my shoulder. “Why don’t you ask him? He’s been staring at us since we walked out, and oh, look, here he is now.”
Apparently my circulatory system is back up and running, heating my face as I turn. Like a man on a mission, Cory is advancing on us, that girl still hanging off him. The closer they come the more familiar she seems. Maybe she’s a BC student?
They’re within earshot now, Ryan appears delighted, me not so much. The kitchen arrhythmia I narrowly survived is regrouping, the rib crushing, heart adjacent spasms doubling me over.
“Not a fish. Not a fish. Not a fish.” I unfortunately repeat out loud.
“Breathe. James. Breathe. Not a fish.” Oh shit he’s so close, I need to do something.
“This is very inappropriate, Mr. Malkovich,” I holler, while for some reason standing on my tip toes, my voice three octaves higher. “You cannot accost me in this manner.”
BEEP BEEP. An ominous glow is emitted from the silver Prius to my right. Holy shit. Ryan is cackling, and again, I am not. “Oh my God. He’s parked next to us. This is so embarrassing for you.”
What I’m also not, is close enough to Cory’s car for him to rub against me the way he does while moving between the two cars. “Excuse me.” He smirks, his hand running over my hip and stomach, slowing now that we’re chest to chest. Should he be taller, or I shorter, we’d be eye to eye.
How unfortunate that would be. Side note, his hair smells like mint.
“Not a fish. Not a fish. Not a fish.”
Cory’s face shines brighter than the street lights, the stars, and the almost full moon above us. “Not a, what?”
“Not a Finn.” Suddenly at my side, Ryan knocks his shoulder into mine, pushing me closer to Cory. “I was asking if the surname Plum is Finnish. It’s not, apparently.”
“English,” I blurt. “Or north German. Not a Finnish … name.”
“Huh, ya don’t say. Malkovich is the Americanized version of the Slavic Matkovi?, but my family is from Ukraine.”
“Right, of course.” There is no need for me to extend this conversation, but I can’t seem to help myself. “And your friend?”
Confusion clouds those baby blues, until Cory glances over his shoulder to the blonde. “Oh, my friend,” he giggles, she doesn’t. “She’s Ukrainian-American, too.”
“Huh. Small world.”
“You know what they say, sexy things come in small packages.” He leans in, and I lean back to the point of almost toppling.
“And on big furry chests. Guess you’ll never find out, though.
” Observing me wobble, he pokes my pec, right where my tattoo lies.
“What’s wrong? Having trouble with your balance? ”
Cocky little fucker.
Before I can collect myself and reply, a grumble comes from the blonde behind him. “Good God, Cory. Can you please take me home now? I have to get out of these pants.”
“Sure thing … sweetheart.” He winks, then steps back which is both a relief and a crying shame. “See you round, Doc.”