3. His Stick Skills
HIS STICK SKILLS
REMY
Do I need a ride?
Such a simple, practical question. The same one my friends asked when they texted post-Jumbotron Dump. Did I need a place to crash, someone to hang out with, burn effigies with, binge noodles with—anything?
I couldn’t face them, so I said I was fine.
I can’t seem to admit to anyone that tonight is all my fault.
That I should have done a lot of things differently after I found that jewelry box.
It’s extra embarrassing since I’m building a burgeoning career as a romance designer-slash-dating coach where I plan swoony romantic moments starring you and your beloved, not catastrophes starring me.
A fresh wave of tears pricks the backs of my eyes as I consider the offer from Lake. Jameson picked me up. Jameson drove me over here. Jameson didn’t even ask how I was getting home after he popped the will you still be friends with me question.
Yes, I definitely need a ride, but I don’t want to inconvenience my friend’s brother, let alone a high-profile player on the team I work for. “Thank you for the offer. I’ll just grab a Lyft.”
His ice-blue eyes are no longer cold, but fiery, forged with determination. “Let me drive you.”
I shake my head. “You really don’t have to.” He must have a hero complex.
A clatter from down the hall draws my attention. A reminder we’re not alone.
Andre, the equipment manager, lugs some sticks and shoulder pads into the equipment room. He’s a middle-aged gentleman with deep brown skin, the lines around his mouth creased from decades of smiles. I give him a wave, and he waves back.
One of the centers exits the locker room, checking his watch as he leaves. Like he’s looking out for my privacy, Lake reaches for my elbow and guides me a few feet away, around the corner. My elbow is warm from his touch, and when he lets go, I miss the heat.
“Look,” he says, “I know you can get a Lyft, but I don’t want you going outside, waiting for a ride in front of everyone, with people asking you questions. You shouldn’t have to deal with that right now.”
I can picture the scene. It sounds so awful, my throat tightens. “Clementine would probably kill you if you didn’t drive me.”
He scoffs. “That’s not why I’m offering. No—make that insisting.”
I guess it wouldn’t be asking too much…and he does seem to be pretty determined. “I need to go put these stuffies in a storage room for tomorrow’s pickup. Can I have ten minutes?”
Lake gestures to his athletic shirt, his gym shorts, his slides. His dark, messy, still-sweaty hair hits his jawline, giving him a broody rock star vibe. “Good. I need time to shower.”
Oh. Right. Of course. “Yes, shower. A shower’s good.”
His full lips quirk up the slightest bit. “A shower is very, very good.”
“It is,” I say, distracted in a way I didn’t see coming.
The hockey star points to the stairwell door about twenty feet away. “I’ll be waiting for you in ten. Right here.”
“You can shower and get dressed in ten minutes?”
He laughs once. “I can.”
“I’ll be here. After your very good shower,” I quip, mostly so he knows I’m not a total emotional wreck.
Even though I absolutely am.
“See you soon,” he says, then waits for me to walk away first.
It’s like having a bodyguard in the form of your friend’s grumpy, strapping pro-athlete brother.
I push the cart of stuffies down the hall, still incognito-ish in the hoodie from my cubicle and the hat I grabbed from the swag shelf in the hope no one would notice me.
But Lake did, and he wants to help.
A hockey player I work with is kinder to me than the guy I’d thought wanted to marry me.
It’s official—I have the world’s worst romantic instincts.