Chapter 13 #2
“You’re awesome, you know that?” His hand slides down and squeezes my rear. “Did I tell you one of the reporters—a good one, reliable guy—says there’ll be a couple of NHL scouts and maybe even a few agents at the game tomorrow?”
“No. That’s fantastic. They’ll be so impressed with you.”
He pulls my head down for a kiss until I’m breathless, and I wonder if I’m stirring him up, but I’m not sure if I’m feeling more guilty or excited about it.
“Fifi, you’re so tempting.” He runs a hand under my shirt up my ribs to my breasts, and I weaken, my body reacting with that excited clench of nerves, but I stop it—stop him.
“Why would agents be there? Wouldn’t they do business by calling?”
“Maybe. But the word is they’re checking out players on campus for NIL deals if they’re promotable—or some shit like that.”
I sit up. “Really? That could be an opportunity for you. You have what every promoter wants.”
“What’s that?” He smirks.
“Sex appeal.” I’m dead serious, even in the face of his grin and the hand that cups my breast to find my nipple with his thumb. He squeezes, and I nearly lose my train of thought.
“I’ll give you sex appeal,” he growls.
“I thought you needed sleep,” I murmur in his ear, torn between encouraging him and discouraging him. But he resolves my dilemma by releasing another massive yawn, ending with a chuckle.
“Sorry, sweet lips.” His hand comes to rest on my hip, heavy and warm and comforting, and he pulls me to lie down and rest my head on his shoulder.
I’m content to fall asleep in his arms because he’s tired, and though he may want to fuck like there’s no tomorrow, I’m betting there will be many more tomorrows for us.
In the meantime, the here and now tomorrow is the day he needs to play his best to impress everyone who still needs impressing. Because unlike him, I believe there’s more than a vague possibility of a successful NHL career for him, and I know that’s his most cherished dream.
Which means it’s my dream too.
The UNH – BC Game
Ricci, Nina, and I bundle up against the cold of night air as we leave to walk to the arena for the game. We’re not alone. A few other groups of students from the Hamlet complex are going early and heading the same way.
“I can’t believe you made us leave so early,” Nina says. “The game doesn’t start for another hour.”
“Quit whining,” Ricci says. “Can’t you see she has a secret assignation planned?”
“Assignation?” Nina stops in her tracks.
I laugh and nudge her forward, anxious to get to the rink to meet my family. Dad is a stickler for being on time—read super early.
“No assignation unless you count meeting Mom and Dad.”
“It’s really too bad you have to sit with them and root for the enemy,” Nina says.
“I’ll be sitting with them, but I’m not cheering for BC, I promise you.”
“Your parents won’t be mad?” Ricci says. “I thought you promised to cheer for Vincent.”
I shrug. “Maybe. If he scores, I might clap politely.”
Ricci chortles. “I can picture it. You’ll be sitting in the middle of people jumping up and down yelling, quietly tapping your hands together while you seethe inside hoping your brother loses.”
“Something like that,” I admit. “But I’m not worried about it.” Poor Vincent isn’t a big scorer.
Ricci laughs because she knows my brother’s limitations, although that didn’t stop her from having a crush on him back in high school one summer when she worked for the restaurant.
When we reach the Whit—short for the Whittemore Center Arena—the doors are open, and a crowd of mostly students dressed in blue and white are filing inside.
“I’m meeting my parents inside,” I say, slowing down. “I’ll see you guys back at the apartment.”
“Will you? Or are you seeing your favorite hockey player back at the apartment?” Ricci says.
“How about both?” I grin, not sure either way.
“Don’t clap too hard for BC,” Nina says. “I can’t believe your parents got center ice tickets.” She shakes her head, pretending to be jealous.
“You know you’re going to enjoy the game sitting in the student section way more than I am.”
“Count on it,” Ricci says, giving me a hug before we part ways. I hug Nina too. It’s become our ritual now, like we’re sisters—almost.
Rushing ahead through the smattering of people, I slow down a fraction at the door where I show them the ticket on my phone. Frank had to show my mother how to send me the electronic ticket.
Inside, I open my coat, only a little self-conscious that I’m wearing a blue and white striped sweater with blue jeans. It should be subtle enough to get away with.
My parents are standing at the top of the section waiting for me, Dad looking around and checking his watch as I approach. Mom is talking to some guy, and I smile because she’s always so friendly. I take after her that way.
When I reach my parents, Dad opens his arms for a big hug, and I feel my mouth stretch into that big smile the way it always has since I was a little girl.
My dad’s big hugs are among the first and best memories I have.
He envelopes me, and it’s not my imagination that his arms are tighter than usual, like he’s holding on so he won’t lose me.
Or that’s my guilt playing with me.
Mom takes her turn, and when she releases me, I notice the young man she was talking to is still standing there, and he’s looking at me with interest.
Dad clears his throat and says, “Sofia, I want to introduce you to George Jones, the young man I was telling you about. He’s a real hockey fan, so I invited him to the game and dinner with us.”
“It’s a genuine pleasure to meet you,” George says, smiling and sounding polished and genuine at the same time as he extends his hand. I take it for a quick shake. He’s more comfortable with the formality than I am.
In fact, he seems way more comfortable with this whole set-up than I am because I’m hella uncomfortable. I can’t even look at Dad right now. It’s not that I’m angry with him; my distress is more about how the heck I’m going to tell Trick about this surprise fix-up Dad’s thrown at me.
“You didn’t mention anyone would be joining us, Dad.” I don’t hide the accusatory tone because he really should have warned me.
He laughs. “You know I’ve wanted to introduce you two for a while. Tonight is as good a time as any.”
“I don’t want to spoil any plans you may have—” George says with a furrow of real concern in his brow. He has a nice, handsome face, clean-shaven, dark brown eyes, and trimmed hair combed neatly like he’s just popped out from a 1950s ad for hair gel.
“No, it’s okay.” I smile because it’s not his fault, and he seems nice.
Not that his niceness stops the edge of panic creeping into my head.
If Trick sees him sitting with me—well, I don’t know what he’ll think, but I need to let him know, warn him about a possible change of plans because I have a feeling dinner may go longer and—shit.
I don’t care how Dad tries to manipulate me into spending more time with poor George; I’m not staying a minute longer than dinner. I’m not even going to have dessert.
“Let’s get to our seats,” Dad says. He escorts Mom ahead of him, of course leaving me to sit next to George.
“I’m going to visit the ladies’ room first. I’ll be back soon.” I don’t give Dad or anyone else a chance to slow me down with questions because where I’m really going is to the men’s locker room area to find Trick.
I need to let him know about George before he sees us together. The crowd is still sparse, so I dart to the door that I know leads downstairs to the locker rooms.
“You can’t go there, miss.” A security guard steps in my path, holding a pretzel with one bite taken out of it.
Shoot. “It’s okay. I’m with the team. I’m a student statistician.” I say this with a full-fledged serious expression, no blinking, no wavering, no stopping as I push through the door.
“Do you have credentials?”
“No, they didn’t give me anything yet. I just started this semester,” I say over my shoulder, without stopping. I pray he doesn’t follow me and stop me. There’s a beat of silence while he’s making up his mind, and I’m about to start down the stairs. Holding my breath, I glance back at him.
He waves me on.
Wasting no time, I run down the stairs doing double time, glad I wore my classic Uggs instead of my heeled knee-high boots. Reaching the bottom, I push through the door and rush down the cement hallway toward some voices and a cloud of cold air.
Turning the corner, I’m at the back of the tunnel, and I see some guys in suits—the team—talking to some small children dressed in hockey uniforms and other people taking pics and laughing. They’re laughing at something Trick said.
Pushing aside the instant fear of drawing attention to any relationship I might have with him, I walk straight to Trick in the midst of the confusion of the children being herded away.
He sees me, and his confusion clears into a grin and that look he has in his eyes as they seem to deepen like he’s inviting me to jump in and disappear with him. I wish I could.
“I need to talk to you for a minute,” I whisper and take his arm. A couple of the guys notice, and one in particular watches, but I don’t have time to worry about that right now as we go back to the end of the tunnel and turn left to a quiet carpeted hallway lined with doors.
“This is a nice surprise.” He pulls me close, and everything in me wants to let him, wants the kiss I know he plans for me, but I resist.
“Not so nice,” I say. “I wanted to let you know my Dad set me up with a blind date, and he’s here at the game with us, and then he’s coming out to dinner.
” I let out a heavy breath of frustration and touch his arm, begging him to be cool about it as his expression changes and he looks anything but cool.
“What the fuck? You’re—”