Chapter 2
CALLUM
My pants are woofing and I don’t know what to do.
The woman whose firm ass I was admiring turns, dark lashes lifting slowly. Golden light drenches her brown skin in a healthy glow, her silky black hair forming a seductive halo around her face. Confusion flickers across her face until her chocolate eyes lock with mine and my breath hitches.
Jesus, she’s beautiful.
My phone buzzes again, incessant barks in a recognizable melody filling the air, but I don’t dare look away.
Her sharp, upturned nose twitches when, blessedly, my phone falls silent.
I mentally beg whoever is calling to stop.
Novak is going to find ice shoved down his pants at our next practice.
I just know he’s the culprit. No one else’s musical tastes are this horrendous. “Who Let The Dogs Out?” Ugh.
I stand motionless, like an absolute fucking idiot, all words lost to embarrassment.
What the hell am I supposed to say to a pretty girl who finds me creeping behind her with barking pants?
Like an awkward teenager caught jerking off by his parents, I force a grin that comes out as a grimace.
Her brows clash as her sight homes in on the drink I’m holding.
The perfect shape of her lips draws my attention as her soft voice reaches my ears.
“Is that a mango mojito?”
Thank fucking god for mangoes.
“It is.” I don’t give two shits if I’m wrong. I was bringing the drink up for Chloe, but I don’t see my blonde friend anywhere. Who I do see, and am interested in, is this new face.
”I really want one,“ she says quietly, staring at my glass like it contains nirvana.
“It’s yours,” I offer, enjoying the immediate flare of interest in her eyes. “As long as you promise me one thing.”
“Which is?”
“You agree to forget that, the first time you saw me, my pants barked at you.”
Her lips twitch as she rolls them in, unsuccessfully biting back her smile.
“That’s asking for a lot. It was a memorable entrance,” she teases, her voice low and smoky. Instantly, that giddy feeling I get when flirting with someone interesting sends a bolstering shot of energy through me. My clothes don’t normally speak for me but in Ms. Mojito’s case. . . woof.
“Besides,” she murmurs, nibbling her lip like she’s unsure of something. Or herself. “We don’t even know each other.”
“I can fix that in about five minutes.”
Her shapely brow arches before she turns to look outward, wordlessly inviting me to stand next to her as she mulls over my words.
“I should warn you,” I add. “I fully intend to try and change your mind about hating on D.”
The prettiest shade of crimson smatters across her cheeks when she gasps, “You heard me?”
I knew it! I saw the back of her head at the bar, muttering angrily about dick being bad. It’d been so unexpected, I laughed, turning away to hide it under fake coughs. When I looked again, she was gone.
“A little.” I shoot her a lopsided grin that never fails to charm the ladies. “And I’d really like you to reconsider.”
She plucks the drink from my fingers and takes a sip. “Reconsider what?” she questions.
“Dicks.”
Caught between surprise and shock, she sputters, thumping her chest with her fist as she chokes on her mojito. Worried, I step closer, intending to pat her back. I’ve never before almost killed a woman by flirting and I don’t intend to start now.
“You didn’t just—” She spins toward me, waving her hand about, accidentally brushing the front of my jeans. The light graze causes my cock to stir lazily. She jumps back, one dainty palm slapping against her mouth. “Oh my god, I touched your dick.”
“Seems that way.”
She flushes a stunning, fiery red.
“Oh crap, I said dick to your face. About your dick.”
“Yep. Multiple times now. If you want to switch it up, there is a C-word as well.”
Wide eyes blink at me, heightening my amusement.
“I’m so sorry!” she cries, shaking her head. “I didn’t mean to.”
I lean against the pony wall beside me, cocking my head to observe as she freaks out about accidentally assaulting me.
When was the last time anyone touched me, intentionally or unintentionally, and then apologized for it?
Being part of the public eye means that sometimes my space and body are also treated like public property.
I’ve been groped during a photo op by a lady who winked as she walked off with her husband.
I’ve been propositioned by women straight up sitting themselves on my lap uninvited, assuming I’ll be flattered.
When I was younger, I mistook these interactions for something more than a fleeting interest. Those women were enamored with the idea of sleeping with an athlete.
It didn’t have to be me; any hockey player would do.
Once I realized this, I made it a point to be exactly what everyone expected me to be: a player on and off the ice.
Hearing Ms. Mojito emphatically express regret for invading my personal space is disorienting.
The pink on her cheeks deepens to a muted red as she apologizes again and my blood begins to pound harder. She hasn’t brought up hockey once, which is a relief. And she seems nice. Really nice.
“I’m a menace to society. I should never leave home. Oh my god. Oh. My. God.”
And cute. Her rambling is oddly endearing.
“That’s not the first time I’ve managed to make a girl moan those words without dropping my pants. Or hers.”
As intended, her head swings toward me.
That’s more like it. Keep your eyes on me, gorgeous.
“Really?” she asks, sounding breathless.
My lips curve in a slow smirk as I scan her toned body. Fuck yes, I’d make her scream for whatever god she wanted all night long.
She’s tall enough for her legs to wrap around my hips and hold me captive between thighs that look as firm as her ass. My gaze flickers momentarily over the soft swell of her chest, landing on the flushed skin above her collar. “Happy to prove it to you, gorgeous.”
She blinks and, for an instant, I wonder if I’ve come on too strong.
“They said you were nice,” she murmurs, her eyes glinting with interest. “But you’re dangerous, aren’t you?”
“They?”
“They.” She waves in the general direction behind her, her actions loose, confirming the high likelihood she isn’t fully sober. Crap.
“There was a group of very interesting ladies sitting nearby, discussing who they’d pick for a sexcapade. I didn’t know what to think of that but I see it now.”
“See what?”
“See why they’d pick you. You’re veeeeery charming, Mr. Novak.”
Novak? She thinks I’m Theo?
“You’re not a bunny, are you?” I question.
She shakes her head slowly, her lips jutting out and her nose scrunching in the cutest frown I’ve ever seen.
“I’m a human,” she replies, bewildered. As if she can’t believe that she has to explain this to me. “I admit I’m a little tipsy, but I think you’re more drunk than I am if you’re seeing a rabbit instead of a woman.”
I throw my head back, barking out an unintentionally loud laugh. “I promise I noticed you were all woman 0.01 seconds after meeting you.”
“Nope. You need help. We should get you some water.” She spots an unopened bottle on her table. “Look!” she exclaims triumphantly. “I found water.”
“Well done, Moses.”
She leans forward, observing me with a look of worry while I try valiantly to stop my eyes from drifting below her neckline. “I do not think I am who you think I am.”
“Is that a Princess Bride reference?” I ask, more entertained than I’ve been in ages. Where the hell did this woman come from and why have I never seen her before?
Her mouth tips up in a goofy grin. “Ah, Mr. Novak reads!”
That name again. She really doesn’t recognize me? This almost never happens and I’m fucking thrilled. I screw the lid off the bottle and hand it to her.
“You aren’t from the hockey circuit, eh?”
“Nope.”
“Why exactly do you think I’m Novak?” I question, encouraging her to sip the water while I wait for an answer.
“Loud fangirl, remember?” she says, smacking her lips before pointing past the ivy-covered wall.
“And you’re not a fangirl.”
“I am,” she replies. “For cricket. Best sport in the whole entire world.”
Elation rushes through me. It was one of those nights where, despite winning our game, I felt tired.
Mentally. I came up here to find Chloe and introduce her to Antek Kubanski, our newest rookie, who took one look at her on the balcony and started wagging his proverbial tail.
I fully intended to bow out right after and watch TV on my couch rather than hold out hope for finding human connection in a sea of strangers.
I don’t feel like that anymore. Ms. Mojito is a blank slate. No preconceived notions about me, no expectations. I haven’t had this much fun flirting with anyone in a while. Besides, I can always turn her into a fangirl for one specific hockey player.
“Those are some fighting words,” I jest. “You do realize I play in the NHL?”
“Not saying hockey’s bad,” she mumbles contritely. “The players certainly look nice.”
“Is that why you watch cricket?” I tease, taking the chance to stand a little closer as I exaggeratedly waggle my brows at her. “Good looking players?”
An odd shadow douses the brightness of her expressive face before she brushes it off.
“I used to play.”
“You’re a sportswoman?” I ask, surprised.
“Not anymore, Mr. Nov—Theo,” she says with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
Okay, not a fan of her calling me by another man’s name. But the anonymity is refreshing. Besides, I’ll probably have to come clean soon enough if I want her moaning my name instead of my friends’. “You can call me Spuddy.”
“Your nickname?”
“Hmm.”
Her face brightens at my confirmation.
“How cute!” She gestures to us both with a single finger. “We match.”
“How so?” I ask, sipping my beer and settling my ass against the railing.
“Spud means potatoes. My nickname is Aloo, which is Hindi for potatoes.”
“Ok Tater Tots, hit me with your best potato joke.”
She looks confused by my sudden ask but recovers just as quickly. “How did you guess I’d know one?”
“Comes with the territory of elite people who have matching nicknames.”
She huffs out a soft laugh and my gut tightens. God, she’s pretty. Something in the sweet, almost shy manner in which she holds herself is so utterly charming. Every time she pinkens, it makes me wonder how far that blush travels. If I get lucky tonight, I’ll find out.
“This is a really odd conversation,” she murmurs, bemused.
I snort, nodding in agreement. “But if we don’t lean into it, it’ll get awkward.”
She buys herself some time, glancing down at the yard as she gulps water. Hopefully, I can keep this dialogue going until the alcohol wears off. If, after that, she wants to escalate things, I’m game.
“What is a potato’s favorite movie?”
Too occupied with trying to outline the dip of her cupid’s bow, it takes me a moment to realize she’s said anything.
“Theo?”
“Huh?” I straighten. “Right, favorite movie.” I give it some thought, eventually shaking my head in defeat.
“Starch Trek.” She giggles, her good humor making me chuckle as well. Dammit, this is either the weirdest way to flirt. . . or the best.
“Who’s the most powerful potato?” I ask, waiting just a moment before answering her. “Darth Tater.”
The sweetest laugh erupts from her, her eyes glittering as the ambient lights above us turn on. The sky overhead darkens as evening blends into night, the atmosphere around us cozy and romantic.
“Here’s another one,” I continue. “Why did the potato salad blush?”
Her brows rise high in anticipation.
“Because it saw the salad dressing.”
A dainty hand covers her eyes as she dips her chin, shaking her head even as her shoulders tremble.
“That’s borderline inappropriate.”
“I thought it was tater-ly hilarious.”
“Any more bad puns and we’ll need a yam-bulance.”
I guffaw, delighted she is playing along. It’s hard to remember when I last laughed this easily with a woman I wanted to take to bed—and when her laughter in return seemed genuine.
The wind picks up, whipping strands of her hair around her face that she carelessly sweeps away. Something green sticks out from the side of her head and unthinkingly, I reach for it, pausing when she startles.
“You have something in your hair. May I?”
She relaxes, allowing me to pluck the leaf out. The pads of my fingers skim along her hairline, a featherlight graze that makes her eyes flutter delicately.
“There you go, Tots.”
“Tots?” She sounds amused, if a little breathless. “Taking liberties with my name already?”
“If that’s the only liberty you’ll allow me tonight, then I’ll have to make do.”
She says nothing, her breath hitching gently when I let my thumb stroke the soft skin behind her earlobe before slowly dropping my hand.
Eyes the color of rich molasses hold me in their thrall.
I get the sense I’m falling headlong into them without a hope of slowing down.
She continues to study me, as if trying to figure me out. I hope she likes what she sees.
“You know what?” she whispers after a moment. “If I was a braver person, I’d be reckless and ask you for a kiss.”
My heart rate spikes as excitement pumps through my veins. I bend toward her, reducing the gap between us by a few inches, intrigued by the simmering hum of something invisible, but electric, unfurling between us.
“You know what, gorgeous? I’d really like it if you found it in yourself to be brave right now.”