Chapter 13
ALIA
Me:
Hockey Boy:
Istare at my phone with the same amount of surprise as my grandmother did when she saw wireless earbuds the first time. The hour is late and I’m alone, overthinking my date from earlier, which has of course driven my anxiety up the wall.
I cringe when I recall making a silly joke, only to be stared at like my IQ was in the single digits. It became harder still when the guy whipped out a list of questions for me to answer, making me feel like I was being interviewed for my potential as his future wife. I shudder.
Hockey Boy:
Was my answer not to your liking?
I rest against the plush cushion on my couch, fingers flying as I type a response.
Me:
Sorry, I was surprised you replied.
Hockey Boy:
Who hasn’t replied to you?
Give me the name
Me:
Stand down, Hockey Boy.
I only meant I’ve never gotten a reply this quickly.
Hockey Boy:
You must not have very good friends
Ouch. He’s not wrong.
Hockey Boy:
Except for me. I’m the most awesome friend you’ll ever have.
Awesomer than awesome
awesomest
superlative in my awesomeness
Me:
I hope you live in a home big enough for you and your ego.
Hockey Boy:
You asking for an invitation?
Me:
Why would I want to be subjected to you and your ego?
Hockey Boy:
’cause we’re charming as fuck
Me:
I’m regretting texting you and feeding into this narrative.
Hockey Boy:
You already admitted you adore me
Me:
I was protecting your fragile masculinity.
Liar. The annoying voice in my head cackles as my belly does that flopping-fish routine every time I’m with Cal. Or when I’m thinking about him. Or talking to him.
Hockey Boy:
Brat.
Now why did you text me if all you were going to do was make fun of me?
I can’t help it. I giggle.
Full on, cheesy, can’t-hold-it-back-glad-I’m-alone giggle. I haven’t been a brat in so long, I’m delighted he called me one.
Hockey Boy:
Tots? Did I put you to sleep?
I wish. Cal putting me to sleep is an idea that’s latched itself onto my brain since I met him. Lust at first sight. I knew it existed, but it had never happened to me before.
That moment I first saw him is seared into my memory. Except now, I know his eyes are the calm green of the forests on the perimeter of Monterey, beckoning you to get lost in them. I know that, when the sun hits his face, it picks up flecks of hazel which glitter in mischief when he teases me.
But he hasn’t shown any interest in a sleep-is-a-euphemism arrangement with me. Not since that first night at Block on Wood.
Waaaaiiiiit.
Did I get friendzoned without realizing it?
Hockey Boy:
You didn’t even say goodnight :(
Just because I’m hot doesn’t mean I don’t get hurt
And just like that, my self-recriminating thoughts are pushed away.
Me:
You’re ridiculous. I’m awake.
Hockey Boy:
What’s keeping you up?
Me:
Not sure. Just. . . restless.
And this show is going to give me nightmares.
Hockey Boy:
Show?
I glance at the paused screen.
Me:
Dating the Ex.
Hockey Boy:
Reality TV? I’d pick reruns of Friends
His choice is exactly like him—light and happy. It makes me want to bask in his brightness, hoping to steal some for myself.
Hockey Boy:
Meet me outside in 10
I sit up at the new message, excitement slowly churning within me.
Me:
It’s almost 11 p.m.
Hockey Boy:
Do it
I’m coming to pick you up
A half hour later, I’m standing at the edge of a surprisingly crowded parking lot, staring at the back of the man who has brought me to, of all things, a taco festival.
If someone told me a few weeks ago I’d be grabbing midnight meals with a handsome man as platonic friends, I wouldn’t have believed them.
I glance up at the streamers that’ve been strung between the food trucks, fanning out like a shell.
Underneath the lighted canopy are rows of picnic benches, creating a perfect seating for the food fanatics present here.
Latin pop fills the air, adding to the cacophony of dialogue from every corner.
The dark sky juxtaposed with the vibrant atmosphere is mesmerizing.
My gaze returns to Cal, who shoulders past the crowds holding an armful of food.
I can’t look away from this man and neither can the women he walks past. With high cheekbones, a square face, and a jawline that could make angels weep, he’s breathtaking. And he’s currently searching for me.
Covered in day-old scruff, a backward hat, and an Ironhearts sweatshirt, he’s the blueprint for an all-American sweetheart. All-Canadian, I correct myself.
Friendly, sexy, magnetic. Irresistible.
When he finally catches sight of me, his pink mouth curves up in a stellar grin that sets every molecule within me abuzz.
He jogs in my direction, completely ignoring the flirtatious waves and backward glances thrown in his direction.
It’s as if he doesn’t see them when he’s looking at me.
Goosebumps break across my skin at such a wistful thought.
As he comes closer, my belly swoops in anticipation.
I unconsciously rub my arms in an effort to keep calm.
“Cold?” he asks, brows knitting lightly when I nod.
My ears burn from the lie. Cal places our food on the table before reaching one hand behind his back to pull his hoodie over his head.
The action causes his t-shirt to ride up and I’m treated to a glimpse of a body that matches the perfection of his face.
How many abs were those? Four? Six? My mouth waters and it’s not because of the aroma of fresh tacos.
“Arms up,” he instructs. Like a fool whose brain function has been destroyed by the beauty of a boy, I obey.
His warmth surrounds me as the thick material glides over my body.
He fusses with the length of the sleeves, folding them over until they aren’t hanging off my hands.
Pinching the edge of the sweatshirt along my shoulder, he adjusts it to his satisfaction before sliding both hands up to cup either side of my neck.
Long fingers tangle into my hair as he tries to gently pull it out of the sweater neck.
My gaze flicks up to his face. . . and that’s when we realize how close we are.
How intimate our position is: his calloused palms privy to every fluttering pulse in my throat, his nails scraping the base of my nape.
Heat coils low in my belly as our eyes lock.
My heart thumps with the speed of a rabbit trying to outrun a fox, a bruising rhythm that sounds in my ears.
When his grip tightens the slightest bit, tugging on my scalp, my mouth parts in a silent moan.
The green of his eyes melds into glittering emerald, and it’s all I see anymore.
A loud screech over the speakers disrupts the music as much as our moment. Cal clears his throat before carefully sliding his fingers out of my hair and stepping away. But his scent is on me and I almost sway as I try to recover.
Bappa re, the man is a weapon and makes my brain melt into my knees without even trying.
He hands me my plate and gestures for us both to sit.
I swipe a couple tortilla chips from the brown paper bag and shove one into my mouth, thankful to have some time to rein in my traitorous body.
Eventually, my heart stops trying to burst out of my chest and I’m no longer at risk of swooning like a 70s Bollywood heroine.
“When’s your next game?” I ask, enjoying the crunch of the hard taco Cal picked for me.
“In two days. Rest day tomorrow.”
“You didn’t have to come cheer me up.”
“Aha,” he exclaims, talking around the bite he’s taken. “So you did need cheering!”
“I had a weird. . . date.” I shoot Cal an embarrassed glance before finding escape in my taco.
“Guy asked you to rate him?” He sounds choked. Like he barely got the words out.
I nod.
“Was it a joke?”
“I thought it was, until he didn’t laugh. That’s odd. Right?” I turn to him, beseechingly. “It’s not me being judgmental?”
Cal snorts, shaking his head. “Tots, I think you need to be okay being a little judgmental. You’re practically angelic.”
That description doesn’t exactly give seductive temptress energy. Does Cal find me boring?
“I’m no angel,” I pout.
“So, you just look like one?”
His tone is appreciative and my complaints suddenly wither away. Heat percolates down my spine and my shoulders rise to my ears. All that does however is make the scent from his sweatshirt more pronounced. I can’t escape him. Not his words, his smell, his eyes, his presence.
“I wanted to talk to Irsia,” I blurt out, needing a distraction from everything Cal is making me feel.
“But she’s away on a trip. And saying anything to Rohan would mean opening myself to questions I might not have answers to.
And that’s never a good thing. So I started overthinking it.
When I texted you, I didn’t expect you’d—”
“Reply? Coax you into having a midnight meal? Feed you the best tacos of your life?”
“Yeah,” I chuckle. “Thank you. If I can ever return the favor. . .”
“Actually,” he replies, surprising me. “My housekeeper is away for a couple weeks. Mind watering my plants for me when I’m on the road?”
“P-plants?”
“Yep. I’ll have instructions for them.”
The request seems simple enough, so I agree. “Deal.”
With our backs against the tabletop, we study the skyline past the valley ahead that dips into dark waters. Sitting next to Cal on this innocuous picnic bench, I’m no less perturbed than I was earlier in the day.
“Sorry. For texting you so late. I didn’t mean to be a bother.”
“You didn’t make me do anything I didn’t want to.”
His words dull none of my anxiety, no matter how sincere he is.
I’m distracted when he flicks the bottlecap off the ginger beer with his thumb, handing it to me before grabbing his own.
“You should’ve called your friends for a sleepover, though,” he says, completely unaware of the utterly masculine trick he pulled. I’ll have to change my underwear at this rate. “Then you could’ve told me all about pillow fights with your girlfriends while you’re wine drunk wearing satin lingerie.”
I snort my drink out in an impressive imitation of a humpback whale and, almost instantly, my anxiety is replaced with amusement. I swipe the napkins he extends to me, embarrassed about the mess I’ve made, and dab around my mouth.
His expression is joyous, replete with an irreverent grin which makes me want to reach up and press my lips against his, if only to feel that happiness on my skin.
“That’s what you think happens at sleepovers with women?”
“Don’t ruin my porno dream,” he tuts. “It’s a classic.”
“I can’t decide if you’re being obnoxious, inappropriate, or funny.” I try to glare, failing when my lips quiver. This man is incorrigible. Adorably so. I sense no malice in even the most ridiculous things he says.
With a wink I feel all the way in my core, Cal leans in and murmurs, “All of the above, gorgeous.”