Chapter 9
CHAPTER
NINE
Dawson
Google search: Am I a stalker?
As I read the examples of a stalker, I suspect I’m toeing the line of being one.
Along with my most recent search, I have: Ambrosia Mercer, Rowe Mercer, Ambrosia: Rowe Mercer’s daughter, and The Rowe Report.
Did I buy a subscription to The Rowe Report so I could message her? I did.
Have I been all over her socials? More than I’ll ever admit.
Which is why I’m sitting in a hockey-themed coffee shop I didn’t even know existed.
The Penalty Perk has a cozy, rustic vibe with vintage hockey sticks on the walls and penalty-box-style booths.
It is decorated in the vivid colors of purple and black, which made sense when I did research on the owner.
Ella Mae Thomas, the daughter of Jordie Thomas, a retired Nashville Assassins player.
While I know Ella Mae and her family, I wasn’t tight with them the way I am with some of my dad’s past teammates.
I kind of feel bad for not knowing Ella Mae opened this place, especially when Louis knew.
He’s apparently a regular and orders the Overtime Espresso Latte.
Makes sense, it’s fucking good. A hint of cinnamon with a bit of caramel.
I like it a lot. So much so, I have had one every day for the last week, waiting for Ambrosia.
I have tried to figure out her schedule, but I think she comes in first thing and doesn’t post until later in the afternoon.
So now, I’m coming here in the morning instead of hitting the ice for morning skate.
I know what you’re thinking. I thought the same, but we’re gonna ignore that I’ve never skipped morning skate.
Especially for a girl.
I’m on my third sip with my eyes on the door when it opens, the goal horn blaring to announce the incoming customer. It’s hilarious and loud, but the best part is when the staff all yell out, “Heyyyyyyyyyyyy, you’re welcome!”
It mirrors how the Nashville Assassins’ fans scream, “Hey, you suck!” when their team scores on their opponent.
Even I can’t help doing it along with them. That is, until my eyes settle on her.
Ambrosia the-girl-who-has-rerouted-my-brain-to-think-of-only-her Mercer.
So, she does post her drink in the afternoon, sneaky little thing, but none of that matters when my eyes move along her stunning body.
She’s wearing a little dress that hugs her curves but flares at her thighs.
She has on a long-sleeved brown undershirt, while the little overdress is made of a corduroy fabric in a rusty red.
She’s wearing a pair of high brown socks that peek above dark brown boots.
Her hair is in a high, tight bun, only a few strands escaping around her face.
She’s wearing minimal makeup, mostly just gloss that makes her lips look utterly yummy.
Fuck, she’s gorgeous.
I tried so hard to recall everything about the night she said she witnessed, but there isn’t much of my freshman year I remember.
That was why I didn’t go in the draft. I felt like I wasn’t at the top of my game, that I had let loose when I really needed to lock in.
I may remember a Grace, but they all blend together.
I lost myself back then, and while I may not have a clue what I’m doing career-wise, I know who I am.
I push that thought aside and grab my phone since a text just came through.
Jude: The Chargers are sending some scouts to the game this week. Let me know if you want to entertain this or not.
Yup, I have only one thing I want to entertain.
I drink in the heart-stopping woman in front of me. She has been on my mind since the moment she flicked my nose and sauntered away. And I mean sauntered.
Hips swaying.
Ass bouncing.
Fuck, that ass.
Yeah, it needs its own zip code the way it’s been living rent-free in my head.
Hell, she has her own space in my brain that I’ve given freely to her.
I lick my lips as Ambrosia smiles brightly at Ella Mae before ordering her drink, a 5-Minute Major Macchiato.
The owner of The Penalty Perk is rather tall, with long legs that are encased in bright-purple tights under sparkly black shorts with an oversized Penalty Perk jersey.
She has a blunt cut bob of dark hair that brushes her chin when she moves.
She looks like a goth version of an ice girl, with her dark makeup and a lip piercing she keeps chewing on.
Ella is cute as hell, and I may have hit on her before, but not now.
Which is another thought we’re all going to ignore.
Ella hands over Ambrosia’s drink, and she must feel me staring. She looks up, her smile bright before it falls as she does a double take at me. Her lips part, her gaze locking with mine as her eyes narrow. A flutter tickles my chest as I tip my chin at her. “Hey there, heart-stopper.”
Ella Mae looks over at me, then to Ambrosia, a grin on her face, while Ambrosia’s face turns bright red. She inhales, pushing her shoulders back. “Hotshot.”
I nod toward the bench across from me. “Join me?”
She studies me, wary but curious, and I flash her a grin that’s all charm and trouble. “I’ll play nice.”
Her eyes spark with defiance. “I probably won’t.”
“Promise?”
She hides behind her cup, but the smile in her eyes gives her away. “That’s a promise I can keep.”
“Come do your worst, then,” I urge, leaning back against the booth.
Hesitantly, she comes over to sit down, her eyes never leaving mine.
I lean on my forearms, and I don’t miss the way her eyes trace the veins of my arms. The look of want in her eyes sets me on fire.
I know she wants me—I can see it, feel it, and if I got between her thighs, I’d taste it—but she doesn’t want to want me.
That needs to change.
“Eyes up here, Mercer.”
Her eyes snap to mine, a pretty blush spreading over her cheeks. “What? Like you didn’t check me out?”
“Oh, I did,” I admit, and her blush deepens.
Fucking hell, this girl.
“This isn’t a spot for Bullies’ athletes. They usually hit up the coffee shop on campus since it’s free and easy to access.”
I shrug. “I don’t mind the drive, especially when the reward is greater than the treat.”
Our eyes lock, and I know she hears what I really mean.
That I’ve been doing everything to see her.
We just stare at each other—the sounds of an espresso machine going off, the chatter of the people, the goal horn, all of it fading away as I get lost in her whiskey gaze.
So many different browns swirl around her pupils, and the way her dark lashes frame her eyes makes them seem insanely intoxicating.
I lick my lips and clear my throat. I want to say something profound, ask about her weekend, but instead, I blurt, “Your eyes are fucking stunning.”
Her cup stops before it reaches her mouth, her eyes searching mine. “Thank you.” She takes a sip, then places her cup on the table. It’s a black cup with purple pucks all over it, the name of the coffee shop printed in bold purple block letters. “I still won’t go out with you.”
“You’re out with me now.”
She scoffs. “Hardly. We ended up in the same place.”
“Hey, a date is a date.”
She rolls her eyes, giggling as she leans back, moving her finger along the side of her cup. “I don’t date guys who shit on my dad’s theory.”
I grin. “I didn’t shit on it. I just didn’t agree with it.”
She leans in, mirroring my stance, our coffee cups almost touching. I move my fingers along my cup, just for the chance to accidentally touch her. “You laughed at it, at me—”
“Hey, you laughed at me a lot.”
She shrugs. “Because you laughed at me first.” I grin, loving how passionate she is. “It’s insane, because the theory is totally true.”
“It’s not.”
“It is!” she says, and I know if I looked, people would be staring at us. “You’re a perfect example.”
“How so?” I ask incredulously. “I’ve never been in love.”
She is visibly annoyed. Her eyes widen, and her cheeks redden as she sighs. “But you have the perfect example of love at every turn. Your parents, your uncles and aunts, your grandparents. Hell, even your cousin is in a happy marriage.”
I eye her, not liking that she’s making sense.
I don’t want to agree with her because, what if she’s right?
What if that’s the reason I feel so lost?
A lot of the people I know who are my age are either married or in a committed relationship.
I’m the only one who is just fucking around, and it isn’t because I have trust issues or trauma.
I was honest when I said no one has ever made me want more.
I have never given anyone the chance to get close because I am too focused on my career.
I have only ever had the love of my family, and never have I wished for more.
What if I need more to figure out my future?
Not liking that thought at all, I say, “I thought you didn’t know me.”
She waves me off, sighing in exasperation. “I don’t know you, but I know of you.” She takes a swig of her drink, eyeing me over the lid. “And you know I’m right.”
I shrug. “Somewhat,” I admit. “I agree that my family has been very instrumental in my life and has given me the confidence to succeed. But I don’t know that I’d agree I need a partner to move forward in my career.”
She puts her cup down, her fingers almost brushing mine.
Once more, our eyes lock, and everything fades away as I memorize the slope of her nose, the roundness of her cheeks, and how she has a little scar along her lip.
I want to know where that came from, but she asks, “What is holding you back from making a choice?”
As badly as I want to look away, I don’t allow myself. There is something so safe about her eyes, the way she is looking at me, almost like I can trust her. I’ve never trusted anyone except for family. Without really thinking, I admit, “I don’t know if I want either.”
Her eyes widen in shock, and hell, even I feel dizzy from admitting that. She leans in, her knuckles brushing mine, and my heart stops. Heat gathers in my gut, my balls tingle, and I don’t dare look away. “Is there something else you want to do?”
I roll my lips, my mouth going dry. Am I really going to tell her? “I’m getting my master’s in sports ethics. I want to help keep athletes from being abused, physically and emotionally.”
She blinks, surprised, before compassion floods her dark irises.
“That’s incredible. When I was younger, I did gymnastics, and I was verbally abused by my coach ’cause I wasn’t the right size.
My parents reported the gym, but because the coach was on the safety board, they were able to contain it and not get in trouble.
” She looks down, exhaling. “Instead, I got kicked out of the gym.”
Anger burns like a wildfire through my soul.
“See, that shit is wrong. Why was that coach allowed to be a coach and be on the board? That’s not right.
I want to be an advocate for athletes like you.
To eliminate the corruption. To make a difference.
It’s such shit, and no one really protects the kids. Louis was also abused.”
She looks up, and I’m surprised by the anger in her eyes. “I read about that. I can’t believe a coach, an adult who is meant to protect kids, would abuse someone for who they love.”
My stomach coils in on itself at the thought of that coach, how he continually made fun of Louis and made him feel small.
He would sit Louis if my brother wanted to tell, but it all stopped when I heard him calling my brother names for loving another guy.
Telling him that he’d never make it to the NHL because they don’t like his kind. “It’s unfair.”
“It is,” she agrees, our eyes locking once more. Understanding moving between us…and maybe more. I don’t know, but I love having her eyes on me.
“You know that’s okay,” she says softly, her eyes never leaving mine. “Your life is yours. You don’t owe anyone anything. You don’t have to go pro.”
You know how in the movie Inside Out, when the girl starts feeling everything all at once and all the emotions are running around screaming as alarms go off and there is complete mayhem?
That’s what I feel right now.
Between hearing how she was verbally abused, talking briefly about Louis, and now her telling me that it’s okay not to want what I’ve worked for, it’s all too much. Which is why I think I say what I do. “You know I know you want me.”
Her brows pull together, and gone is the sincere look, replaced by annoyance in two seconds flat.
“You’re such a taint-licker,” she mutters as she moves out of the booth.
I want to laugh, but I feel like a fucking idiot.
I was doing so well. I had her in my grasp, and I ruined it because… because why?
Not only do her knuckles move against mine, but her knee grazes mine, and I almost stop her. But if I do, I know she’d open me up like a can of worms, and all my feelings would fall to our feet and wiggle around us, exposing me.
Ambrosia stops when she gets up, pulling at her skirt that has ridden up.
If I weren’t reeling at having just spilled my soul to her, I’d check her out.
But all I can do is look down at my coffee, my shoulders curling in.
I take ahold of her wrist before she can walk away, and I feel her throwing daggers from her eyes.
She pulls her arm from mine but doesn’t move when I speak in a very low voice. “Don’t tell anyone I told you that.”
“I’d never,” she admits. “Not that it matters since you’re going to stay away from me.”
When I look up, she’s gone.
I feel like utter shit.
But there is no way I can stay away from her.