Chapter 41
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
DYLAN
I’m not nervous. Not really.
Okay, maybe a little.
It’s not the usual kind of nerves; the pre-game kind where your body’s primed to get hit or land a hat trick. This is quieter. Slower. A steady thrum under the skin. Like I’m on the brink of something I don’t want to mess up.
Because tonight isn’t about impressing fans or putting on a show. It’s just Mia. And somehow, that’s more intense than any game I’ve ever played.
She’s already told me she doesn’t need flash or luxury.
So I don’t try too hard. But I still clean the car, iron the collar of my shirt, and stand too long in front of the mirror, debating if this shirt makes me look like I’m trying too hard.
It does. So I change it and opt for a white T-shirt instead, it’s more relaxed and informal.
I pick her up just after seven. She meets me outside her flat in a pair of jeans that show off the delicious curve of her arse and a lacy top that’s cut low enough so I can see her round, full breasts but not too low that it’ll attract any unwanted attention.
God forbid I have to warn anyone off. As I take in the full length of her my jaw forgets how to function.
Her hair’s soft around her face, and her eyes are brighter than any rink light I’ve played under.
“You trying to kill me?” I trail off, because anything I could say feels dumb.
She flushes, biting her lip, and I open the car door for her like a goddamn gentleman, trying not to think about how much I want to drag her back inside and kiss the lipstick off her mouth.
Instead, I drive.
She lets her fingers rest near the gear stick, so I reach across and link our hands together, and it’s ridiculous how much that contact burns. We don’t talk much on the way, just this charged silence that somehow says everything.
I take her to this little tucked-away rooftop bistro overlooking the river.
It’s nothing fancy, but it’s classy. Low lighting, candles flickering on the tables, the soft hum of jazz and the clink of wine glasses.
I’ve been coming here since I was a rookie, back when I couldn’t afford the wine list. Now, the owner, Pietro, greets me with a hug and two menus that skip the prices.
The hostess gives me a discreet nod; they know to seat us away from the main crowd.
Mia walks through like she’s trying not to be impressed. But I catch the flicker in her eyes, the small, surprised smile when we step out onto the terrace and she sees the view of the skyline washed in gold and indigo.
“This is…” she breathes, stepping closer to the railing. “Wow.”
I don’t need to show her off. I just want to be beside her. Watch her react to things. See the way her fingers curl around the stem of her wine glass, the way her eyes crinkle when she laughs. She deserves to be out in the world, lit up and looked at like this.
“You know,” she says after we order, “I half expected you to take me to some steak place full of men in suits and hockey memorabilia.”
I smirk. “What, like some shrine to the legend of Diesel Winters?”
“Exactly,” she teases, “complete with a framed jersey above our table and the waitress winking at you.”
“Nah,” I say, leaning in. “Wanted to take you somewhere you could actually hear yourself think. And where you wouldn’t be tempted to ice my ankle just out of habit.”
She grins. “Give it time.”
Dinner is easy. We talk about stupid things, like movies we both hate, our worst-ever injuries, what our dream jobs would be if we weren’t in hockey or physio. She says she wanted to be a vet until she found out she’d have to put animals down.
“You’ve got the softest heart of anyone I know,” I say without thinking.
She blinks. “You don’t know many people.”
“I know enough.”
She goes quiet then, chewing her bottom lip the way she does when she’s unsure. And I hate that. I hate that she’s so used to being overlooked or dismissed she doesn’t even see what I see in her.
After dinner, we walk to the edge of the terrace, the breeze is soft and makes her hair flutter seductively around her shoulders. I reach out and brush a curl from her face. “You cold?”
“No.” Her voice is hushed, then she glances at me. “This feels like a real date.”
“It is a real date.” I take my jacket off and drape it around her shoulders, she smiles gratefully and pulls it tight around herself. I don’t miss the way she inhales, taking in the scent of my aftershave that’s obviously lingering on the fabric.
“Yeah, but not just dinner. It’s you. And me. And we’re not hiding.” Her voice trembles at the edge. “I forgot what that felt like.”
I take her hand and thread my fingers through hers. “I want more of this. No secrets. No sneaking around. But only when you’re ready.”
She stares at me like she’s seeing something new. “You’re kind of a sap, you know that? Underneath that hard Diesel exterior there’s a soft, squidgy version of the real you.”
I grin. “Only for you.”
When I drive her home, we don’t talk much. There’s music playing low, her hand in mine over the gearstick. But when I park outside her flat, she doesn’t get out straight away.
“Best date I’ve ever had,” she says quietly, not looking at me.
I lean closer. “That’s because you’ve been dating amateurs.”
She laughs, soft and breathy, and turns to me. “And what are you, then?”
“I’m the guy who’s gonna ruin you for all of them.”
The kiss starts slow. Like we’re still learning each other, even though I’ve already had her in every way you could think of. But this? This is different. This is the kind of kiss that feels like a promise.
I walk her to her door. She unlocks it, then pauses.
“You coming in?”
I shake my head, even though every part of me wants to. “Not tonight.”
She arches a brow. “You turning down sex? Did I do something wrong?”
I lean in, brushing her jaw with my thumb. “No. I’m saying I want the next time to be about more than just heat. I want you to still feel like you’re on a date, not just dragged into bed.”
She swallows hard. “You really are a sap.”
I grin, kiss her cheek, and wait until she’s inside before I walk back to the car.
And I realise then; it’s not just that I like Mia Clarke.
I’m falling for her.
Hard.