11
A Bet is a Bet
Max
Looking none the worse for wear, the pigeon flies away unscathed as Mitch locks the latch on the last window.
“All right, Adams. Let’s go,” I say, a triumphant smile on my face.
“What, you want to do it now?” Mitch asks, looking defeated but also nervous.
“Yes, now. If we don’t do this immediately, you’ll back out.” I head to the office, Mitch not far behind.
“I beg to differ. You’re the one who’ll back out.”
“Are you calling me a chicken?”
“The biggest.” He nods toward me, and I glance down at myself. My hoodie has pigeon feathers all over it.
“Ugh, gross.” I rip the sweater off, but the minute my head pops out, I see Mitch staring, his eyes lingering on my chest a little longer than I’d like.
I’m wearing a thin white tank. It’s not like he’s never seen me in less, but still, the heat in his gaze warms my skin, and I raise the sweater to cover up. “Take a picture, why don’t you?”
Caught, he blinks a few times, then looks me in the eye. “Good idea.” He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his phone.
“Mitch! Don’t you fucking dare!”
He laughs and shoves the phone back in. “Relax. I wouldn’t do that.” He leans against the doorway of the office, crossing his arms and cocking his head in the cutest way; it nearly makes me forget why I hate him. Nearly.
He rubs his hands together, looking around the room. “All right, where are we doing this?”
“You’re not backing out?” I throw my sweater on the couch.
“No, no. A bet is a bet.” He tilts his chin up. “I’m a man of my word.”
“Are you?” The words, heavy with insinuation linger in the warm air of the office.
He looks away, then tucks his lip as if considering what to say, and it fills me with guilt. I don’t regret saying what I said, but I’m not exactly happy about it, either.
“So, if you’d won, you’d really have left me out of your decisions?” I ask, arching my eyebrow.
He drops his hands, tucking his thumbs into his jeans. “I guess we’ll never know.”
“Right,” I reply, then nod over my shoulder and open the door to the tiny bathroom. “We can do it in here.”
Fitted with a sink, a toilet, and a shower, the small bathroom will be cramped once we’re both in there, but strangely, the thought doesn’t bother me as much as it should.
Behind me, Mitch frowns, probably thinking the same thing. “Are you sure we shouldn’t do this somewhere else?”
“I knew it. You’re backing out.”
“Now hold on. I didn’t say that.”
He pulls his coat off, revealing a light gray MSU T-shirt underneath, the worn fabric stretching around his biceps.
“It’s a bit of a tight squeeze.” Sticking his chest out, he walks over, stopping close enough that I feel the heat floating off his skin.
“Not sure it’ll fit.” As his words hit me in all the wrong places, he locks his eyes on mine.
“I wouldn’t want you messing up my pretty face because you don’t have enough space to move. ”
My treasonous thighs tense in response. “I’ll make it work.”
I grab the desk chair and roll it over. He walks in, looks at himself in the small mirror above the sink, then rubs a hand over his beard.
“What’s the matter? Are you… scared?”
He takes a seat in the chair. “I’ve grown used to this thing.”
“I can tell. When’s the last time you went bare?”
“That’s none of your business.” He chuckles, looking up at me, and I realize what I’ve said, heat rushing to my cheeks.
“I mean, how long have you been growing it?”
In a flash, his expression changes, and his eyes fill with a striking sadness that answers my question.
“Oh, that’s a long time.”
“Too long.”
Hearing that he’s been sporting the beard since he left Oakwhite doesn’t sit well.
It’s a security blanket, a layer he’s used to protect himself, and it kicks up all sorts of feelings.
Refusing to let them affect me, I distract myself and search through the linen closet in the office.
Finding our spare toiletry kits we have on hand for guests, I pull out a razor and a small bottle of shaving cream, then return to the bathroom and maneuver around Mitch’s legs.
“You don’t mind lavender-scented, do you?” I ask showing him the bottle.
He relaxes, shoulders dropping, and smiles. “Nah. It wouldn’t be the first time my face smelled like a woman,” he replies with a wink that grosses me out as much as his answer, but my burning skin seems to like it.
“I bet it wouldn’t.” I roll my eyes, then take a towel and drape it over his chest, tucking it into his collar. My fingertips brush along the warm skin of his neck, sending a spark up my fingers. I jerk my hands away, fisting them. “Shoot. The scissors.”
I run out of the bathroom and rummage through the desk drawer, finding a pair, then return, but before I even pinch the ends of his beard, Mitch grabs my wrist.
“What the hell are those? Garden shears?”
“No, they’re scissors.” Sure, they might be quite large, but they’ll work.
“Max, you could cut meat with those.”
“Would you stop being such a wimp? They cut. That’s what matters.”
Reluctantly, he releases his grip, and I pinch a section of his beard between my fingers. Even though he looks totally uncomfortable, I’ve got to say this is pretty fun.
“Here it goes.”
I snip the hair, the sound loud in this tiny room like a sword being pulled from its sheath.
After dropping the chunk of brown hair into the garbage, I continue with the rest, clipping off just enough to shorten Mitch’s beard to less than an inch.
Hints of his jaw peek through the dark hair.
Once I’m done, I rinse the scissors in the sink and then dust my hands.
I fill the sink with hot water, shake the can, then squirt some white foam into my hand.
“Do you trust me?” I ask, the words almost slipping out of my mouth unintentionally. Immediately, I wish I could take them back.
I watch his chest rise and fall with his deep breath. I’m terrified for what he’s about to say. The chair creaks under his weight as he shifts and slowly lifts his gaze to meet mine. A small frown pinches the space between his deep-set eyes.
“I’m trying to,” he answers, and I try to ignore the lump in my throat.
“Tilt your head back.”
He does, focusing his eyes on the ceiling before shutting them with an exhale.
For a few seconds, I watch him, his eyes closed, his breathing deep and calm, and I’m filled with shaky nerves.
Why did I agree to this? What the hell was I thinking, letting myself get so close to him?
I hate his guts, but I’m also a heterosexual woman with a healthy sex drive. A drive that hasn’t been properly satisfied in a while. And Mitch, well, he’s my teenage love who’s grown into a fucking sexy hockey player with muscles that seem to communicate telepathically with my loins.
Fighting my stupid urges, I bite down hard on my lower lip and see him press his together at the same time. His perfectly timed deep inhale fills the room, his chest rises, his nostrils flare and it stirs my insides.
“Are you doing this, Toots?” he asks, opening one eye and peeking at me. “Or are you chickening out?”
The nickname does the trick and snaps me out of my deep dive into how fucked up I am.
I slap my hands against his cheeks a little harder than necessary, earning his rough moan and deep chuckle.
With a few strokes, I cover his skin with the foam, then rinse my hands under the faucet before shutting it off.
I dip the razor into the water, then give it a little shake and begin gently tracing his jaw from the sideburn down.
Soon, the scratchy sound of the razor scraping his skin becomes meditative.
After every stroke, I rinse the razor in the sink, then repeat until Mitch’s pale skin reveals itself.
Until I see the defined jaw I used to love so much.
The lips that were thin, but would occasionally curve up into one of the sincerest smiles I’d ever seen.
A smile that only appeared if the mood struck. If Mitch chose to favor me with one.
Him letting me shave his beard at all says a lot. It tells me how much he’s grown. How he’s changed and maybe doesn’t hate me anymore. There’s still far to go, to get back what we once had and to regain the trust we lost.
But if he can move past it, and has changed as he claims he has, then I should be able to trust him a little more, too.
Mitch
How is it that beyond the lavender-infused shaving foam and the smell of the hotel, I still pick up Maxine’s light scent that makes me want to sink down into this chair and melt into the warmth of her essence?
The push in her body, her words, the way she keeps fighting to keep me at arm’s length all seem to disappear the minute her gentle hands touch my cheeks.
She rubs the foam onto my skin with hesitant, cautious strokes of her tiny, slender fingers, and I have to bite my tongue not to let out the moans building in my chest, but a few still slip through.
A single touch from Maxine Nolan, the thrill of having her so close I could wrap my arm around her and lift her onto my lap, fills me with more absolute contentment than any single second the game ever did.
And I fucking hate that.
How the hell did I get myself into such a fucking shit show? Not just with the league—that reality crept up on me months ago, and is even worse since I drove into town.
This is about Maxine. Being near her, even our petty fighting has ignited a part of me I was sure had died the day I left Oakwhite Bay. When we’re together, we’re volatile and better off apart.
“Mitch?” she says breaking into my thoughts with her soft, measured voice.
I crack my eyes open, meeting her worried gaze.
“Why are you so sure this place is worth it?” She gingerly glides the razor up my throat, around my Adam’s apple.
When she rinses the razor, I swallow. “I guess I appreciate what it’s like being rejected for what’s on the outside. For what’s broken.”
“You’re not broken,” she says, frowning.
“I am. More than I let on.”
“But you said the hip was fine.”