Chapter Ten – Fawn #2
“So you’re the author,” he says, breaking the silence. “And you’re here to interview us.”
“Yeah, I’m writing a book about an ice hockey romance—”
“A romance?” he cuts in, smirking. “Let me guess: you have questions. You wanna know how long I’ve been playing, why I became captain, and if I’m single.”
Of course, he would say that last part; he’s cocky off the ice as well.
“I’ve got a list of questions,” I reply. “But I already know you’re single.”
Oh! Word vomit.
His eyebrows shoot up. “How do you know I’m single?”
Dammit.
Abort mission.
I don’t exactly want to admit I snooped on his socials like a demented hockey detective, or that his flirtatious glow on the ice absolutely screams single guy who loves himself.
So, I give a fake smile. “Let’s call it writer’s intuition.”
Dylan grins, his eyes narrowing like he’s caught me. “Writer’s intuition, huh? Maybe you’re psychic . . . You’ve probably got my credit card number too? Or maybe you’re just a stalker? Should I be totally freaked out?”
A half-laugh releases my throat. I tuck my hands firmly under my armpits. “Oh yeah, I totally stalked you,” I admit, but he doesn’t know the truth.
“So you admit you did stalk me.”
Busted. I need to play this cool.
“Hey, relax. If I were psychic or something, I wouldn’t be just hanging out here. I’d be at the poker tables, raking in cash.” My eyes roll of their own accord. I need to change the subject or something, so I click my pen like I’m ready to write. “Anyway, how do you feel after your win?”
Subject changed.
Smooth.
Nailed it.
I’m so professional.
Dylan taps the metal locker lightly, his grin expanding. “For real, it feels amazing. The team never gets tired of winning. The crowds are loud. Everyone’s all excited, and I get to moonwalk across the ice in front of screaming fans. I mean, there’s nothing quite like that.”
I make some quick notes, more to prevent my eyes from rolling again than anything else, because of course, he had to add in his signature move.
He clears his throat then hesitates for a second, and I can hear that little crack in his voice. “But it’s not just about the scoreboard. These guys grind hard. Wins like tonight mean all their hard work pays off. It’s about all of us coming off that ice knowing we gave it everything.”
It’s nice to see a different side to him; he really does love his team.
He pauses, running a hand through his damp hair, and for just a flicker of a second, he’s not the cocky showboat. But that pause is short-lived when he yells, “And fuck the Rangers!”
Every player joins him with, “Fuck the Rangers!”
Just as I’m getting ready to pose my next question, Cal struts out, towel slung over his shoulders.
“You’ve managed to get your hands on the captain then.”
Briefly, I glance down to ensure my hands haven’t migrated to Dylan’s abs. Spoiler: they absolutely haven’t.
“Her hands aren’t on me . . .” Dylan says with a maddening smile. “Yet.”
I freeze. The metallic tang of copper floods my mouth before I can register that I’ve bitten my tongue. He isn’t making this easy for me with all this teasing.
Cal simply shakes his head, nudges Dylan with a friendly elbow, and turns on the charm for me. “So, Fawn, you’re coming to the bar crawl. It’s tradition after a win.”
“Oh! Uh. I don’t—”
“Hell yeah, she is,” Dylan interjects before I can finish. “You can’t beat seeing us in our natural habitat, research and all.” He winks at me, likely envisioning me taking notes while he’s taking shots and breaking out into dance-offs.
I’m not one for bars; I need to get home and write. Plus, I have to be up early to see my grandpa.
“I really need to get home and—” I try again.
“Oh, come on!” Cal’s smile widens, the type that clearly shouts trouble’s ahead. Then, as if he’s holding back some major revelation, he adds, “If you don’t, I’ll just spill the beans to Dylan about that NFL thing.”
The video clip of me falling, now this. Ugh, no way.
Dylan crosses his arms like he’s amused. “NFL thing, huh? Okay. I need to hear about this.”
I glare at Cal, imagining I’m throwing daggers at him, but all he does is shrug.
“If she refuses to come, I could just post that video of her falling over,” Dylan chimes in.
I clutch invisible pearls at my chest. “That’s blackmail!”
“Sue me,” he teases right back.
“So childish. What are you, like, thirteen?”
“Nope. Twenty-eight.”
“You act like a teenager.”
Dylan pulls his phone out. “That video would look so good on a fail website.”
My embarrassment meter is at its limit. “Fine! I’ll come, but I’m not drinking — and if the NFL story isn’t told. Yes, Cal, I’m looking at you.” I turn my head back to Dylan. “And if that stupid video isn’t posted.”
Dylan sniggers and puts his phone back. He and Cal look so impressed they managed to blackmail me into a bar crawl.
“Wait, so I don’t get to hear the NFL story?” Dylan asks with a smile, like a cat who got the mouse.
Cal pulls a grand stunt, putting his finger to his lips. “Classified information now, my dude.”
Okay, so Cal held up his end of the deal. Trustworthy. Hopefully, Dylan will too.
Before I can find myself in more trouble, Torin appears. He looks much better than he did before — cleaned up, his wounds no longer bleeding. His hair’s wet and curling at his temple. Dylan slaps him good-naturedly on the back. “Yo, Fawn’s coming with us for the bar crawl.”
“Only by blackmail,” I mutter under my breath.
Torin stares at me, his dark eyes fixed on mine and, of course, hard to read. My breath hitches as my heart quickens. He doesn’t say anything. He opens his locker, gets his bag, and zips it quickly. The air between us is so charged, it’s like a live wire thrumming beneath my skin.
“Tonight’s gonna be amazing,” Cal says while beaming, shattering the silence.
I press my lips together, attempting to shake off how long Torin’s eyes linger until he finally averts his gaze, nodding at Dylan and Cal.
Oh man; if anything, tonight will do me good. It’s research. I have so many unanswered questions. Maybe Delilah was right; I should have watched videos online or even a hockey movie.