Chapter 19
Nineteen
Andie
I’m lounging on my couch on a Tuesday night, with a glass of red wine and towers of class assignments to check.
The game between Boston and Toronto plays on the television screen, giving me a severe case of FOMO.
I’d have gone to the arena if I didn’t have school tomorrow, especially when I’ve got to stay on top of the preparation for the upcoming year-end program.
Being an elementary school teacher on contract means having to do double the work for less than half the respect you deserve, even from some of your colleagues.
It’s not the work that scares me, though; it’s the thought of it not being recognized or appreciated that troubles me. I hate that I have to constantly try to prove myself, as if the results of my students, my professionalism, ethics, and degree aren’t enough proof of what I’m worth.
To top it off, the bigoted mindset and society’s views on how an ideal body should be hinder my job. The worst thing is, it’s not just the other teachers in the school, it’s the parents, too.
I ignore them as much as possible, pretend that it doesn’t hurt. But I’m only human, and it does hurt.
Instead of teaching their kids to be respectful and mindful of everybody’s feelings, they start gossiping and chirping among themselves in front of those little impressionable ears. Their defiance to grow and become a little better only makes me talk about this with my students.
I try my level best to instill everything good I can into them, and even though sometimes it’s easy, mostly it’s a challenge. But it’s not like I ever shy away from one. These young kids are tomorrow’s future, and I’ll do my best to shape them into someone good.
The horn for the final period blows, and my eyes drift over to the screen. Toronto has been taking liberties with every period they step into.
This one is no different as the puck drops. My pen suspends in the air, glass of wine forgotten and paper still waiting to be turned, as the ongoing game captures all of my attention.
I’m practically on the edge of my seat, seeing the puck being passed around on the ice. Levi is smashed into the boards, then Noah drops into a butterfly and blocks a shot. That’s when it happens—at the rebound.
Toronto’s center flies right at Noah, colliding with him and pushing straight to the ice as he rams his stick in his ribs.
He shouldn’t have done that.
The pen and papers clatter to the ground as I hop off the couch with my hands covering the loud gasp that escapes me. I don’t care for the red wine that spills on the table or the crack that forms on the glass.
All I care about is Noah as the center continues his assault. My heart beat thuds in my ears, hoping that he’s alright, my wide eyes stuck to the television screen as if they could reach beyond it.
Seb and Ezra flank the guy and pull him away from Noah. My brother punishes him for putting his filthy hands on his goalie and best friend. But only breathe a little easier when Noah finally moves and gets up.
It’s a full-blown chaos on the ice, players beating each other up and drawing blood as the referees try to control them in vain. The crowd is living for it, rattling the arena with their screams.
Toronto shouldn’t have touched Noah. It’s an unwritten rule to keep your hands, blades, and sticks away from the goalie—and if you don’t…well then it’s your funeral.
The announcers say that Noah is fine, and the Bandits end up winning the game. Yet my heart worries about Noah and how there were bags under his eyes when the camera panned to him.
Or how there was no real happiness even when they won the game. Or how he didn’t look in the stands for a familiar face—not once—knowing he has no one.
When I go to sleep that night, I worry, why am I noticing all those things about him? But what worries me more is that I want to know so much more about him.
I want to unearth all the things he hides from the world, from his friends, and from himself.
I worry about how to bring a genuine smile to the gorgeous face of the wall of the Boston Bandits until he forgets everything weighing him down.
* * *
On a sunny Wednesday, I find myself banging on Noah’s door.
The large bouquet in my hand makes it difficult for me to carry the basket, and seeing me struggling to juggle everything on my own, Dan, the doorman, decided to help me.
Though he talked my ear off the entire elevator ride, I like him. His grin is contagious.
“Why did the math book look sad?” Dan asks me another one of his riddles, hiking up the basket to get a better hold.
“Why?” I ask, even though I’m an elementary school teacher and I’ve heard this one a thousand times before.
He shrugs. “It had too many problems,” he says with a straight face. It’s his face with the hidden hope that I’ll understand his joke that makes me laugh out loud, and his proud grin widens even more.
I feel good. I haven’t laughed this much in a long time.
“Okay, I got another one,” he says, raising a pointer when I knock on the door again. My eyes become the size of a saucer when he holds the heavy basket with one hand.
“Careful,” I squeak, pointing to him, clutching the bouquet tight as if that would stop anything from happening if the basket were to fall.
“Oops. Sorry.” He says with a sheepish smile, his free hand instantly going under the basket.
When I’m sure the basket or the contents inside are in no imminent danger, I take a relieved breath, my hold loosening before I kill the flowers.
“Why don’t the skeletons fight each other?” he continues asking as his dark hair falls over his forehead.
“Why?” I ask, already knowing he’ll answer as I ring the doorbell once again.
Cherry on a pancake, where did he go?!
This time, Dan smiles before he answers, and yes, I need the answer because it’s a new one. “They don’t have the guts.”
I burst out laughing, my free hand covering my mouth before my spit flies over his face. When I’m sure there’s no danger of that happening, I cover my stomach because Dan has made me laugh so much in the last fifteen minutes that now my tummy aches, but the laughter just won’t stop.
Satisfied with my reaction to his joke, Dan looks proud while chuckling alongside me, blowing a wayward hair on his forehead animatedly, making me swat his hand playfully. We’re both barely standing on our feet when the door swings open with a whoosh.
“Where’s the fucking fire? Jesus!” Noah growls, his face scanning for the perpetrator who murdered his peace.
His figure blocks the door, his arms spread, resting on the sides of the doorframe. Noah’s eyes soften a smidge when they fall on me, but the second they fall on Dan and my free hand on his arm, his eyes resume being hard at the corners.
He does not look happy to see me. Must still be bothered about their last game, being poked and prodded on ice in heavy padded gear is no small thing.
“What’s so funny? Tell me, I’d like a good laugh too, Dan,” his lips lift into the fakest and the deadliest smile I’ve ever seen on anyone.
He unhurriedly crosses his arms over his chest, flexing his biceps and leaning his shoulder against the door as he waits for Dan to speak.
While Dan pales at the sight of them and starts stuttering, his eyes frantically flitting between us as he instantly pulls back, causing my hand to drop from his. “No…Nothing, sir. I’ll—I’ll go.”
Noah gives him no reaction, standing like he’s one second away from shoving him back into the elevator.
“I just wanted to give Andie…” Noah’s eyebrow quirks at him, unimpressed. Dan amends his statement. “Miss Andie. I was just giving Miss Andie a hand with the basket,” he explains, jerking the basket in his hand and hoping that it’ll save him.
An awkward silence settles among us as my eyes dart between the men. Noah’s glare stays fixed on Dan.
God! The poor man will have a stroke if this goes on.
Taking charge, I attempt to break the uncomfortable quiet. “Noah, let’s—”
Dan’s rambling cuts me off. “Here, you can hold this. I’ll take my leave,” he squeaks on the last word as he practically shoves the basket into Noah’s chest.
Swiveling on his feet, he power walks right back into the elevator, muttering something under his breath that sounds a lot like, ‘God! Save this poor woman from this demon’s wrath.’
But I can’t be sure.
The second the elevator door slides shut, I become the center of his attention. His perusal unnerves me, and I’m not sure I hate it.
When Noah doesn’t give you a time of his day, it’s easy to crave it.
But when he does decide that you’re worth his attention, it’s a different story altogether.
Being in his field of vision is intense, his eyes become a black hole that suck you in—pools of green you don’t wanna escape as you lose all sense of time.
“What are you doing here, Andie?” His question startles me, dragging me back to his front door step.
I blink at him, remembering why I came here. “Ah, yes, I have a plan.” With that, I move past him, my shoulders brushing his chest as I enter his penthouse. I barely hold on to the shudder that begs to roll through my spine at the minuscule contact.
“What plan?” he grunts, annoyed as the front door clicks shut behind him.
I walk right into his kitchen, set the flowers on the counter, and take the basket from him to place it there as well.
Then, picking up the bouquet, I extend it to him. “These are for you,” I say with a grin spanning my face because I’m too excited to see his reaction. I’ll be honest, I’ve never given flowers to a man before, besides my father and brother.
So, this is new for me, though I’m sure he has gotten tons of them; he is a famous NHL goalie after all.
Noah blinks at me, his eyes wide as if a deer caught in a headlight. “What is this?” His gaze ping-pongs between the flowers and me as if he has no idea what to do with himself.
I dramatically roll my eyes at him and point to the different flowers in the bouquet. “This one is a sunflower, and these white ones are lilies,” I deadpan, though enjoying this moment incredibly.
He cocks his brow at me, “I can see that, Andie.” This time, he’s the one to roll his eyes. “What I meant is, why are you giving them to me?” he asks, pointing to an empty vase kept in his kitchen.
When I continue to look at him without a word, like his cluelessness isn’t endearing, he continues, “Do you want me to keep them in the water for you?”
Then suddenly the temperature in the room drops, and his eyes narrow at me.
He disintegrates the space between us with every question that leaves his full lips.
“Did Dan give you these? Did some other guy? Is there something I need to know, Andie?” His voice drops an octave at my name, making my body flutter everywhere—and I mean everywhere.
The flowers are almost crushed between us as Noah towers over me, pressing my back against the counter. “Oh,” I say, one hand automatically finding its way over his chest, my head tilting to look up at his bearded face—the beard that has been drowned in my cum multiple times.
He takes a ragged breath, his muscles flexing underneath my touch. “Which one is it, Andie?” He asks, his voice huskier than before, his jaw clenching with the restraint I hate he’s practicing.
“I bought these for you. I’m the one giving you flowers, Noah,” I explain, my voice soft, barely a whisper. The second the words leave my mouth, his heart starts thumping faster under my hand.
He pulls back, just a couple steps, but enough that I miss the warmth of his body. “Me?” he confirms in a broken whisper, mixed emotions flashing in his eyes—though the most dominant one is uncertainty—as a frown settles on his forehead.
For the first time since I’ve known Noah Miller, I’ve seen him disarmed, spooked, and oblivious of what to do next. I realize he doesn’t know how to respond.
That knowledge splinters my heart, makes it ache for him. Because how on earth does this beautiful man not know how to accept flowers?
The apprehension on his face is enough to make me smother him with flowers, fill his life with the softness of them, pluck away all thorns before they can reach him.
It makes me want to rip open his chest and caress and comfort his big heart that doesn’t know how to accept kindness.
The distance between us eats at me, because right in this moment, I want to wipe that expression off his face—I want to touch him and make sure nothing ever puts that look on his face.
I move to him, my palm reaching his stubble as if on autopilot. Ever so slowly, Noah leans into my hand, and my heart almost bursts with happiness. His eyes flutter shut when I gently rub the pad of my thumb on the apple of his cheek.
“Just give me a minute,” he pleads, his voice gravelly as he covers my hand with his own. We stay right there in the middle of the open-plan kitchen and living room for a few minutes, and I soak up every second of this moment.
This is the first time I’ve seen a crack in the armor he wears, and I couldn’t be more attracted to him. He’s handsome and built like a wall, sure, but it’s not just that. It’s his vulnerability that is sucking me in.
It’s also for the first time as I look at him that I realize my feelings for him might far exceed a mere crush. I don’t know when my stupid crush grew into something more, and I know he doesn’t want me that way.
Yet, I can’t bring myself to regret or suppress my feelings. Not when he looks like he’s grounding himself by embracing my touch.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, clearing his throat as he opens his eyes.
I shake my head at him, my lips lifting into a smile.
“Don’t be.” It’s clear, he’s getting uncomfortable after letting me see so much of what he hides.
So, I pull back and offer him the flowers again.
“Now, take them already. It’s not very gentlemanly to make a lady wait,” I pout, trying to ease him.
The gravity that had blanketed us earlier dissolves. Noah scoffs, grabs the flowers, and moves to the sink to fill the vase. “I never claimed to be a gentleman, Andie,” he throws over his shoulder.
As I look at his broad back, I take his words for the warning they are. Because by the time our deal is over, he’s not gonna be a gentleman and will most definitely break my heart.
I’ll have no one else to blame for it but me.