Chapter Thirteen #3
Before I can so much as argue, he drops the address to a bar thirty minutes north of Portland and tells me he’ll pick me up at four p.m. sharp.
If I’m honest, it feels really nice for the decision to be taken out of my hands.
Nerves already begin to froth in my stomach, but I head them off at the pass.
This will be good. And of course nothing will happen between us.
I didn’t kiss him when our lips were basically touching, so I know I can withstand any temptation I might feel. That was trial by hellfire, and I survived. Barely.
Never mind that what we did felt dirtier than any kiss.
I don’t give Leo a chance to knock on my door because I’m pacing the driveway when he arrives, arguing with a reporter on the phone who refuses to correct their article claiming I bribe my players with ice cream sundaes like a peewee coach.
It’s just silly enough to annoy me.
We finish the call amicably—or so it always seems—as Leo parks. His giant, gleaming truck does something so fucking embarrassing to my libido that I almost go back inside. I hate when male peacocking succeeds.
He opens his door, but I wave for him to stay in the truck as I jog around the front.
His gaze explores my body as I climb in the warm cab. “You look…”
“Like someone else?” I shed my leather jacket and toss it on the back seat. “Good. I’m undercover.”
“Undercover?” He performs another sweep of my body. “In that?”
I scoff, looking down. “Well, yeah. This isn’t how I usually dress.”
“I hate to break it to you,” he says in a cadence that suggests he’s choosing his words carefully, “but I would still recognize you.”
“Well, that’s because you know me.” I push my cat-eye glasses higher on my nose. “Trust me. People only know me when I’m in athletic clothes and a ponytail. Hair down, glasses, full makeup, and this outfit is different enough.”
He reaches behind us and lifts a Patriots hat off the back seat. Goose bumps break out across my skin as he gently pulls it on my head. “If you say so.”
I swallow thickly. “I do. In fact”—I lift it off and place it backward on his head—“you’ll need this more than I do.”
Before I can lift my hand, he covers it with his. With a firm grip, he guides me, turning the hat around until it’s facing forward.
“Defying the preferences of pretty much every woman alive,” I murmur.
“You wanted us undercover.”
We’re both still holding the bill of his hat. The cab of the truck feels like it’s shrinking.
I pull my hand away, but my gaze is still stuck on the smooth line of his jaw. He usually sports some measure of scruff. “You shaved.”
His expression is pure focus, like I’ve said something profound. His body is still angled toward me as he runs his fingertips along his jaw. “Thoughts?”
Awareness steeps through my veins like tea as I follow the path of his hand. “I like it.” My voice comes out shakier than I’d like. “I also like stubble. It’s all…good.”
My cheeks flush. My entire body might be blushing.
“Okay then.” He faces forward, like that settles something.
It settles nothing, least of all my stomach.
With nothing else to do or say, I also face forward and press the pair Bluetooth button on his console.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m hooking up to Bluetooth to put on Rowdy Ray’s recap podcast,” I say. “I want to hear him eat his words about our last game.”
And if it provides a distraction from the charged energy circulating in this vehicle, so be it.
He glances sideways. “I should’ve expected that. A different hobby wouldn’t kill you, you know.”
I flick the Fury parking pass dangling from his mirror. “And what are your hobbies outside of hockey, Leo?”
“Been meaning to get one of those.”
“I hear there’s a book club you can join.”
He turns up the volume with a twist of his fingers. Ha. I win that exchange.
We fire counterpoints at Rowdy Ray most of the ride up, even though he can’t hear us.
Leo parks in a gravel lot and we enter a dingy standalone building called Cleo’s Bar.
The walls are decorated with a few black-and-white photos of hockey legends, confirming it’s just as much a hockey bar as Sports Engine, where I intended to go.
Perhaps more so, given the Canadian airs.
But the crowd seems largely disinterested in Leo as we maneuver through the cramped quarters.
There are double takes to be sure, but no fuss. The hat must be doing its job.
“How’d you find this place?”
“Cleo’s late husband, Billy Baxter, was a friend of my dad’s. He used to play for Montreal. It draws a big hockey crowd. After the first few times coming here, the regulars stopped giving a shit about who I am. That’s worth the thirty-minute drive.”
“So you don’t need to be undercover, then?”
The ghost of his touch flirts with my low back as he ushers me forward. “The less they recognize me, the less likely they are to recognize you.”
“Good call. I like the feel of this place.”
“It’s great. Cleo’s been thinking about selling it for a while. I selfishly hope she doesn’t because you can’t trust people not to fuck up a good thing, but she’s getting tired and will tell you all about how her bones hurt.”
He guides us to the only empty spots at the bar and pulls out my chair. It’s solid oak and drags noisily against the sticky wood floor. “Evening, Cleo.”
I shed my coat, drape it over the back of the chair, and slide into my seat.
The gap between where my skirt ends and my knee-high boots begin grows larger as I cross my legs.
Several televisions hang over the taps, more sleek than the rest of this rather run-down bar.
It’s cozy but by no means in good shape.
The sweet smell of liquor mingles with the bitter aromas of beer and French fry grease.
Sometimes I’m hit with an odd wave of nostalgia the first time I step foot in a place.
This is one of those moments, a sort of anachronistic déjà vu that signals this place was important to me in a past life, or is right now, or will be in the future.
Maybe it’s because the hockey player in me knows I can walk into bars just like this one no matter the year, or what city I’m in, or what job I hold, and find people who speak the same sports language.
On the middle television, Leo’s dad is giving boisterous commentary with his cohost ahead of the Brawlers game. How surreal it must be, to stroll into a bar and see your father’s face.
“You’re welcome for the primo seats.” Cleo, an older woman with faded, provocative tattoos on her arms, has the kind of no-nonsense air that makes me want to tip extra out of respect.
“Had to threaten a few people to keep ’em empty, but it’s worth it to see your ugly mug up close. What’ll you two have?”
Leo looks at me expectantly.
“Oh, uh—Heineken, if you have it,” I say. “Thank you.”
“And your usual?” Cleo asks of him.
“Water today.”
Cleo’s assessing gaze bounces from Leo, to me, back to him. “Coming right up.”
As she turns her back on us, I prop my cheek on my fist to look at him. His good looks are concentrated up close, a shot of top shelf liquor that hits me just right. Too right. “What’s your usual?”
He shifts as if getting comfortable in his seat. His knee presses against mine under the bar. “I’m not a big drinker—especially during the season—but I usually have a Macallan, neat, before I switch to water.”
“A Macallan for a McLaren. Cute.” I bite my lip. The curiosity I’ve been wrestling with since the hospital rears its ugly head. “Speaking of ‘usual’ and ‘regular’ things in the life of Leo, care to finally explain how the front desk knew you at the children’s hospital?”
He chuffs a short laugh. “You say finally as if I’ve been holding out on you.”
“Inquiring minds.”
He drums the top of the bar with his fingertips. “I’ve volunteered at the hospital a few times since moving here. It’s something I used to do back home at Children First Los Angeles, and I wanted to keep it going when I got here.”
“Specifically with kids?”
“I hate most adults.”
I jut out my bottom lip as I consider this very true statement. “Fair enough.”
He rubs at his chin. Some vague indecision flickers in his eyes before he sighs. “There’s a little more to it, I guess. You know Nola?”
“How could I forget? I so rarely sign autographs.”
His lips twitch, amusement shimmering in his eyes. “We both know that’s because you hide after games. As soon as you’re done with the obligatory press stuff, at least.”
I dismiss this with a wave of my hand. “What about her?”
“Eight years ago, when my brother and sister were five, they were in a car accident. It was just the two of them and our mom in the car. It was serious.” He pauses as if slipping into the past. “My mom and Nola got the worst of it. Nola needed surgery on her left leg and her right hip, which was an extremely difficult combination in recovery. My mom’s arm was messed up badly and she broke several ribs. Milo had a concussion.”
A knot forms in my chest. “Oh my God.”
He adjusts his hat. “My dad was still playing hockey and at the peak of his career, so he wasn’t around much. Mom had Milo to watch at home while still struggling to recover, which was already too much for one person to handle.”
I blink too fast, imagining all the stress from every direction. “I’m sorry, Leo. That’s a lot.”
“Yeah. Everyone is fine now, thankfully, but Nola was in the hospital for a while. So I went up there to sit with her as often as I could. Mom offered to pay someone to stay home with Milo for a few hours a day while she came to the hospital, but I knew she was just as worried about him—he didn’t have a full medical staff doting on him like Nola did, so that was a whole other kind of anxiety for her. ”
“So you became the volunteer hospital runner.” My brow furrows. “You were also playing hockey, though. How’d you find the time?”
“I didn’t require a lot of sleep to function at twenty-five. Spending time with my sister felt like the obvious thing to do.”