Chapter 8 #2
So for him to easily admit to his mistake, I don’t know if I can believe it.
“You all right?” he asks, and I nod, a little shakily.
“I’m surprised.”
“That I apologized?” He huffs. Not in his cute, amused way. But in an unusually perturbed way. “You need to start expecting people to treat you better. Saying sorry for hurting your feelings is the very least I can do, so don’t let me off the hook that easy.”
He combs his fingers through his still-wet hair then places his well-worn cap backward on his head.
It’s the same one he wears all the time, his WHL team, with an adjustable band.
A hank of his dark blond hair pokes out the front, and it’s frustratingly adorable. Particularly because I’m mad at him.
When he moves toward the front seat, I stop him. “Let me drive.”
He freezes and slowly turns his head. “What?”
I ignore how handsome he is, even with the slack-jawed look on his face, and tell him. “This is me not letting you off the hook that easy. Your penance is to let me drive your car.”
“You don’t know how to drive.”
“Yes, I do.”
“But you don’t drive. You don’t have a car.”
“Yeah, because cars are expensive, and I don’t need one to get around the city. But I know how to drive, and I want to drive yours.”
“It’s manual.”
“Perfect.”
He raises his brows, so I raise mine right back at him, and when it becomes clear I’m not joking, he opens the driver’s side door for me. “Your chariot, my lady.”
I hold my chin up high as I drop down into the luxurious leather seats.
Nico doesn’t say a word as he sits next to me, remains quiet as I adjust my seat and the mirrors, and continues his silence as I reverse out of the spot and pull onto the road without any problem.
It’s only once I’m past the first light and weaving onto a two-lane road, shifting gears, that he blows out an audible breath.
“Kinda turns me on to watch you drive.”
“I’d assume a spring breeze turns you on.”
“If it accidentally flipped up a sundress, absolutely.”
I refuse to give in to a smile as I downshift, and out of the corner of my eye, I notice him lean against the door, angling his body my way. “It’s superhot how you handle the stick.”
“Oh my god, Nico.”
“Yeah. Say my name like that.”
I can’t deny that his low, rumbled words send goose bumps down my arms, but he’ll never know it with my sweatshirt on and I’ll never confess that to him. It would only inflate his ego.
“You can’t be that easy,” I say, coming to a stop at a red light.
“I can.”
I turn to him. “Is that why you go home with so many girls? You like the way they drive?”
“No one else has driven my car except for you.” My stomach swoops, and I press my hand against it as he goes on. “But I really am that easy. I’m not very picky.”
And just like that, my stomach flips upside down, the butterflies crashing into a fiery pit.
Being the only one to drive his car isn’t that big of a deal.
He just said it himself; he’s not very picky. He’ll even flirt with the buck-toothed girl.
“What about you? What do you like?” he asks, and I ignore him, driving through the now-green light, so he tries again. “Men? Women? Doesn’t matter?”
“I like men.”
“Okay, and…?”
“And I don’t know. I guess I’m not super picky either.”
He makes a dubious sound. “I don’t believe that for one second.”
He can believe whatever he wants to, but I’m done playing into his games, so I tell him to direct me to the bar, avoiding any more of this conversation.
I park as easily as I drove, and Nico once again praises me for it before coming around to open my door.
Knowing that I’m about to go meet up with his friends and teammates sets my nerves fluttering.
Especially when he pointedly drags his attention over the length of me. “You want to take your sweatshirt off?”
It’s a warm night, a bit humid from the earlier rain, but I shake my head, tugging it down even farther. “No. I’m fine.”
He pulls a face, his expression a mix of confusion and something else I can’t place, but he lifts a single shoulder. “Okay. Whatever you like.”
Then he pockets the keys I hand to him, and he laces our fingers together to lead me across the street to a pub that supposedly has “the best burgers you’ll ever eat.
” Inside, it’s loud, with music pumping through the speakers and muted sports games playing on multiple televisions.
Everywhere is laughter and clinking glasses, and with the low light and crowded booths, it’s hard for me to get my bearings, so I cling to Nico as he walks us through the crowd to a small back room, where a few players are gathered around a table, laden with food and drinks.
“’Sup, fellas,” Nico says, keeping our hands locked together as the players all turn, a chorus of greetings coming from them.
“You brought a friend with you,” Anthony Blackman notes, although all the players call him Cubby, and I’ve never understood why.
“Yep.” Nico tugs me into his side, placing his hand at my waist. “This is Josephine. You might know her as one of the team photographers.”
“Or the victim of your assault,” Carter “Buss” Bussi says.
“She’s also my fiancée.” Nico grins, and the jaws of all the men drop.
“Excuse me?” Jean Pelletier—JP—says in his thick French-Canadian accent.
“Jojo has agreed to marry me.”
Cubby starts coughing so hard that Buss has to slap his back.
JP frowns between Nico and me. “I do not understand.”
“We are getting married. Hitched. She is my betrothed.” Nico holds up my left hand, showing off the ring he gave me, and one by one, these hockey players all blink into awareness.
“You’re serious?” Cubby asks, and Nico nods.
“Since when?” Buss asks.
“The hospital.” Then Nico looks to me, as if it’s my turn to field some of these questions.
“It’s kind of a long story,” I say quietly, which has all of them leaning in.
JP puts his chin in his hand. “We are ready for it.”
“Well…” I sweep my gaze around at the group.
While there aren’t many of them, they’re still big guys, professional athletes, with an intimidating presence, but Nico tugs at my chin, forcing me to release my lip from my teeth, and I tell his friends, “We’ve been keeping it a secret because of my job and his…
whole…image. It’s a lot for me, but when I was in the hospital, I guess… ”
“Decided you had to marry her after knocking her out?” Cubby guesses, and we laugh as Nico’s grip on my waist tightens.
“I knew I wanted to marry her before that, but I didn’t want to pretend she was some random woman anymore.
When that puck knocked her out, for a moment, I thought I killed her.
I thought I killed the love of my life, and when I saw her there in the hospital bed, I needed her to know—everyone to know—that she’s mine. ”
The three players gape at us until Nico bends to kiss my cheek before telling them, “So don’t scare her off, all right? Best behavior.”
That earns a few chuckles, and everyone relaxes.
Except for me.