15. Nice
NICE
brETT
I’m practically vibrating with barely leashed energy when I get to her place.
Ducking my head, I check my hair in the visor mirror before getting out. My dress shoes crunch on the snow, and I can see my breath as I push the door closed. The sound echoes in the stillness of the night.
Locking the Navigator with a soft beep, I shove my keys, and my hands, in the pockets of my black wool pea coat and start up her walkway.
I rap a knuckle against the door, shifting my weight back and forth between the balls of my feet as I wait.
I don’t know why I’m nervous. It’s stupid. We’ve already slept together. She invited me over. There’s no reason my heart should be pounding like a freight train.
Except that last time, she’d been some stranger in a bar.
And this time, she’s Chelsea.
The light behind the door flicks on, and I exhale, schooling my features into what I hope is a neutral expression as the locks click. She opens the door, and I’m not nervous anymore.
She looks adorable in a Montana Wolfpack T-shirt that hangs off one shoulder and a pair of sweatpants, with her hair piled up on top of her head in a messy knot.
Has a woman ever worn sweatpants in front of me?
My sister, sure, but aside from Lainey, I can’t remember anyone.
Usually when women greet me at the door, they’re wearing lingerie.
Is it weird that I find her choice refreshing?
“Hey.” Master of words.
“Hey.” She steps back, signaling that I should come in, and I do, but now the nerves are back.
One thing I’ll say about lingerie—it’s a much clearer signal than sweats.
“Can I take your coat?”
“Sure, yeah.” I pull it off and hand it over.
Even as she drapes it over the back of the chair closest to the door, she takes in my blue suit, white shirt, and black tie.
My tongue darts out to wet my lips, an involuntary response to having her eyes on me.
“Guess I’m a little underdressed.”
I smile at the joke and follow Chelsea into the living room, my heart thudding with awareness.
I’m almost positive she’s not wearing a bra, and I’m desperate to get her even more underdressed, and under me, if I can manage it.
“Standard issue. They make us wear’em,” I say by way of explanation, smoothing my free hand down my tie. “I told you suits are overrated.”
“Not the way you wear them.” She thumbs behind her. “I was just making popcorn.”
The mach speed between compliment and snacks catches me so off guard that all I can think of to say is, “It smells great.”
It smells great? Jesus Christ.
“I’ll just go finish up. Make yourself at home.”
You should see me out of the suit.
That’s what I should have said, but she’s already gone so I shove my hands in my pockets and saunter deeper into the living room where a framed photograph on the mantel catches my eye.
A family of four, dad, mom, son, and daughter, dressed in their summer vacation best and taking in the beach under a brilliant blue sky.
Younger Craig London’s still barrel-chested and formidable, without any of the current gray speckling his brown hair.
Chelsea’s mom’s a knockout. Almost a dead ringer for her daughter, she’s a beautiful brunette with blue eyes, though her smile lacks the radiance of Chelsea’s.
It’s more reserved, less genuine. The kind of smile you put on for the camera.
As a master of that particular smile, it's easy for me to recognize it.
Big brother Andrew looks like a mini-version of the man I’d met briefly at the fundraiser the other night.
The guy’s still styling his brown hair in the same future-businessman-of-America haircut he’s sporting in the photo, but the grin on his face warns that the clean-cut exterior shouldn’t deceive you.
He’s definitely trouble, or he’s looking for it, at the very least.
And then there’s little Chelsea. She’s an adorable kid, chubby-cheeked and wide-eyed. Her hair was lighter back then, more dark blonde than light brown, but her smile hasn’t changed at all. Except that she has all her teeth now.
She appears in the doorway, clutching a blue plastic bowl full of popcorn but stops abruptly when I look up from the photo in my hand.
I notice right away that her hair’s down now, falling in loose waves around her face. The way I said I like it.
“Looks like a good day,” I say, holding up the photo before setting it back on the mantel, angling it so that Craig London is facing the front window.
“Proof that we were mostly happy once. That not all my memories are deceiving me.”
Yeah, I get that. I have a few carefully curated photos of my own from back in the day.
My dad’s hand on my head, both of us holding hockey sticks and smiling eerily similar smiles from in front of the shoddy net I used to set up in the driveway to practice my slap shot.
A young me, decked out in NHL pajamas, asleep in my mom’s arms as she brushes a dark curl off my forehead.
The one shot I found where Lainey wasn’t scowling, but instead, was trying to outdo me as we pulled faces at whoever was holding the camera.
None of them are accurate, or at least not indicative of my real childhood.
My dad spent all his time high on Vicodin and cursing hockey for leaving him in pain, or down at the failing bar he’d invested a large chunk of the family’s dwindling savings into.
My mother was often absent and rarely maternal.
And back then, Lainey was only a visiting figure in my life, forced to spend part of her summers with her annoying little half-brother, ten years her junior. She’d mostly avoided me.
But I still protect those skewed memories.
“That was kinda deep, huh?” Her laugh is self-conscious. “Sometimes I get philosophical after midnight. Just ignore it.”
“I was kind of surprised you’re still up.”
“I always get a bit turned around after a big event.” She sits in the middle of the couch and settles the big plastic bowl on her lap. “Lots of late nights to get things set up. It takes me a little while to wind down, get back on a normal schedule. I was going to watch a movie.”
“I get that. I’m always keyed up after a game. Mind if I join you?”
She motions to the available couch space and reaches for the remote control.
I make myself comfortable next to her, propping my feet on the coffee table, our shoulders touching as I reach over to grab a handful of popcorn.
“Your suit’s going to get all wrinkled,” she chastises, angling her legs under her before grabbing the blanket off the back of the couch and tucking it around her lower body.
When she’s done, her knees press against my thigh, and I wonder if the contact is deliberate or incidental. Not that I mind, either way.
“I’ve got other suits.”
By the end of the movie, we’re barely paying attention.
I shed my suit jacket about ten minutes in, and my tie hangs loose around my neck.
She picked a stupid horror flick, and we spent most of it yelling at the screen to warn the fictional characters of their impending bad life choices even as said characters walked right into the killer’s traps.
Once we gave up on saving them, the evening devolved into throwing popcorn in the air and trying to catch it in our mouths, which further deteriorated into trying to throw popcorn into each other’s mouths.
Currently, we’re camped out on opposite ends of the couch, me on my back, and Chelsea on her knees on the far cushion, between my feet.
I wedge a throw pillow between my shoulders and the armrest of the couch.
“If I’d known your aim was this bad, I would have brought my helmet,” I joke, as another fluffy kernel bounces off my forehead and rolls down my chest. “This tie cost a lot of money, you know. And now it’s covered in butter stains. ”
“Okay, one more,” she promises, screwing up her nose in concentration, and I dutifully open my mouth as a target. Her toss is high enough, but a little wide, so I help her out, leaning to my left and snatching the projectile out of the air.
“Yes!” She lifts both hands in victory, laughing.
She’s about the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen in that moment, and I feel kind of dumb for thinking it, but I can't stop.
“I did it!”
“You did it?” I demand with mock-affront, wondering what this weird lightness in my chest is all about. “I deserve at least an assist on that play.”
To my surprise, she puts the bowl on the floor and crawls forward to lie beside me, wedging herself between my body and the back of the couch.
“Fine. I’ll share the credit with you. But only if you’ll share your shirt popcorn.”
Her fingers dance over my torso, and when she lifts her hand, she has a few kernels to show for it. I grin when she actually eats a piece, before holding one out to me.
I accept it, inadvertently catching the tip of her finger between my lips, reveling in the mellow hum of contentment buzzing through me.
It’s... nice, having her tucked up against me, laughing and feeding me popcorn.
I’ve always thought nice was a bland word. Synonymous with boring. Why would anyone want that when they could have something wild, or mind-blowing, or naughty, or even outright bad?
The women I’ve dated, and the woman I married in particular, always wanted to be out on the town, seeing and being seen. And I’d never minded.
But the casual intimacy of just hanging out with Chelsea tonight?
I like it.
And that's no good at all.
Because I came over to have sex, not feelings. Feelings are the part of the equation I suck at. The part I don’t trust myself not to screw up again. And I don’t have time for feelings right now anyway. Not with my hockey career hanging in the balance.
It doesn’t matter how much fun Chelsea is, or how perfectly she fits snuggled up against me, and it’s irrelevant that I feel this way even though we're both still wearing all our clothes.
Shit.
I need to get the hell out of here.
“It’s getting pretty late.”
Chelsea lifts her head from my shoulder at the announcement.
“I should probably head out. Let you get some sleep.”
“Oh, okay.” She pushes up into a sitting position.
I’m off the couch and on my feet in record time. If I stay one more minute, I’m going to kiss her. And if I kiss her, I’m not leaving tonight. “The movie was fun. Thanks for letting me stop by.”
“Yeah, of course.” Confusion still colors her voice, even as she gets to her feet.
I turn to go, but her hand on my arm stops me.
“Wait. No. You can’t go yet. I need to ask you something first.”
I raise an expectant eyebrow, playing it cool even though the way my skin buzzes under her fingertips, despite layers of fabric, has me on edge.
Chelsea takes a deep breath and squares her shoulders. The way she notches her chin up gives her a look of determination that doesn’t quite track with her couch-mussed hair and the way her Wolfpack T-shirt slides off her shoulder.
“Did you booty text me earlier, or not?”