Legally Pink
SLADE
Buckling her seatbelt, she glances back at the dog.
“Do you know the way to Marble Falls Animal Clinic?” she asks as I pull onto the road.
“Know it well. Heading there now.”
I know every road in this county. I spent my whole childhood on them, mostly on horseback. When I left to play in the NHL, I told myself when I retired, I’d move back to Marble Falls for good, instead of just between seasons. Get a horse of my own. Put something permanent down.
I’ve been telling myself that for over a decade.
Maybe I’ve got some commitment issues.
“Do you think the dog will be okay?” she asks. Those beautiful chocolate eyes are fixed on me with a mixture of hope, worry, and pleading.
I don’t want to devastate this girl, but I don’t want to give her false hope either.
“The vet will tell us,” I say instead. “You’ve done everything you can.”
I turn up the volume dial on the radio. It’s not that I don’t want to have a conversation with her. It’s just that I’m no good at small talk and don’t know how to fill an awkward silence. I also want to try and distract her from her worry a little bit.
On the radio, one of my brother’s new hit songs he wrote with his wife comes ringing through the speakers. Lila seems to relax a little listening to it, shoulders losing some tension.
“I love this song,” she says.
“My brother and my sister-in-law wrote it.”
“Really? That’s so cool!”
“She’s talented. So’s my brother, but don’t ever tell him I said that. Walker’s got a big enough head already.”
Her eyes widen. “Wait. Slade Rhodes… Walker Rhodes is your brother?”
“Yeah. He’s a piece of work, but he’s good at what he does, I’ll give him that.”
I wait for the zillion questions about my extremely famous brother, but they don’t come. She just glances back at the dog again.
“Thank you for helping,” she says. “I don’t think I could have lifted a dog this size into my car.”
“Not a problem.”
My twinging shoulder says otherwise, but I’m used to ignoring that particular pain.
As she crosses her legs, I glance automatically at her shapely thighs in those bright pink tights. This is far from the time or place to be appreciating her body, but it’s pretty much impossible to ignore how gorgeous she is.
Appreciating it is one thing; doing something about it is another. And I’m not going to do anything about it.
I’m not going to ask her out.
I’m taking the season off while my shoulder heals, and when it does, I’ll move to a new city with my new team. Anything I started now would be doomed from the beginning, and I’ve had enough of watching good things end. I’m real clear on that.
I stare resolutely at the road. “I didn’t introduce myself properly yet. I’m Slade.”
Something softens in her expression, a small smile, like I’ve done something unexpectedly sweet without knowing it.
“Of course. We must make proper introductions.” A gentle teasing lilt. “Lila. Nice to meet you. I wish it were under better circumstances.”
She twists around to look at the dog, whose eyes are open and blinking, still impressively alert despite the injury.
“Everything is going to be okay,” she coos. “We’re going to take care of you.”
There’s a doggy snuffle in response, like it understands and believes her.
“I should call ahead to the vet,” Lila says. “Let them know we’re coming.”
While I drive, she calls the clinic and lets them know there’s an emergency coming in. By the time we get there, all hands are already on deck to take the dog in. Dr. Monroe is waiting for us, along with her team of vet techs.
After a flurry of activity, the X-rays reveal no internal bleeding or spinal damage, Dr. Monroe tells us. “She won’t be paralyzed,” she says, “which is the good news.”
“What’s the bad news?” I ask instantly.
“Bad news is she’s going to lose the leg.”
Lila gasps a little.
“But she’ll be stable,” Dr. Monroe continues. “She’s young, healthy otherwise, got a good strong heart. Dogs do remarkably well on three legs. I want to get her into surgery now, get everything controlled, and she should be out of the woods within a few hours.”
Lila nods. Swallows. “Okay.”
“You did the right thing bringing her in fast.” Dr. Monroe nods in my direction. “Slade, tell your dad we’ll be back at Wild Rose to check on Daisy Mae this Sunday, but I think we’re in the clear there too. Not colic. Just a persnickety eater.”
“He’ll be glad to know it.”
As we walk back into the waiting room, there are curious glances aimed in her direction, at her bunny costume. Can’t blame anyone for looking. But from a ranch hand I recognize in the far corner, there’s a glance that’s tipping the scale from appreciative to lecherous, as far as I’m concerned.
Lila wraps her arms around herself. “I should have brought a change of clothes,” she says with a nervous laugh.
I shrug my canvas jacket off and settle it around her shoulders.
It’s a well-worn Carhartt, soft from years of ranch work, and it carries the smell of cedar soap and woodsmoke and probably a little horse if I’m being honest. On me it’s just a jacket.
On her, it swallows her whole, the collar grazing her jaw, the hem falling to mid-thigh, and she pulls it around herself and tips her face up to mine.
“Oh,” she says softly. “Thank you.”
“Anytime.”
I lead us to a couple of empty chairs and gesture for her to take a seat before I do. I might not be good with relationships, but my father at least instilled gentlemanly manners in all us Rhodes boys.
Lila’s gaze drifts to the surgery doors for the third time in as many minutes. She’s got her fingers twisted together in her lap, obviously anxious.
“The dog’s in good hands,” I tell her, resisting the urge to give her hands a comforting squeeze. “Dr. Monroe’s the best vet in the county. Been taking care of our ranch animals since I was a kid. I trust her.”
Lila’s eyes search mine, gratitude and something almost shy shining within them. “You don’t have to stay,” she says. “You’ve done so much already. I feel bad having you wait.”
Even as the words come from her lips, she’s snuggling into my jacket, looking mighty cozy.
“I’m invested now,” I say. “Gotta see this through. That dog was on my family’s land. That makes her our responsibility.”
Lila looks at me with wide eyes. “Your family’s land.” A small smile. “So you did know the owner!”
“My dad,” I confirm. “Plus we gotta figure out your car key situation when this is all said and done.”
She puts her hands to her cheeks and shakes her head. “I can’t believe I locked myself out of my car. First time for everything, and of course it’s the worst possible timing.”
“Hey. You saved a life today. That’s all that counts.”
“We saved a life,” she says with another one of those gorgeous smiles.
There’s a fine pearly shimmer across her cheekbones and I have the strange urge to drag my thumb across it, just to know if her skin is as soft as it looks. I don’t. I let my gaze drop instead, becoming aware I’ve been quiet for a few seconds too long.
I clear my throat. “So. Uh. Can I ask, what’s with the…” I gesture vaguely in her direction, trying not to stare at her anymore than I already have.
“With what?” she asks innocently.
With everything she’s got going on beneath my jacket. The corset. The tights. The little bunny tail on top of her ass. I’ve got a lot of questions about all of it, none of which are appropriate to ask a woman I just met.
I settle for asking, “What’s with the ears?”
She reaches up and strokes along one of them slowly, like she forgot she was wearing them, pink sparkly nails trailing the satin edge. Then she lifts them off and sets them in her lap. “Oh, it’s for a job.”
What the hell kind of job has a girl dressing like a sexy bunny?
Wait.
My mouth goes dry. Is this girl a stripper?
I’ve got teammates who could answer that question with a lot more authority than me. I’ve never been interested in paying for a woman’s company. But I’m not naive.
“What kind of job?” I can’t stop myself from asking.
“I’m being auctioned off.”
My head swivels towards her. “You’re being what now?”
“Oh dear.” Her voice is solemn. “I’ve scandalized you.”
A giggle escapes her, bright and a little wicked, and I realize she’s fucking with me. Heat climbs up my neck.
“No, seriously, though,” I say. “What’s the deal?”
“I am being auctioned,” she says breezily. “It’s for charity. All very above-board. No need to get your boxers in a twist.”
“I’m more of a boxer-briefs guy,” I mutter automatically.
She laughs a little again. “I could totally see that.” There’s a teasing smile in her voice that draws my gaze to her once again.
It turns out it’s very difficult to keep my eyes off her.
“Anyway,” she continues, “I’m a volunteer at the animal shelter and there’s a charity benefit tonight.
One of the things you can bid on is a date with an eligible volunteer.
All of us single ladies and guys who volunteered to do it thought it would be cute to dress up as a different animal.
Since I already had the Elle Woods Legally Blonde costume, a bunny seemed like an easy fit. ”
I frown. “What’s an Elle Woods Legally Blonde?”
“The movie, Legally Blonde? The moment where Elle Woods, aka Reese Witherspoon, walks into a very uptight law school party dressed like this?”
“Never seen it.”
“Hmm. That doesn’t surprise me.” She pats my hand briefly. The flash of sparkly pink against my tanned, scarred, calloused skin is almost comical. “I suspect your cinema education leaves much to be desired, cowboy.”
“I know movies,” I protest. “The classics, at least. The Godfather. Fistful of Dollars. Fight Club.”
“My version of the classics is a little different. How about Love Actually? 10 Things I Hate About You? Titanic?”
“Don’t need to see Titanic. I already know the ending.”
Her eyes narrow. “Was that a joke?”
I shift uncomfortably in the seat that’s way too tiny for someone my size. “I guess so.”
“It was a terrible one,” she whispers. And then she laughs. “I love it. Handsome men should tell bad jokes exclusively. It humanizes them.”
Her cheeks go pink the moment it’s out. She looks away, and I can see her replaying what she just said, clearly a little embarrassed by the slip, but I’m only getting more and more charmed but the minute.
Gorgeous, sense of humor, volunteers at the animal shelter?
Everything she tells me has me wanting to learn more.
I open my mouth to try and ask an interesting question, but instead what comes out is a gruff, “So what happens after someone wins the auction for a date with you?”
She shrugs. “I’m not sure, exactly. Maybe coffee? A dinner? Hopefully an hour of pleasant conversation and then we’re on our separate ways.”
“So it’s not like a real date?”
“I mean.” She tilts her head. “It’s a date.”
“But not a…” I stop. What am I even trying to ask? “Neither of you are expecting anything from it?”
“I’m expecting chit-chat and possibly something to eat or drink.” Those brown eyes are dancing. “Why, what do you expect from a date?”
I have no idea why I started this line of questioning.
Because right now all I can think about is what happens at the end of a date that goes well. I look at her mouth and think about it longer than I should. Kissing that pink lip gloss off those plush lips. Whether she’d go up on her toes to reach me. How far I’d have to duck down to reach her.
I think about what happens at the end of a date that goes really well. The invitation to come inside. A kiss that doesn’t end. I’d get my hands on her waist again the way I did at the fence, except this time I wouldn’t have to let go. I’d slide my palms up her ribcage, cup her—
Down, boy.
Time to shut that line of thought down all the way.
“Nothing,” I say. “Forget it.”
There’s a warm glimmer in those whiskey-brown depths, like she can tell what’s running through my mind. And still, she startles me when she says, “You could place a remote bid.”
“Bid on a date with you?”
“Doesn’t have to be with me. I have some gorgeous eligible fellow volunteers who would be thrilled to have you as the winning bidder. And it’s all for charity.”
I shake my head. The only woman I’d be interested in going out with is her, and it feels weird to pay for the privilege. Besides…
“I don’t enjoy first dates,” I admit to her.
“How come?”
“First dates are just two people pretending,” I say. “Pretending they’re some idealized version of themselves. Pretending they’re not being evaluated. I’m not interested in pretending.”
“Maybe you’ve just never been on a really enjoyable first date before,” she muses.
“Ain’t that the truth.”
For some reason, that makes her laugh again. And I don’t care if she laughing at me or with me, I just like to make her laugh.
Before I can open my mouth to say another dumb thing that might entertain her for some reason, a kid about nine or ten years old approaches me. I recognize the look in his eyes instantly, just like I recognize the jersey he’s got on beneath his cowboy hat.
Seattle Storm, number thirteen. Last name Rhodes.
“Excuse me, Mr. Rhodes, sir?” he asks me, equal parts nerves and hope. “Will you sign my jersey?” He’s already holding a Sharpie out to me.
“You got it,” I tell him. “Spin around.”
He does, then gives a little wave to his mom, who’s sitting across the waiting room practically bouncing on her toes with excitement.
I sign my name in the white part fabric of the number, like I’ve done a million times before. The number changes. The team changes. Only my scrawled signature remains the same.
“Thank you!” he exclaims. “You’re my favorite player ever. Doesn’t matter what team you’re on. You’re the best.”
“Thanks, man.” I give him a fist bump. “See you around.”
He scampers back to his mother, who oohs and ahhs over his newly signed jersey.
I feel eyes on me. I turn back to Lila, who’s looking at me curiously.
“Are you famous or something?” she asks.
I shrug, trying not to wince at the sharp pain in my shoulder. “I play hockey. Some people know me from that.”
Her eyes flicker to the little boy and back to me. “You were very sweet with him.”
“Kids are good fans. They’re authentic. They care for the right reasons.”
“Is there such a thing as a bad fan?”
“If you’re asking that question, you clearly don’t know sports,” I say grimly.
“Not even a little bit,” she confirms. “But I’d love to learn.”
I let my gaze dip to her lips as she nibbles the bottom one. Fuck, she’s so pretty. And she smells amazing. Like flowers and marshmallows or something. My nose has been broken enough times that my sense of smell isn’t what it used to be, but the hints of Lila’s scent are tantalizing.
“You wanna learn about hockey?” I ask, bemused.
“I’d love to.” She smiles at me, and it’s so pure and lovely that for a second I forget to breathe.
I get it now, why men do stupid things over girls they just met. Blow their lives up for someone they barely know. Start fights and wars over a woman.
This girl is Helen of Troy with pink hair and triple ear piercings. I could see launching a thousand ships for her.
Or rescuing a gigantic stray dog off the side of the road.