Chapter 41
“You should have asked me,” he said again.
Alyssa squeezed her eyes shut. “Yes, I should have. I’m sorry. But what about your monologue about how everybody needs a team?”
“My monologue?”
“You said nobody can go it alone. But that’s what you’re trying to do.”
He leaned forward and hissed. “I’ve asked you out three times, and you keep saying no. And then slept with me anyway.”
Jakub howled in glee. One of the guys shoved his face into the chest of the guy next to him to muffle him.
Alyssa flushed furiously. “Because you didn’t really want to go out with me.”
He stared at her and threw his arms out in a what-the-hell gesture. “I really did.”
“Well … I know that now,” she said weakly. “I thought you were mad at me. Anyway, you have to let people help.”
“I have to?” His voice was still wooden.
“Yes. Because of Gretzky.”
He cocked his head.
“Because he scored a lot of points. I don’t know how many …” Here the whole team gasped. “Sorry to shock you,” she muttered.
“My god, Nick. You sure you want to go out with her?” Devin called. Alyssa gave him mean squinty eyes.
“There’s a reason they give a point for an assist,” she said. “That’s the player who helps set up the goal.”
“I’m aware,” Nick said. There was a faint smile in his eyes. Finally.
“Because people need help. Even what’s-his-face Gretzky.”
“This is killing me,” André moaned.
Alyssa pushed on. “How many goals do you think he would have scored if he’d been out there by himself?”
“About the same number,” someone muttered.
“You are not helping,” Alyssa said crisply. “Nick, you’d understand more about life if you understood more about hockey.” And now he was smiling, recognizing his own speech to her when she’d been angry about the ad he’d placed without asking her.
She thought for a moment, then took a deep breath. “I’ll have a launch party if you’ll paint these guys and file for your degree.” She stuck her hand out.
The corner of his mouth quirked up. “Will there be pink cookies?”
“Oh, you know it.”
He looked at her, then shook her hand. When they let go, she slapped a brush across his palm.
“Can you explain later about the rejecting me thing?” he asked.
“Oh, that was me being stupid.” She waved a hand. “I’m over that.”
“You’re not stupid anymore?”
“Well, realistically there will be bumps. But if you wanted to ask me out sometime, I’d say yes.”
“Huh.” He reached into the box and pulled out the palette and the tubes of paint. He turned one over in his hand. “This is a good brand.”
“Don’t leave her hanging, man,” Devin called.
“She really, really deserves it,” Nick said.
“That’s kind of true,” Alyssa said.
Nick set up his palette, starting with white in the center. He clearly knew exactly what he was doing. He fiddled with the easels, lowering them, and then called, “Be handsomer. You’re gonna ruin my art.” The guys grinned. “Did you bring a beret?” he said to Alyssa. “I can’t paint without a beret.”
“Oh! I didn’t know. I …” And then Alyssa realized that he was kidding, and gave him a gentle shove.
“She is worse than Moose McFarland,” he called to no one in particular. “You guys were right.”
Nick grabbed a pencil and sketched in the outline of the five players in uniform in front of him. Before he was done, the other guys had dressed in uniform and filtered over, one by one, to stand with the initial five. Every guy on the team. “You’re just making more work,” Nick grumbled, but his eyes were wet. He sketched them in, filling the canvas to the edge, as though it were a photograph taken too close. It gave the composition energy and immediacy.
“Hey, Schlicky!” Devin called to the equipment manager. “We need some sticks over here.”
Schlicky understood and grabbed a handful of the nearest sticks, not bothering to make sure each player got the length and curvature he would have used while playing. The entire Detroit team tapped their sticks on the floor, the way they would on the ice during a game. The clatter was a show of support—what they would do when an injured player finally stood up. Which was more or less what Nick had just done, Alyssa thought.
“You know,” he said, turning his head to talk to her, but keeping his eyes on the canvas, “I enjoy eating.”
“Um …”
“It’s a thing I do every night. Have dinner,” he clarified.
“Oh.”
“Sometimes it’s nice to have company.” The team tapped their sticks on the floor again, encouraging him. “Would you guys knock it off? This is embarrassing enough.” They grinned and tapped harder. “You see what I put up with?”
“Yes,” Alyssa said.
“Yes, you understand what knuckleheads they are? Or yes, you’ll go to dinner with me?”
She grinned. “Both.”
“Whoo-hoo!” Jakub shouted. “Finally.”
Nick grinned back. “It may be a while before I get out of here, though,” he said. He mixed a little blue on his brush, and Alyssa wondered at that—there was nothing blue in front of him. But then he painted a shadow under André’s cheekbone, and it was perfect. He was using primary colors and bold strokes, and the team was coming to life in front of him. “Although Frank doesn’t have his bridge in. That’ll save painting a whole bunch of teeth.” The guys laughed and bantered, and Nick painted. When Alyssa edged closer, he draped an arm around her.
“Too bad we don’t have an octopus,” one of the guys said. “That would look cool.” There was a general murmur of agreement.
“An octopus?” Alyssa said.
“Yeah, the fans throw them on the ice sometimes, especially during the playoffs,” Nick said.
“Oh, I am not falling for that! There isn’t a chicken, but there’s an octopus?” She snorted.
“Stay still!” Nick grumbled as the guys collapsed on one another with laughter. He looked sideways at Alyssa. “You should probably talk to your stepdad again.”
Eventually she pulled up a folding chair and sat to watch while he worked. The team joked but stood still.
Alyssa texted Emma: I need flowers for my launch party.
Emma responded immediately: ?? ??For your business?
Alyssa: Yes.
Emma: What kind of flowers do you want?
Alyssa: Fanciest thing you’ve got. I want fancy flowers.
Emma: Have you thought about color yet?
Alyssa: HAVE WE MET?
Alyssa: I have a whole folder.
Alyssa: We should meet to discuss.
Emma: I can be wherever you are in ten minutes.
Emma: Realistically that’s a lie, but you get the idea.
Emma: Dinner?
Alyssa: I’ll check in tomorrow. I’m having dinner with Nick tonight.
Alyssa: It’s an actual date.
Then she dropped her phone in her bag and ignored Emma’s urgent buzzing. When Nick had done enough for the day and the room was heady with the stink of paint, they cleaned the brushes together in the trainer’s room, their hands bumping each other’s under the stream of water.
“Maybe I did need a push,” Nick admitted.
“Maybe I did too,” Alyssa said.
“Buuck!” Nick clucked. Alyssa pulled back and stared at him. “Hey, I think I hear the chicken.”
She opened her mouth to tell him what she thought about that, but he stepped into her, wrapping her in his arms and sliding his tongue into her mouth, hot and hungry. The brush in his hand tangled in her hair, and she dug her fingers into his shoulders and moaned. “I have to practice.” His voice was husky.
“No, you’re already very good.”
He laughed and lifted her hair out of his way with one hand and nibbled on the side of her neck. She moaned again. Someone cleared his throat in the doorway—Schlicky, the equipment manager.
“Can you stall them ten minutes?” Nick said, rubbing his thumb across the hairs at the back of her neck without touching the skin. Alyssa shivered.
“Nope,” Schlicky called cheerfully. “Better get out on the ice.”
“I’m not dressed yet,” Nick said. “I have to get out of my street clothes.”
“I could help,” Alyssa whispered.
“None of that now,” the equipment manager called. She flushed, realizing he’d heard. Although it probably wasn’t any worse than the position he’d found them in, locked in an embrace by the sink. “There’ll be plenty of time for your dinner and romance,” he shouted over his shoulder, and from somewhere in the locker room a couple of sticks tapped their encouragement.
Alyssa sank her forehead against Nick’s chest in embarrassment. She’d done so many inappropriate things. And everything had worked out anyway.
“Later I want to paint you,” Nick murmured into her hair. “Nude. And I’ll need to take breaks.”
“To study Michelangelo?”
“Yeah. You’ve made me appreciate my art education again.”
“Mmm. That’s a really good plan.” She stroked Nick’s rough jawline and kissed him. Schlicky was right—there would be time. She and Nick were finally on the same team.