8. Caroline
8
CAROLINE
B rock becomes completely tongue-tied over my bold and flirty inquiry. I hadn’t meant to be so forward, but the words slipped out before I had a chance to really think them through. Seeing him so flustered makes me almost happy I didn’t filter the racy question.
For the first time since I’ve known him, Brock completely stutters and stammers over his answer. “Oh, I, umm. It doesn’t matter to me. Uh, we can spend the night… Err, we can stay wherever you’ll be more comfortable.”
I can’t keep from grinning at his rattled response. He has always seemed so smooth and confident. I assumed he was a natural ladies’ man, but his obvious discomfort over this tiny bit of suggestiveness hints otherwise.
It would be so fun to explore this awkward, sweet side of him, but that would be a move into dangerous territory. He’s already far more special to me than a typical player from the team, so getting to know him better with some fun banter during our forced night together is probably a colossally bad idea.
After thinking it over for a moment, I say, “The only place for you to sleep at my apartment is the sofa. I’m afraid that will be uncomfortably cramped for a big guy like you.”
Almost as if it has a mind of its own, my gaze travels down his thick, strong body and back up again.
Why did my eyes do that when it was expressly against my wishes? Now, I’ve made things super awkward.
When our gazes lock, his is filled with surprise, intrigue, and what I can only assume is lust. I want to bask in this addictive look from him, but I can’t allow myself to do that. Instead, I say in a brisk tone, “I assume we’ll both be more comfortable at your place.”
His voice starts out croaky, until he clears it. “Yes. Ahem. I have several guest bedrooms for you to choose between. My mom finds them to be acceptable, and she’s always been nearly impossible to please––even when we were dirt poor––so I’m sure the accommodations will suffice for you for one night.”
His word choice makes me wonder if he thinks I’m some sort of diva, but I’m too busy thinking about his revelations about his mom to ask about it. Of course, everyone is born to a mother, but I’d never really paused to think about his mom or his relationship with her.
He’s such a strong, independent man, it’s tough to imagine him jumping through hoops to try to please a difficult, ungrateful parent.
As if he can read my mind, he gives me a wide grin before asking, “Let me guess, you thought I was raised by wolves?”
The surprised laugh bursts out of me before I can contain it. He’s closer to the truth than I care to admit, so I say, “No, it’s nothing like that. It’s just hard to imagine you being someone’s baby boy.”
He scoffs before saying, “My mom was never the nurturing type, even when my brother and I were little, but yes, she gave birth to us and made sure we were provided with the basic necessities.”
His gaze softens when he adds, “Of course, one of my basic necessities has always been time on the ice. We lived just around the corner from an aging, indoor ice-skating rink. Mom made arrangements with the owner for me to work at the concession stand during peak hours in exchange for unlimited time on the ice when we weren’t busy. That dingy rink quickly became my home away from home.”
I smile down toward the ground before saying, “It seems like that pastime worked out well for you.”
“It did,” he quickly agrees. Turning more pensive, he adds, “I don’t have any idea where I’d have ended up without ice hockey, but I can guarantee it wouldn’t have been good. Most of the kids from my old neighborhood… Well, let’s just say they aren’t thriving. Me and my brother, the ever-responsible accountant, are some of the only ones who got out of there and made anything worthwhile of ourselves. Oh, plus my scrimmage buddy, Leo. He lives in Indiana now, and is a tree farmer.”
It’s a plethora of personal information, and it takes me a moment to absorb it all. We’ve never shared such personal details of our lives with each other before, but I find myself enjoying seeing these deeper layers to Brock.
Seeming to sense that he has overshared a bit, he suddenly indicates his oversized SUV and asks me, “Follow me to my house?”
“Oh, sure,” I answer, trying to keep my expression neutral and not let on how much his abrupt demeanor shift has affected me.
With that, he stalks toward his vehicle.
I climb into the driver’s seat of my car and try my best not to think about how excited I am to be spending the night at Brock Mann’s house––even though that’s honestly the only thing on my mind.