Chapter Five
Five
Tristan
I don’t want the beer in my hands.
I want Michelle in my hands. God, she smells so good, fits so perfectly against me. Not touching her is killing me, but I’ll be damned if I push her too far after waiting not-so-patiently for her to warm up to the idea of us being something more than friends.
I was starting to think I had a better chance of warming up a polar bear.
I rub my palm over the stubble on my jaw, just to give my hand something to do. She’s laughing as she sends another puck down the board, catching my eye with a wicked gleam as her puck sends mine tipping off the edge.
I set down my beer on a nearby table and try to focus on the task at hand and stop obsessing about the ridiculous need I have for the dark-haired woman at my side.
She’s too good for me. She always will be.
I would weigh her down when she could fly. Isn’t that what I always do? My lips form a grim line as memories wash over me.
The disgusted curl of my mom’s lip when I dropped out of college to play pro.
I was so fucking excited, hoping that she’d finally be proud of me, that I would be enough. I’d raced home on a red-eye flight to tell her, only for her to sneer and ask how much they were going to pay me.
The way she’d told me she always knew I couldn’t do it all, that I wasn’t smart enough to keep up with school and play soccer. That I was too lazy, just like my dad, her first husband, who she loved to laughingly describe as there for a good time, not a long time.
I can’t let myself get my hopes up when it comes to Michelle.
She deserves someone who is everything I’m not, who would be there for a long time.
Just because I’ve spent the last two years wanting her doesn’t mean we’re a good idea. I’m probably the worst idea she would ever have.
I drain the rest of my beer, hardly tasting it. If I were a better man, she probably would have accepted the first time I asked her out. It’s only because she’s tipsy that she’s showing even the tiniest bit of interest in me.
Each thought embeds itself into me like thorns, sharp enough to cut.
“Come on, Tristan. It’s your turn.” Michelle gives me a shy smile, and the thorns melt away.
I haven’t seen that smile before, but it’s not fake or forced at all.
It’s hopeful—and I don’t deserve her hope. Not one bit.
But I can be the good-time guy I always am.
“Hurry up, Tristan,” Logan calls from the other side of the table. “The longer you take, the more likely Michelle is to get annoyed with us and decide to be all uptight again.”
I don’t have to look at her; I can feel the tension race back up her spine. She shifts slightly away from me and crosses her arms over her chest, like it will protect her from how everyone sees her. Like it’s armor.
“She’s not uptight, asshole,” I tell him easily, sliding my last puck down the board. It glances off the side of Michelle’s puck, nearly sending it over the edge, before tapping one of mine and sending it farther down the board. I grin at it.
I might be shit at a lot of things, but hand-eye coordination has never been one of them.
“Nice shot,” Michelle tells me. Her eyes are sparkling, pink flushing her cheeks, and she’s so beautiful it makes my chest ache.
It makes me want to be stupid and selfish.
Vincenzo calls out the score, marking it down on the chalkboard hanging on the wall next to him, and I hardly hear what he says.
I can’t hear anything over the bad decisions screaming in my ear.
“We could make this more interesting.” I raise an eyebrow, my pulse racing.
Her eyes narrow, and my smile deepens. I’ve got her. She’s too competitive not to take the bait I’m stupidly offering. “You talking about a bet, Gold?”
She tilts her head, not a hair falling out of place from the little knot she’s tied it into at the back of her neck. I want to rake my fingers through it, let it down around her shoulders, then wrap it around my fist and watch her eyes widen as I kiss her.
“Oh, I’m talking about a bet,” I say, grinning even wider.
One of the pucks slides our way, slowing before falling off the edge. “Too hard,” I yell out, not bothering to even look their way.
As if I could look away from the woman in front of me.
“Are y’all putting money on this game?” Djimon Ford asks, and Wyatt lets out a whoop next to him.
“Not money,” I say, watching Michelle’s expression carefully. Her eyebrows shoot up, her pretty pink lips pursing.
“She’s not gonna bet, man,” Connor Ford calls out from a nearby table. “Oxford is way too professional to make a bet with any of us.”
“That’s the bet,” I say, seizing on the way something crumples in her expression at Connor’s words.
Her nose scrunches up adorably. “Huh?”
“What are you talking about, Gold?” Djimon laughs.
“Everyone keeps saying Oxford here needs to chill out, right?” I say slowly, then rub my palms together like a cartoon villain, waggling my brows.
Michelle manages a little laugh at my antics, but I can tell she’s nervous.
“Because she’s wound tighter than the Wolf was at his worst,” Djimon says. “She’s, like, your complete opposite, Gold.”
That’s it. Complete opposites. He’s right, and I have what might be the worst idea in the world to take advantage of that.
A few of the guys laugh at that, and Michelle bites her lower lip for a split second before straightening up and putting on her boss bitch face.
I like that face. I like all of her expressions.
God, I’m selfish.
“What’s the bet?” Michelle asks, tapping her toes on the floor. She looks so cute and so damned out of place here in her stiff blue button-down and expensive heels and silky-looking slacks.
“If I win, I teach you how to let your hair down.” I reach for her but resist the urge to pull down that glossy knot. “I teach you how to chill out, take life as it comes.”
She snorts, an expression of disbelief on her face. “If years of therapy can’t do it, why do you think you can?”
“Because I’m not a therapist,” I tell her. “I’m perfect for the job. I live it. Nothing ever gets me wound up.”
Nothing but her, but she doesn’t need to know how tightly she could wrap me around her pink polished finger.
How tight she’d feel around my—
“He’s the golden goalie for a reason, Michelle,” Logan says, interrupting my thoughts.
Fine for a good time, not for a long time.
“And she has to give us a report on what she’s learned,” Connor shouts out.
“And doughnuts,” Djimon adds. “A Friday-morning game tape with doughnuts.” He pauses, narrowing his eyes like he’s thinking hard. “But not game tape…bet tape. Uh…” he trails off, clearly thrown.
“The doughnut debrief,” I supply smoothly, glancing back at Michelle.
She rolls her eyes, a tight smile on her lips. That’s her don’t-fuck-with-me smile, and I want to kiss it right off her mouth.
“I think it’s a pretty good name,” I drawl, daring her to disagree.
“Your coaches will kill me if I bring you doughnuts before training every Friday.” She’s thinking about it, though, I can tell.
“Nah, they’ll just demand Boston cream,” I tell her lightly, trying not to let on how badly I want her to say yes, to take the bet. “They’ll love it. Call it team building or some shit.”
“And if I win?”
I have her complete attention, and it’s all I’ve wanted for months now. I would give her fucking anything for that.
“If you win, they agree to do whatever PR we come up with,” Maddie chimes in from where she’s watching with some of the other front office staff. I didn’t even realize she was standing there.
That’s just how focused I am on Michelle, from the way the thin gold chain around her neck glints when she breathes deeply, to the way she shuffles her weight from foot to foot when she feels uncomfortable.
“And doughnuts for the front office,” Michelle adds, and some of the staffers cheer. She holds out a hand, and I take it, gripping it firmly, loving how both delicate and strong it feels in mine.
“You’ve got a deal.” I beam, because I’ve got her right where I want her.
Now I just need to keep her.