8. A Totally Platonic Proposition
A TOTALLY PLATONIC PROPOSITION
SUTTON
“My shadow?” I exclaim, confusion claiming purchase inside of me.
Before Lake has the chance to elaborate, Coach Lawson joins the conversation, his stentorian voice ricocheting off the rink’s reinforced interior.
“Lake here is going to be writing a series of articles about the team to generate traffic and exposure for the ongoing season,” Coach says, his tone ripe with undue pride, and he shakes my shoulders.
My jaw has permanently glued itself to the ground, and the blush festering in Lake’s cheeks tells me she wasn’t expecting to get outed like that before her first day of work.
This girl—the one who has occupied every floorspace in my brain with her witty remarks and Maldivian-blue eyes and tough outer shell that I’m determined to crack—is going to be working with the Mustangs for the foreseeable semester.
In close proximity. At every practice. At every game.
Studying me and my teammates as if the hockey player species has just been discovered on the Galapagos Islands.
I’m fucked. Oh, I’m so fucked.
I wasn’t able to focus during practice because the ghost of her was haunting me.
Who knows what will happen when her physical body is sitting only a few feet away from me.
I’m going to choke. I have no problem playing for the greater population—the fans, Coach—but my touch-starved ego is going to make a terrible habit of needing to impress Lake every time I step on the ice.
We’re not together. We haven’t even been on a proper date, for crying out loud.
This is just a bad case of puppy love that I need to muzzle.
My self-control has never been compromised before, and surely not by the likes of a revenge-seeking, cricket-harboring fugitive with a smile that could end wars.
“I was about to tell you,” Lake insists, practically glowing fire-bright with embarrassment. “It’s all a new development.”
Coach tends to take the reins in every conversation, but right now he’s especially adamant about not letting me get a word in. “Sutton would be happy to be your hockey tour guide. If you have any questions, he’s your guy.”
My heart knots in my chest—a big, ugly thing that can’t be broken down with words of encouragement or high-grade solvent. “I am?”
Coach elbows me in the side, making me cringe.
“I mean, I am!” I rectify quickly.
I’d rather die than have one of my teammates be Lake’s appointed hockey encyclopedia, but me be her tour guide? That involves a lot of talking, and my Lake-impaired brain doesn’t have anything of substance to contribute to the conversation as it is.
“Don’t worry, I won’t hog too much of your time. Most of my research is observation based. A few interviews here and there,” Lake says.
“Interviews?” I croak, feeling my once-repressed nerves bubble in my stomach like I just downed an unwise shot of vodka. My body is growing hot even in the climate-controlled sanctity of the rink, and I paw at the collar of my jersey to peel it back from my neck.
I don’t like the spotlight, which, yes, is ironic considering my choice of sport. I don’t play hockey for the fame; I play it because I value being a part of a team, and it’s one of the sports where my large physique doesn’t hinder my ability.
I was about as coordinated as a drowned rat when it came to swim, cross-country was a pain in my ass, and I’d probably break all my bones if I tried out for the gymnastics team.
I can’t imagine a world where I’m not a defenseman.
I get to protect my teammates and slam opponents against the boards without repercussions. It’s the best of both worlds.
All my friends can ace an interview with their eyes closed.
And usually I’m no exception, but if Lake is interviewing me?
I’ll need at least a week of preparation and twenty flashcards with important speaking points.
Or a teleprompter. I’ll also need to create some protective force field to keep her siren powers at bay.
“Did someone say ‘interviews’?” a voice asks from my left, loudening in volume as Foster’s incoming figure barrels into our private conversation.
Coach Lawson makes a dramatic show of sighing, scrubbing a hand down the unkempt whiskers on his face. “Yes, Waylen, but you should be concerning yourself with going over gameplays with the rest of your teammates.”
“Then how come Sutton gets a break?” Foster whines.
“Sutton was just showing our new guest around. Isn’t that right?”
I nod, closemouthed. Unlike a lot of my more meddlesome colleagues, I think I give Coach a less strenuous headache.
Foster’s eyes dart toward Lake—who looks like a timid doe in headlights—and he threatens to open his piehole before Coach personally escorts him back to center ice, donning a frown that’s synonymous with Foster and his lack of filter.
Coach has no idea how clutch he just came in. The last thing I needed was for my friends to tease me about my crush while she’s standing less than five feet away.
Lake rocks back on her heels, shoving her hands into her parka’s pockets. “You don’t need to babysit me; I can find my way around. My little brother plays hockey, so I know the basics. If I have any questions, I’m sure a Google search will suffice.”
Shit. I wasn’t giving her the impression that being her tour guide was an inconvenience, was I?
That strange fluttering feeling has creeped back into my belly, and it’s somehow worse than the indigestion I get after the campus’s suspiciously labeled breakfast burritos. “No! No, it’s fine. I mean, I don’t mind. I’m happy to answer any of your questions.”
Lake’s eyebrow nearly touches her hairline. “You are?”
“Of course. I’m the one Coach chose to work closely with you. The other guys—I’m not sure how serious they would take all of this.”
I’m always ready on my feet around Lake, which is either an aftereffect of Coach’s drill sergeant teachings or my inherent need to tend to this girl twenty-four-seven.
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think that maybe this was all part of your plan,” she jests, and her harmless accusation has me fighting acid reflux.
“Plan? Of course not! I had no idea you’d be here today.
I’d have to be, like, psychic or something.
I don’t think psychics exist. I mean, they do, but I don’t know how much I believe in their ideology.
This was just a coincidence. Yep, a good, old-fashioned coincidence,” I blabber, bouncing my dominant leg in a blackout of nervous energy, the tightness of my uniform becoming more claustrophobic with every second that passes.
Squeezing, suffocating, stealing my composure with barely any effort.
I don’t think I had any in the first place, but if I did, it took a suicidal plummet the minute the woman of my dreams came sauntering into the rink.
“I’m just messing with you,” Lake says, balling her hand into a fist and hitting me playfully on the arm.
It’s the equivalent of a light breeze of wind, and my overactive imagination is left to make sense of the panicked thoughts running amuck. She touched me. She touched me, and I want to touch her back.
Lake—who’s already unknowingly testing the limits of my willpower—gives my bicep a few squeezes and observes the circumference of muscle with unblinking eyes. “Wow, that’s solid. You could probably choke someone out really easily.”
She’s still touching me. And although my pants are thick enough to hide an unwanted disturbance down south, it’s not encouraged.
I’m not usually girl obsessed. I’ve never been a playboy; I’ve never liked sleeping around. I need to have an emotional connection to have sex with someone, and I rarely go out of my way to approach women.
People are just…unpredictable.
Right now, I’m warring between the urge to flee, the urge to fight, and the unrelated urge to push her up against every conceivable surface.
The sound of a whistle ping-pongs around the open space, signaling the end of practice. All my teammates begin to filter toward the locker room, skating in clumps before dispersing into a single file line after hitting the lip of the entrance.
She crosses her arms over her chest, looking over her shoulder at the slowly emptying rink. “I guess that’s it for today.”
Still a fair distance from the locker room, I slowly begin shuffling in its general direction before Lake stops me.
“What are you doing after this? Do you want to grab a bite to eat?”
My head swivels around, foolishly looking for the recipient of her hospitable invitation, and then I point to my chest. “Me?”
It’s a nonthreatening question. In fact, she’s been nothing but nice to me, and I’ve probably given her the impression that I’m being held hostage by talks of business etiquette. “Sutton, there’s no one else around. Yes, you.”
Getting food with her may not seem like that big of a deal, but throughout human history, sharing meals is an intimate thing to do. This girl terrifies me. I’m sweating an abnormal amount. I’m sweating in places I didn’t know I could sweat. I need to be hit by a horse tranquilizer.
“I’m, uh, not super hungry,” I lie.
I think she’s about to accept my barefaced excuse when my stomach betrays me with a long, hollow growl like I haven’t eaten in days, and the starved sound travels through the rink with a deep reverberation that can’t be blamed on anything else. My hand involuntarily lowers to my belly.
She expels hot air out of her nostrils. “How many calories do you burn during practice?”
“Usually seven hundred,” I admit sheepishly.
“Right, and you need to replace those calories to function for the rest of the day.”
She’s right. I usually grab something high in protein after practice.
Lake—who subconsciously knows I can’t resist her when she bridges the distance between us—glances up at me through wispy lashes, a small dimple rewarding me for my effort to stay still. It only peeks out when she’s beaming from ear to ear.
“There’s a family-style pizza place just on the outskirts of campus. It’s my treat. Consider this a makeup of the date we were supposed to have before I landed in the slammer.”
“Date?” I echo, and the prospect of getting more alone time with her appeals to me in the same way a big, fat, greasy slice of meat lover’s pizza does.
“I mean, it doesn’t have to be one if you don’t want it to be,” she amends swiftly, dropping her eyes to the toes of my uninteresting skates. “I just—”
“I want it to be,” I assure her, sweeping her small hand into my large glove, my anxiety transfiguring into a fresh breath of excitement that I didn’t know was even possible given my self-imposed restraints.
“Great. I can’t let one of the best players on the team starve.”
My gut pointedly agrees with her, because it rumbles again, practically begging me to drag myself in the direction of delicious carbohydrates.
I’m starving, all right. Just not for what she’s offering.