Chapter 19
NINETEEN
CONNOR
For a group of guys who spend most of their time coordinating game plays on ice, we’re surprisingly uncoordinated trying to do a conga line down the middle of the dance floor at Seventh Heaven on Saturday night.
In our defense, the place is packed. We’re practically squeezed together, trying to move around everyone else.
The sleeves on my white button-down shirt are rolled up to my elbows, my sweat making the fabric cling to my body. I push one hand through my hair, still damp from the shower I had after the game. Or maybe that’s sweat too. I can’t tell any longer.
The club is a sea of blue and silver moving together as one. It’s a little more unruly than usual in here, after our first win against Boston in three years. And with the final score tallying nine to two, we didn’t just win—we wiped the rink with them.
It feels fucking good.
I don’t know who proclaimed Seventh Heaven the official afterparty spot tonight. I have a sneaking suspicion it might have been Tanner, who is looking very smug from behind the DJ booth, where he’s managed to charm his way in.
Beside me, Ollie tries to coordinate a third attempt at trying to get us all in sync. There’s no way that’s going to happen with half the team still paying more attention to the girls who joined our lineup twenty minutes ago. I tap Luke on the shoulder. “I need a drink.”
“Me too,” he shouts back over the music, shooting one last glance at the team. The look of mock agony on his face says everything. I’m sure he’s wondering how on earth he is going to be able to keep us all in line when Ethan graduates this summer, and the captaincy passes to him.
It takes us twice as long to get to the bar than it normally would, getting stopped every few steps by someone congratulating us on another win or trying to get us to dance.
Finally close enough, Luke pushes a clear line to the bar, where a few of the guys have congregated around Ethan. I follow in the same direction, glancing lazily across the crowd and relishing the feeling of another win. It feels good, knowing that everyone in here is celebrating because of us.
I halt in my steps when my eyes snag on a head of dark blonde hair. Convinced that I’m seeing things, I do a double take, trying to pick out the features in the changing lights.
She leans across the bar, saying something to the bartender. Then her head tilts in my direction as she scans the bottles of liquor behind the bar, before pointing to one of them. The bartender nods and turns to pull it off the shelf.
I should follow Luke and get my own drink, but when she turns her head again, the blue bow tying back half of her hair catches my attention. And before I know it, I’m heading her way.
“If it isn’t my favorite flower.” I grin as I sidle up next to her. She spins toward me, the movement bringing her closer. “Did you miss me?”
In a lucky turn of events, she’s alone at the bar. I must have missed the girls on the dance floor.
“You wish.” She rolls her eyes, but I don’t miss the way her teeth pull her bottom lip in to keep her smile contained, her eyes twinkling in the flashing lights.
When she turns back to pay for her drink, the blue bow in her hair flashes my way again and that’s when it hits me. It’s a perfect match to the Southbay colors that crowd most of this place.
“You went to the game.” The words tumble out of me before I can hold them back.
She blushes. I swear she does, even if I can’t really see. It’s the way her eyes dart away from me for a second, the corners of her lips fighting to contain a smile before it finally lets loose.
She looks so pretty it hurts.
“I was tricked.”
“Doesn’t look like it,” I tell her as I reach up to flick the end of her bow where it dips and twirls in with her curls. It slips through my fingers like silk.
It would be so easy to pinch it between my fingers and tug. I wonder if her hair would come tumbling down. If it would look as messy as I imagine in my head, or if I would need to run my fingers through it to get it looking the way I want.
I snatch my hand back and clear my throat.
“Would you believe me if I said it was a lucky pick?”
“Not a chance, Tulip.”
Her eyes darken on the nickname, and I realize it’s the first time I’ve used it since that night when she kissed me in the hallway, and I pushed her away. The realization makes me want to push her against the bar and kiss her breathless.
“Pick your poison,” I say instead, gesturing toward the bar and pretending I haven’t noticed the full drink next to her. To my delight, she plays along.
“Whatever has you forgetting you saw me here.”
I take a step closer to her, noting the way her eyes darken in the dim light. “That’s not going to happen.”
“Then tequila, if you’re paying.”
I should walk away, knowing what happened the last time she drank tequila, but the way she’s looking at me with fire in her eyes has me wanting to be as close to her as possible. “You’ve got it.”
I order two shots for each of us, because the thought of watching her lick salt off of any part of skin—mine or hers—has me needing to see it twice.
The bartender slides our order across the bar, a lime wedge balancing precariously on each glass. She raises a brow as I slide both of them her way. “Two?”
“Are you scared?”
She laughs, shaking her head.
Fuck me, her laugh.
I feel it in my whole body, the sound of it running down my spine and leaving behind something warm and delicious in its wake.
It’s dangerous to be this close to her when I’m still riding the high of the game and with alcohol in the mix. It’s like all my senses are heightened and tuned into her.
“Of you? Not a chance.”
Her fingers wrap around the first lime wedge, her tongue dipping out to swipe across the back of her hand before she sprinkles salt across it. I watch it all as if it happens in slow motion, and it hits me, the sudden urge to be the one to lick it off.
She holds my gaze as she picks the glass off the bar, sets it to her lips, and tosses the shot back. I’m still staring when she sets it down empty and her lips close around the lime.
I never thought I would be jealous of a piece of fruit.
She tosses the empty peel on the bar top and reaches for the salt again, readying herself for another round, but I grab her hand midair, stopping her before she can lick the salt.
With my eyes still locked on hers, I dip my head and run my tongue across the back of her hand. Her eyes heat with the same fire I feel running down the length of my spine, as I tip the shot back, letting it wash down the taste of her.
Her mouth pops open on a gasp.
“Delicious.” I smirk, licking my lips.
“That was mine,” she croaks. “You owe me one.”
“Do I?”
She nods, her lip trapped between her teeth. I want to bite it too.
I pick up the saltshaker and hold it toward her. “Open up,” I tell her.
She arches a brow, looking like she is about to fight me. Not giving her the chance, I place two fingers beneath her chin, tipping her head back until her mouth pops open.
My hand shifts until my stretches against her neck, gently holding her in place while I shake a light drizzle of salt onto her tongue. Then I pick up the final shot glass on the bar.
I let the tequila fill my mouth, before I dip forward, fusing my lips to hers and letting the alcohol pour from my lips to hers. I can feel her swallow against the palm of my hand, my skin humming as my tongue traces against hers.
I tip my head, deepening the kiss, my free hand tugging her against me, and I feel every single one of her perfect curves.
Her hands travel up the length of my arms and over my shoulders, before slipping into my hair. She uses her hold to bring me closer, angling me just so until I’m giving her everything she wants. And fuck me, if that’s not the hottest thing I’ve felt in a while.
She tastes just like she did that night—like tequila and salt and every perfect thing.
I don’t think I’ll ever be able to drink again without thinking about her. We could have lost on the ice tonight and every other night this year, and I would still be on top of the moon with just this moment.
She makes another little sound at the back of her throat, sending shivers through my body.
It’s a battle for me to pry myself away from her, to end the kiss before I can do something really stupid, like toss her on the bar and devour her in front of my teammates and half of the student population.
When I gently pull away, she stumbles forward, and I look at her—really look at her.
Bright eyes stare back at me. “How much have you had to drink?”
“Enough.” She smiles coyly.
“Mm, try again.” I brush my lips against hers again because I’m still stuck in her orbit, and I just can’t help myself.
“I’ve had enough that I’m not a writhing, anxious mess when you look at me like that,” she says, delicate fingers reaching out to trace my bottom lip. “But not so much that I don’t know what I want.”
“What do you want?”
“I think you know.” And suddenly, getting this weird tension between us out of my system seems like a really good idea.
“Do you want to get out of here?”