Chapter 13 #2
“No, no. Like we were dumb kids, and—I mean, we wore face cages because we were in U10. He and I had been squabbling the whole time, and after the game—his team had utterly stomped mine. I was pissy as hell about it, and as I was leaving the ice, I just…” He gestured like he was knocking something over.
“Pushed him into the boards. And he’d taken his helmet off by that point, so… ”
“Oh no,” I said, grimacing even as I laughed.
“Right? I feel terrible about it now, and my parents grounded my ass for a month. But in the moment…” He chuckled as he shrugged. “I was a bit of a punk. Not gonna lie.”
“Wow. What did he say when you guys were sitting next to each other?”
“Eh, he called me a dick and we laughed about it. He got picked in the… fifth round, I think? Played for Winnipeg for two seasons, then ended up in Seattle. We still chat whenever we’re in the same city.”
“So, no bad blood?”
“Nah. He knows I was a stupid kid. I did apologize for it, though, because goddamn.” He exhaled, turning a touch serious as he played with the edge of one of his icepacks.
“In fact, I was really glad we ended up there because I’d wanted to apologize for a long time.
I was just too much of a coward to, you know, look him up and do it. ”
“But the hockey gods gave you an opportunity.”
Laughing, he nodded. “The hockey gods giveth, and the hockey gods taketh away.”
That was very true, and on the screen, the hockey gods had given San Jose a power play thanks to Philly’s coach losing his head.
“How bad do they have to flip out for that to happen?” I asked. “The penalty against the coach?”
“Kinda depends on the refs?” Liam shrugged. “I’ve seen them do it over a coach swearing. I’ve seen them wait until he starts throwing shit and threatening to slash their tires.”
I guffawed. “Slash their tires? That’s happened?”
“Yep.” He chuckled. “Game six of the conference finals—I guess it was seven, eight years ago now? We were playing Boston, and they scored in double overtime. It was a pretty intense game anyway, since, well, overtime in a conference final, and Boston’s coach—he was a serious hothead to begin with.
I was in the box at one point during that series and I could still hear him screaming about something.
There are entire video compilations online just focusing on that vein in his forehead and wondering when it’ll blow. ”
“Wow. That’s impressive.”
“I know, right? So anyway, we’re in double overtime, and they score.
Our coach challenged it for offside, and when the refs agreed and pulled back the goal…
” He shook his head, whistling low. “Man, their coach lost his mind. Which—not only did he get his own ass ejected, he put his team on the penalty kill during overtime. Not ideal.”
“Jesus,” I laughed. “Did you guys capitalize on that power play?”
He gave a playfully haughty scoff. “Of course we did!” Raising his glass, he added a smug, “Which forced a game seven, which we won.”
“Nice.”
We exchanged glances and both chuckled.
Onscreen, San Jose was taking full advantage of their power play.
They had Philly hemmed into their end, cycling the puck around and around the exhausted penalty killers.
The fatigue was definitely showing; all four penalty killers were getting just sluggish enough to give the power play the advantage they needed.
A San Jose defenseman at the point got the puck, and a Philly player moved, anticipating a pass to the forward waiting by one of the faceoff dots.
The Philly player was wiped, and he was too slow to react when the defenseman instead whipped the puck right past him to a different player.
That player snapped the puck on net, and the goalie—who also hadn’t anticipated the play—couldn’t do a thing to stop it.
Liam whistled, shaking his head. “Man, I would not want to be in that locker room next intermission.”
“Think it’ll be a rough speech?”
He grimaced, and I think he actually shuddered as he picked up his drink. “Never been my favorite part of the sport, let me tell you.”
“Oh yeah? You’ve sat through a few?”
“Have you seen some of the games we’ve played?”
“Fair point. Uh… no offense.”
He laughed and waved his hand. “None taken. It isn’t like I don’t know about those games. I was there.”
“I don’t imagine those were fun nights.”
“Ugh. No. They’re always awful.” He started to say something else, but right then, one of the commentators declared, “And here comes Gibbs with a slick reach-around to steal the puck—”
I didn’t hear the rest because Liam and I were absolutely howling.
“A slick reach-around?” I wheezed. “Are you kidding me?”
Liam was just wiping his eyes and shaking his head. He couldn’t even speak.
The commentator wasn’t done yet either. “Gibbs is determined to get into Sarkkinen’s backdoor before this night is over.”
“Oh, come on!” Liam flailed so hard, he dropped an icepack and almost knocked his drink off the end table. “Really?”
The commentators kept commentating, the innuendoes kept coming, and we kept laughing. And fuck me, I kept losing my ability to think.
Every time this man laughed, my brain short-circuited. Every time he smiled or breathed or existed…
What the hell? Still? I still couldn’t keep my shit together around him?
I glanced his way again. I mean, who wouldn’t lose their mind around him?
And it only got worse the longer I interacted with him, because it wasn’t just that he was so physically attractive.
The wicked sense of humor. The way he laughed when he and his teammates were chirping and sharing ridiculous stories.
That soft smile when he’d been holding Crawford’s baby at Thanksgiving so her dad could step out and grab a drink.
The way he’d effortlessly settled her when she’d been fussing and happily bounced her until her dad came back.
How stupidly cute he’d been when he’d carried one of Temo’s kids out to the car.
That playfully innocent look when one of the guys accused him of something he’d absolutely done.
He was the whole damn package. I didn’t even care that he was rich or that he was a famous athlete.
The big house, the McLaren, the giant banners with his face on them down at the arena—those were cool and all, but they were like birthday candles trying to pull my attention away from a fireworks show.
Even the handful of people I’d been intimate with since my divorce hadn’t scrambled my brain the way Liam did. All he had to do was laugh, and I was instantly as stupid and nervous and speechless as I’d been in the seconds leading up to some of the hottest moments of my life.
And… I mean…
The physical attraction was definitely there too. There was a reason Liam had been on numerous magazine covers, and those covers hadn’t all been because of his hockey prowess.
Sweet as a Saint, Sexy as Sin: Liam St. Clair like you’ve never seen him before.
Hot off the ice: Canadian menswear designer signs its first pro athlete as model.
Athletes Bare it All (Mostly) – The Hockey Issue.
Yeah, I’d recently acquired back issues of those magazines. For the articles, of course. The lengthy, detailed articles about Liam’s workout regimen, complete with photos of him lifting weights while wearing nothing but shorts, tank tops, and sweat.
I took a deep swallow, draining what remained of my drink. It didn’t help much. I didn’t imagine much would help except being fully submerged in ice. Or, like, not being here. Getting up off this couch, getting out of this house, getting into my car and…
And that wasn’t going to happen because I wanted to be here. Maybe it wasn’t good for my ability to concentrate. Maybe it was dangerous for my cardiovascular system.
But holy shit, the last thing I wanted to do was leave.
On the screen I was barely watching, the action stopped and the game went to commercial. Without really thinking about it, I glanced at him.
And he did the same.
And we locked eyes.
And it lingered for…
For…
Fuck. Way too long, and at the same time, not nearly long enough. When Liam broke the standoff, I almost wavered, as if that silent tension between us had been the only thing holding me upright.
My God, I want you.
I was an idiot for thinking that was mutual, though. Son’s teammate. A literal model. Richer than God. Out of my league. None of those things had changed since I’d walked into his house, and no amount of lingering looks or double entendres were going to change them.
Right then, Liam gestured at our empty glasses. “I’ll, uh… I should get us some refills.”
Then he was up, glasses in hand, and on his way to the kitchen like the living room was on fire.
And my heart was still pounding.