Chapter 3
PATRICK
Stalking through the locker room, I hit the bench at my cubby and get to work removing my skates.
It’s usually a quick process, but right now I’m hampered by shaky hands.
What the fuck is with that? Pausing to take a deep breath, Bog walks by and snaps his towel at me, baring his ass on the way back from the shower.
“Fuck off.”
“What’s with you?”
I finally get my skates off and move faster to peel the rest of my practice gear off, the shakiness gone. Maybe I imagined it.
“Nothing. I have things to do.”
“Lunch? How about if we—”
“I’m having lunch with a friend from back home.”
“You mean that killer babe I saw you talking to?”
Grabbing a towel, I stand and head for the showers, not bothering to answer him. Of course, that doesn’t stop him from laughing and flinging some balled-up tape my way, but I don’t pay attention. I can’t explain Fifi to him. I can’t even explain what the hell I’m doing with her to myself.
As I turn the water on to the hottest it’ll go, I recognize that I’m lying to myself if I don’t admit that I may be considering bringing my most off-the-hook daydream to life.
It’s too crazy to think about though, too much like taking a bite of that most forbidden apple in the garden of paradise. So I push the image of Fifi from my mind and think about fish until my skin is scalding pink and I smell like the bar of soap has been steamed into my pores.
Only a few guys are left in the locker room, most of them having herded to the facility’s dining room for lunch. Bog sits in a chair near my cubby waiting for me, fully dressed and brimming with curiosity.
“So tell me about this girl. Who is she and why haven’t I heard about her before?” He leans forward.
“Nothing to tell.” I keep my head down, concentrating on dressing as fast as possible—which is goddam fast because I’m a quick son of a bitch when I want to be.
“I thought so.” He nods. “That’s the kind of answer I’d expect from you when you’re trying to be evasive.”
Pushing my feet into my sneakers, I stand. “When am I ever evasive?”
He shrugs. “Besides right now, I don’t recall. Except maybe whenever mentions of your notorious reputation for fighting on your high school team come up. Or much about your hometown friends. Was she a friend? Maybe a girlfriend?”
I look at him, staying cool, giving nothing away, but damn, I hate lying to him. Why should I? He’s a good friend, and I trust him.
“Gotta go now, Bog. I’ll tell you all about it… some other time.”
He nods and follows me. Shit. I stop, knowing she’s going to be waiting outside the locker room door and knowing that she’ll have gotten rid of her friends, so I’ll have no one to distract him with.
“Look, do me a favor and take the back exit. She’s… an old friend and I need to reconnect before I start introducing her to teammates.” I watch him absorb my uncharacteristically serious tone of voice and add, “Besides, I don’t know if there’s anything between us.”
“So it’s like that? I get it. A delicate situation.” His mild smile fades to a grim line and salutes me. “Later, Jennings.”
Relieved, I watch him walk toward the back exit for a beat before I leave. As soon as my shoulder hits the door, the impact of facing Fifi hits me like I’m facing the fate of my entire future, as if this moment will be the line that divides my life into the before and after.
This is the kind of encounter where I could end up jumping off a cliff and possibly change my life forever. Am I ready? The question ripples through my body in a column of energizing nerves, making my arm hair stand up and my spine stiffen.
I push open the door and she’s there, blindingly beautiful, glowing in the afternoon sunlight as it streams through the glass doors of the lobby and swirls around her like she’s a goddess.
“Fifi.” It’s all I can say.
Her smile brightens to a supernova level and without realizing it, I’ve moved. I’m there with her, my hand on the small of her back walking with her out the door.
When we hit the cold January air, the glint of sunlight off the snow casts its brightness over Fifi, making her look like a winter fairy in her pink coat and hat.
“Where are we going?” she asks. I don’t know, but her question re-starts my brain from its stunned state and I pull myself fully into the real world with the help of my growling stomach.
“Lady’s choice.”
She eyes me under her lashes. “I bet I’m as hungry as you are. How about Philbrook Dining Hall?”
“Philly? Sure. It’s a little further, but why not?”
“I’m in love with their all-day breakfast and I’m dying to fill up on French toast.”
I raise my eyebrows at her. “Does your father know you eat French food?”
She laughs and the sweet mild sound is like a song.
The kind that talks to my soul—and of course to my dick, both at the same time—which sounds cooler than it is.
In reality, it’s actually very uncomfortable to have my heart thudding hard against my chest and my dick swelling in my pants all while she absorbs my attention like she’s playing a magic flute and I’m an entranced snake.
Grinning, she bumps her shoulder against my elbow, being on the short side of average height.
“What are you so giddy about?” I half laugh, half snort, wondering if she’s feeling the same way I am. Don’t ask me to describe it beyond horny and entranced, maybe confused as hell, but in an inexplicably good way. It’s the inexplicable part that makes me uncomfortable.
“The honest truth?”
Slowing down like I might be taking a wrong step, I nod. “Always, Feef.”
She almost stops as she stares, and I press the hand I have on her lower back with more force to keep her on the dirt path and out of the path of some oncoming students who look like they’re having an affair with their cell phones.
Glancing down in the direction of her bright pink boots, she says, “I’ve thought about you often in the past two years. Since that day after school when I last saw you.”
“You mean the time your brother wanted to clock me for standing in your presence?”
She nods.
“And?” I prompt. Noticing we’re within a few yards of Philly, I stop because I want to hear what I’m predicting and hoping is a confession.
“I’ve always wondered what it would be like if we could…” she licks her lips, and I watch, my mouth watering at the prospect of capturing that pink tongue in my teeth—
“If we could have gone to that party together, let things progress between us, and maybe develop into—”
“Something our families would consider sacrilege?”
“A romance.” She states firmly and boldly, not blinking and without euphemism. Apparently, she’s over her hesitation about speaking her mind. Thanks to the prodding of my wise-ass cynical comment about our family’s guaranteed disapproval.
I can’t help my snort, a full-fledged hardy snickering snort. It’s an evasive move because I’m trying to deke her out, to get her to think I’m not tempted. Because I shouldn’t be. One of us should be cynical about pulling a Romeo and Juliet move. That story didn’t end well if I remember right.
Flattening her mouth, she turns away from me and walks straight to the dining hall entrance, moving fast enough for me to take several long quick strides to catch up. But I’m known for my speed, and I jump ahead and open the door for her.
I lean in as she walks past me inside. “Don’t be mad, Fifi. I’m here, aren’t I?”
She tosses a skeptical look over her shoulder, but I see the hint of amusement at the edges of her mouth.
“Let’s get our food first,” she says. “There are plenty of empty tables.”
She’s not wrong, and I follow her past the ID scanner to the breakfast station.
We’re not surrounded by hundreds of hungry students, but at the same time, I wish we were somewhere private.
And that’s not my dick talking. This is one of those conversations with the kind of implications that has my heart thundering relentlessly without any signs of calming down.
That can’t be healthy. I need to chill. It’s just lunch and a talk with an old frenemy, right?
Except she’s more like a friend with a family full of enemies.
One of whom I’m going to be playing against on Saturday.
Shit. If her brother Vincent ever found out we were having lunch together, there would be blood on the ice.
As I pick up a tray, I promise myself there would be more of his blood than mine if—no, when—we fight.
We get in line, and I wave her ahead of me.
Then I watch her gather a breakfast worthy of a lumberjack as she orders her food with mouth-watering specificity like a true foodie.
Watching her fascinates me as I absent-mindedly stock my tray with three burgers, fries, a side salad, two glasses of milk, and an apple.
We find a small table where we can eat alone in the nick of time as hunger sucks at my gut. Loudly.
“Go ahead. Let’s eat this food before you faint,” she says, arching a brow.
“I don’t faint.” I pull out her chair and wait for her to sit.
She lowers into her chair and tilts her head up to look at me with an expression so vulnerable it nearly buckles my knees.
“Honestly, I’m too nervous to eat,” she whispers.
Opening my mouth, I find I have no words, so I nod and sit across from her, less excited about food as my belly clenches. Maybe I’m experiencing sympathetic nervousness. Or maybe I understand exactly how she feels.
“You have to eat. We came here so you could have your Paul Bunyan breakfast. You’re the one who’ll faint if you don’t eat.” I eye her up and down.
She’s slim. Not an ounce of fat under the coat that she slides off her shoulders.
Certainly no excess in her thighs, hips, and rear.
In fact, she looks toned and perfect. Whatever baby fat she had when she was younger is gone.
Not that she would ever have been classified as overweight.
But now she looks like she’s training for the Olympics.
She laughs and takes a deep inhale over her plate of food. “Well, if you insist.”