Chapter 3 #2
I fire off a bunch of last names, but all of them are wrong.
There are a lot of hockey families in the area, many of them retired NHL players.
The new arena was funded by some of the most legendary players in the league, including Alex Waters and Rook Bowman—his son got called up to play for Philly in June.
There’s even a program called the Hockey Academy that every up-and-coming player in the state wants to be part of.
“You’re not a Butterson, are you?” I’m mostly being tongue in cheek. I know one of the Butterson girls. Lovey works at the foodbank and the Salvation Army, both of which I frequent on the regular. She has four brothers and a twin sister.
“You’re getting closer.”
“Seriously?” I take in his profile. He’s so familiar, and I don’t think it’s because I’ve run into him before today. “You’re not a Ballistic, are you?”
BJ’s eyebrows lift and lower in time with his reply. “Ding, ding, ding.”
I let that sink in. “Hold the fuck on. Does that mean Randy Ballistic is your…dad?” I try to keep my voice from getting pitchy at the end, but I don’t think I’m successful.
Living in the lake district means I’m aware of the retired hockey players who’ve made it their home.
But knowing they’re around and actually seeing them up close and personal is a whole different story.
“He is.” BJ glances at me again, maybe trying to gauge my response.
I really need to not fangirl, but holy shit, I’m about to get on the ice with the son of a hockey legend. It’s a bit of a mindfuck. I nod a couple of times, tapping on the armrest. “Cool.” And then I absorb the reality of his name. “Wait, you go by Ballistic Junior?”
“Balls Junior, actually.”
I frown. “But why?”
He shrugs and chuckles. “That’s what my friends have called me for years, and it stuck.
My actual name is Randall Ballistic the third, but that sounds pretentious and douchey.
My parents call me Randall, and my friends call me BJ.
I think it’s partly because my dad’s best friend used to call him Randy Balls, and my aunt Violet dubbed him Horny Nutsack. ”
I blink a few times. “I’m sorry, did you say horny nutsack?”
“Sure did.” He’s grinning again. “My aunt is a total weirdo. She has zero verbal filter. Anyway, I became Balls Junior; BJ for short.”
“Huh, that’s…interesting.”
“My family is a little quirky.”
I won’t argue with that. “They sound entertaining.”
“They can be when they’re not embarrassing the hell out of me.” BJ makes a left into the parking lot at the arena. He’s still smiling, so I can’t tell if he’s being serious.
“Does that happen often? Your family embarrassing you?”
He shrugs. “It’s a fairly regular occurrence, but it’s all in good fun.”
The embarrassment he endures is probably a lot different than the kind I do at the expense of my family. I’ve had to bike out to the Town Pub and drive the car home for my dad when he’s too wasted to function. It’s frustrating, but it’s better than him getting a DUI.
BJ parks in a spot near the front doors, and we hop out of the Jeep. I meet him at the back bumper so we can grab our hockey bags and sticks from the trunk. When he tries to roll mine over, it makes an obnoxious scraping sound.
“Oh shit. You lost a wheel. That’s no good.” He scans the ground, searching for it.
“I know. I need to replace the bag, but I haven’t had a chance,” I lie as I reach for the handle.
“Why don’t you take mine, and I’ll carry yours?” He offers me the handle of his bag.
“It’s cool. I got it.” I slide the handle back in, which takes a couple of tries, because it’s prone to jamming, then thread my arms through the straps and hoist it up, carrying it like a backpack.
On the way in, I check my phone. “Shoot. It’s already five to seven. Sorry we’re gonna be a little late.”
BJ lopes along beside me, his strides measured and casual, clearly in no hurry. “It’s okay. We’ve got two hours of ice time.”
We stop at the women’s change room. “You can leave your bag in there. It’ll be safe since the rink is ours tonight. I’ll meet you out here in a few, yeah?”
“Sure, sounds good.” I take a step toward the change room.
“Winter?”
“Yeah?” I glance over my shoulder.
“I’m glad you came tonight.” His smile makes my heart stutter. He’s so hot it should be illegal.
“Me too.” I disappear inside. It’s empty and a million times nicer than the one at the old rink.
I quickly change into my hockey gear, but don’t put on my pads since we’ll be free skating for the first while.
It isn’t until I put on my left skate that I remember BJ still has the right.
I hobble into the hallway and find him leaning against the wall, a jersey slung over his shoulder, his helmet tucked under his arm, and my other skate in his hand.
He’s wearing an athletic shirt that conforms to his long, lean, toned torso.
I try not to be obvious about checking him out.
His head lifts as I approach. “Damn. Why you gotta be so beautiful?”
I bark out a laugh. “The compression pants really do it for you, huh?”
“You’re a badass. It’s hot.” He holds up my skate. “And I forgot to give you this.”
I reach for it, but BJ tips his chin toward the bench beside the locker room. “Have a seat for a sec.”
I give him a questioning look, but do as he asks, mostly out of curiosity. Instead of handing me my skate, BJ drops to one knee in front of me.
I frown. “What’re you doing?”
“Checking to make sure it’s the right skate.” He compares it to the one I’m already wearing. “Looks good to me.”
“It should, unless you make a habit of holding girls’ hockey skates hostage.”
“Nope. You’re a snowflake.”
“A snowflake?”
His hand wraps around the back of my calf. It should not feel intimate. It should also not make my stomach flip or my nipples perk up, or everything below the waist clench. And yet...
His whiskey gaze lifts, and a smile tips one corner of his mouth. “One of a kind. An original.”
More stomach flutters. “Wow. How many times have you used that line?”
His eyes crinkle in the corners when he laughs. “Fuck, I like you.” He taps the top of my foot and holds the tongue back.
“I’m not Cinderella. I can put my own skate on, you know.” But I can’t say I dislike this style of flirting. It’s different from what I’m used to.
“Cinderella was willfully oblivious, and a pushover, which you are not. And I know you can put your own skate on, but I wanted a minute with you before I introduce you to everyone.”
“So you could get your flirt on?”
“Basically, yeah.” His grin is cheeky as he holds my skate steady. “I probably should have asked you for coffee or ice cream, huh?”
I laugh and lean forward so I can grip the tendon guard. The skate is half a size too small, but they’re good quality, and I got them used for forty bucks, so I suffer through the cramped toes. I wiggle my foot in, trying not to appreciate how good he smells, or how close he is.
My cheek brushes his hair as I lift my head.
“I would’ve said no to coffee or ice cream.
” Our faces are only inches apart, and for a moment I wonder what it would be like to go on a date with someone like him.
Would we go to the diner? Or the pier? Would he try to kiss me at the end?
Would we end up making out in the back of his Jeep?
He’s got all the lines, and the chemistry between us is hard to ignore.
He chuckles. “Because I need driving lessons, or because you don’t like coffee or ice cream?”
I drop my head and focus on tightening my laces. “Because I thought you were an asshole.”
“You’re using past tense. That’s good news for me.” He’s still on his knees in front of me, only a sliver of his artwork peeking out from under the sleeve of his shirt.
I push on his shoulder as I straighten. “Get off your knees, Ballistic.”
He rises gracefully, his hand covering his heart. “Oh man, you’re last-naming me? Kiss of death, right there.”
I laugh and stand. I don’t want to like this guy, but I think I do.
He tips his head. “Ready to get your skate on?”
I grab my helmet, gloves and stick, pads and jersey, and we clomp down the hallway together.
A rush of excitement hits me. It’s partly connected to the hot guy currently flirting with me, but also to the fact that I’m about to get on the ice. It’s my favorite place to be.
The rink is already full of big bodies, many of them in hockey gear, minus helmets. There are a few girls in street clothes. I spot Rose with a blond girl, lapping the rink and heading our way.
“You can leave your hockey stuff here.” BJ motions to the bench lined with helmets and gloves.
I set mine at the end as Rose and the blonde approach the gate.
It takes real effort not to let my smile fade when I realize Rose’s face isn’t the only familiar one.
“Winter! Yes! I’m so glad you made it!” Rose grabs the sill to prevent her from sliding past the gate.
I recognize the blond girl behind her as Lovey. I met her at the beginning of May, shortly after we moved to the cabin where we’re living. “Winter? Holy crap! Small world!” She looks between me and BJ, questions on her face. “You two know each other?”
“Uh, yeah. We just met today.” This is so awkward.
“When BJ almost ran her over with his Jeep,” Rose announces.
“What?” Lovey looks horrified.
“And then he held her skate hostage so she would come skating tonight. And it worked.” Rose grins.
“I’m so confused,” Lovey says.
“I’ll explain later,” BJ tells her.
“Yeah, you sure will.” She turns to me, her smile warm and inviting. “It’s so cool that you’re here.”
“How do you two know each other, anyway?” BJ motions between me and Lovey.
Lovey glances at me and waves a hand in the air. “Oh, you know, from all the volunteering.”
I’m grateful it seems to be enough of an explanation. And I’m especially grateful when another couple skates over. But for the second time in two minutes, my stomach sinks.
“BJ, fashionably late as ever.” The dark-haired guy, who is strangely familiar, arches an eyebrow and looks at me. “And you brought a friend.”