Chapter Fourteen
Ruby
A giddy sort of anticipation zips up my spine as we watch the players skate across the ice. Beckett’s cheering with all his might, just like he did the previous game, but though this eager feeling has me grinning, I keep quiet. To yell out Go, DiFranco along with Beck feels almost…too much.
Or like admitting I’m only here for him.
The puck moves so fast, it’s almost hard for my eyes to keep up with it.
I was impressed with these guys after the first game but watching them again is near mesmerizing.
The fluidity of their movements, their synchronicity as if they’ve played together for more than just a few days, all proves their level of skill.
A fresh wave of gratefulness overtakes me as I watch the game unfold.
Dash didn’t have to gift us these tickets.
He chose to. Whatever his true motivations were in doing so, it’s hard to care right now.
Not when I’m enthralled with the speed and accuracy with which the man can strike a puck.
He plays hockey just as skillfully as he plays games virtually.
Another buzzer signals the second intermission.
“Ruby, I have to go to the bathroom,” Beck whisper-yells. I smile at the lady next to us who gawks at me with a mortified expression.
“Uh, right. We’d better go take care of that, then.”
I usher Beckett back up the steps and out into the busy, people-lined hall toward the restroom. Since he’s taking care of business, I figure I might as well too. As soon as I exit the bathroom stall, my phone buzzes with a text.
Dash: Enjoying tonight’s game, Tinsel?
I lift my head and blink at my reflection. How is this my life right now? A super hot guy I’ve only just met is playing in the tournament of a lifetime and texting me during it?
And not only is this man texting me, he’s officially given me a nickname I don’t hate.
Tinsel.
My lips twitch, slowly curling upward. I quickly wash and dry my hands, then respond.
Me: I am. Beck’s been screaming his head off all night, so I’ll likely need hearing aids after this, but it’s still been fun. Thank you. Again.
The read receipt appears almost instantly.
Dash: You know, now that you mention it, I think I heard him yelling for me to crush number seventy! P.S. If you need hearing aids after these games, just send me the bill.
I scoff and shake my head.
Me: You are something else, Dash DiFranco.
Leaving the restroom with a smile I couldn’t wipe off my face if I tried, I find Beck staring up at a poster on the wall by the restrooms.
“Ready to head back in?”
He lifts his hands in a prayer pose. “Can we grab some ice cream before we do? Pretty please?”
“All right.” I steer him by the shoulders, weaving us in and out of the milling crowds of fans filling the space. Thankfully, the line isn’t too long when we reach the vendor selling ice cream cones.
My back pocket vibrates again. I bite my lip, wondering if I should open the text with Beckett present or not. What will he think of Dash and me exchanging numbers and texting during his big game?
Curiosity gets the better of me.
“Why don’t you look at the menu and decide which flavor you want, okay?” I tell my brother. “Be ready to order when we reach the counter.”
He stares up at the menu, scrunching his nose to read the various flavors while I—as discreetly as possibly—pull up my and Dash’s text thread.
Dash: Is that a bad something else? Or a good something else? Sometimes it’s hard to read you, Tinsel.
I bite my lip on a smile. I want so badly to tell him it’s good.
Alllll good. But that feels like giving too much away too soon.
So I settle for, I could say the same about you.
You’re getting paid big bucks to play your heart out in this game and yet…
you’re texting me. I add one of those faces with the raised eyebrow, then send it.
Am I trying to sus him out? Yes. But do I expect him to give me a straight answer? Of course not. He is a man, after all. And from what Alayna has observed in the dating scene these days is that guys our age tend to be anything but direct.
“Ruby.” Beck glares up at me, blinking repeatedly.
“What? What’s wrong?”
“It’s time for us to order.” He points at the cashier offering me a patient smile, all while bouncing on her toes like if I don’t order in the next second, she’s going to kindly kick me out of the line.
“Right. Sorry.”
We leave the line with an ice cream cone for each of us and hurry back to our seats before the intermission ends. Dash doesn’t text me back, but I don’t blame him. The man is working. And probably surrounded by other players. How he even managed to shoot off those few texts baffles me.
We take our seats, and maybe it’s my imagination, but the lady who mean-mugged us before we left for the bathrooms leans away from Beckett like he has the plague.
I ignore the snubbery and focus on enjoying my ice cream. The third period moves quickly, with Dash having an assist that has both me and Beck on our feet. Why our recent text exchange gives me the courage to cheer now is beyond me, but it does.
Unfortunately, the game ends with the Stars taking the L, but it was still such a fun match to watch. Beckett talks my ear off on the way out of the arena about what they could’ve done better to secure the win.
“Dash did good, though,” he insists. “Though he sorta looks like his shoulder might be bothering him.”
I look down at Beck. “Really? What makes you say that?”
He shrugs. “He kept stretching his arms back behind him when he hit the bench.”
I think back to the game. I hadn’t really noticed Dash doing anything out of the ordinary, but the thought of him hurting himself worries me.
Did he get injured somehow and I missed it?
I want to text him and ask, but with the throng of people pushing against us, all I can manage is getting us out of the arena and into the parking garage safely.
Beck’s still prattling on about the game when we make it to my car, giving me a moment to pull out my phone. I thought I might text Dash and tell him good game, but there’s already a message waiting for me.
Dash: The signals I’m sending you are anything but mixed. I’ll prove it to you if you let me.
My heart kicks into overdrive, thumping wildly against my ribcage. I lower my phone and stare out at the dark parking garage.
Of course I’ll let you, I think. But that still feels too forward.
“Are we gonna head home or what?” Beck taps the arm rest on the passenger side door impatiently.
“Oh, yeah. I’m just going to let Mom know we’re on our way home.”
Sudden boldness wells within me, giving me the courage to go for it. I lick my lips and type out a reply.
Me: All right. Prove it, hockey boy.
My hands shake after I hit send, so I grab the steering wheel for support and back out of the parking spot. There’s no going back now. And surprisingly, I no longer want to.
***
I wake up feeling more defeated than I ought to from Dash not responding to my last text. I don’t know why I expected some kind of flirty banter sesh to ensue after his game, but I lied awake late into the night, waiting for him to text me back.
That was stupid, though. Of course he wouldn’t have time to respond with him needing to be at whatever post-game celebration took place and his shoulder possibly hurting…he must’ve fallen into bed sometime early this morning, my text long forgotten.
Ugh, why am I like this? A guy gives me the barest smidgen of attention, and I’m hanging my proverbial hat on the scraps he deigns to throw me.
I drag myself into the kitchen, seeking coffee, when the sight of Mom seated at our small Amish-built table startles me.
“Oof.” I stumble back into the wall. “Sorry, didn’t realize you were already up.”
“You’re fine, honey.” She takes a slow sip of her coffee, peeking up at me over the rim of her mug. “You were out late last night.”
I lift one shoulder in a shrug and plop into the chair across from her. “We got home around eleven thirty. You were already in bed, and I didn’t want to wake you.”
“Well, Beckett didn’t have such qualms,” she says with a sleepy chuckle. “He burst into my room and practically fell into bed with me. He’s still there now, fast asleep.”
I roll my eyes hard enough to hurt. “I’m sorry, Mom. I wish he wouldn’t have done that.”
She waves me off. “It’s fine, Ruby. He was just excited, is all. Told me all about the game.” Her soft smile undoes some of my irritation with Beckett. “I think the fact that he got to wear that Dash’s practice jersey made his entire night. He’s a big fan of that guy.”
So. Am. I.
Heat blooms in my chest, rising up my neck and into my cheeks at the thought. I get to my feet and make a beeline for the coffee pot, needing to hide my sudden blush.
“It was really kind of him to offer you both tickets to the rest of the games in the series,” she says.
I don’t dare look back at her, choosing instead to focus on making the perfect cup of coffee. A splash of creamer. One single sugar packet. A dollop of the honey cold foam I whipped up yesterday morning—
“Beckett mentioned he saw you texting him last night.”
I whirl toward Mom, the cold foam from my spoon landing with an audible splat on the linoleum at my feet. “What?”
How did he…?
“He said he saw a message from Dash on your phone. And that you said you were going to text me, but—” she shakes her head—“I never received a text from you last night.”
I bite the inside of my bottom lip until I taste metal.
One of Mom’s dark red eyebrows lifts ever so slowly. “Care to explain why you lied to him?”
I turn back to the counter and swipe a paper towel from the holder, suddenly very intent on cleaning up my cold foam mess. “I shouldn’t have lied to Beck. I’m sorry for that, but…I just didn’t want to explain to him why I was texting Dash during the game,” I hedge.
A surprised laugh rumbles from Mom’s chest. “He texted you during his game?”
When she says it like that, it sounds scandalous.