Chapter Eighteen
Eighteen
Jack
After winning two more games against Dallas, I should be flying on cloud nine.
We’re one win away from entering the second round of the playoffs, which means we’re one step closer to bringing home the Stanley Cup for the second year in a row.
And I would be ecstatic, if not for the fact that I got a text from the coach this morning asking me if I could see him in his office today.
Not even the mini make-out session I goaded Abby into before she left for work is enough to ease the nerves of that, turns out.
I don’t feel any better, even hours later after having talked to him.
It was a lot of the same: asking how I’m feeling, asking about my plans for the future, asking if I’m sure I want to risk my arm to finish the season…
Of course I told him that I did. I don’t know why that’s so hard for everyone to understand.
Half the time, my arm feels fine lately, anyway.
Admittedly, that could be because I’m only playing one or two periods a game now and Coach has noticeably been taking it easy on me in practice… but still.
Everything about the meeting has soured my mood, and I think it’s obvious to everyone when I walk into the apartment later that afternoon. Everyone being Abby, of course, since she’s the only one there after her shift at the coffee shop.
Seeing her should lift my mood, and normally it would.
She looks so soft and comfortable, lounging on the couch in her fuzzy socks and her leggings with one of her textbooks perched on her lap.
And though she looks up at me with a smile as I come through the door, it falters immediately when she catches the expression on my face.
“That bad, huh?”
I shrug, closing the door behind me. “Well, it wasn’t great.”
“Is he cutting back on your playing time more?”
I shake my head. “No, thankfully. He just wanted to grill me about how I’m feeling. Apparently, I can’t be trusted to make my own decisions.”
“Jack.” Her lips turn down in a frown. “I don’t think it’s like that at all,” she tells me. “I think he cares for you, and he’s worried about you. That’s all.”
Deep down, I know she’s right, but it still stings to be questioned like some sort of toddler about whether or not I can make the necessary decisions about my own future.
“It barely even hurts lately,” I mumble.
Her brow furrows. “You’ve also been playing a little lighter, though, right?”
I sigh, nodding. Abby is too perceptive for her own good, and she hasn’t even come to a game in a while.
“We’re so close to the second round,” I say, plopping down next to her on the couch.
She immediately makes room for me, untucking her legs and letting me curl into her a bit as her fingers card through my hair.
The gesture is so easy and comforting that I let my eyes close, laying my head on her shoulder.
The fact that she lets me is a testament to all that we’ve been doing this last week—which has been a lot of kissing and touching and all sorts of other things that make me want to scoop her up into my arms right now, just for the way I know it’ll make me feel better.
As weird as it may seem, given how she barely tolerated me a few weeks ago…Abby is the one thing in my life right now that actually does make me feel better.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I know this is difficult for you.”
“It shouldn’t be, you know? It’s my decision. I shouldn’t have to keep fighting for it.”
“There are a lot of people who care about you,” she points out. “They just want to make sure you’re doing what’s best for you. Not just what you think is best for the team.”
My nose wrinkles. “What does that mean?”
“I just mean that you seem to feel a heavy obligation to people,” she says thoughtfully. “The team, your coach, your sister…You spread yourself too thin sometimes, I think. Sometimes it feels like you don’t stop and think about what might actually be best for you.”
“Is this shrink Abby talking?”
She thumps me on the head, making me wince as I mutter an ow. “This is your friend and sometimes bed buddy talking.”
“Sometimes bed buddy?”
“I don’t know what else to call it.”
“Face it, babe,” I say with a chuckle. “We’re lovers.”
She makes an ack sound. “Don’t call us that.”
“Lovers,” I repeat, drawing out the o and leaning into her while I make kissy faces.
She shoves me off her. “You are impossible.”
“I think you like it though,” I tease. “I think you need a little silly in your life.”
“Hm.” She regards me with a thoughtful look, her expression softening. “Maybe I do.”
I sigh, draping myself over her lithe form until she’s squirming beneath me. “Ugh. What a day.”
I tip my head back to look at her, noticing that her lips are pursed in thought and her brow is knitted together.
“We could…go do something.”
I perk up. “Do something?”
“We could get out of this apartment,” she says. “Take your mind off things.”
“And what exactly would we do?”
“There’s a cool bar down the street,” she tells me. “We could go there.”
I sit up straight, placing a hand over my heart as I give her a faux gasp. “Abigail Thompson. Are you asking me out?”
“No.” She scowls. “I’m asking my friend and bed buddy if he wants to go grab a drink and take his mind off his shitty day.”
“I don’t know…” I cluck my tongue. “Sounds like a date to me.”
“You wish it was,” she laughs.
I don’t tell her that I do, actually—thinking that there’s a good chance that would put her off.
For as much as she’s let me touch her in the last week, she’s given me no indications that she might want something more than that.
There hasn’t been any talk about telling anyone what we’re doing, and yes, I know that was initially something I agreed to, but the last few days…
I’ve almost felt like a dirty secret. So her asking me to go out and do something—date or no date—feels huge to me.
It’s not something I want to scare her off from.
“We could hang out,” I say, going for casual. “What are friends and lovers for?”
“Say ‘lovers’ again,” she says with a huff, “and you’ll be going alone.”
I smack a kiss against her cheek, grinning. “Okay, bed buddy.”
She pushes me away so she can rise from the couch, saying something about changing clothes, and I feel lighter already just from the idea of leaving this apartment with her.
Of doing anything with her, really. It’s becoming a small problem, the way I seem to get a little more obsessed with her every time she lets me touch her.
I eye the round curve of her ass as she walks away, biting my lip as I imagine sitting too close to her in a tiny booth and feeling her warmth pressed against me.
Yeah. A real problem indeed.
The bar is crowded, even for a Thursday night, and I have to kind of cut a path for the pair of us when we finally get out of the line and make our way inside.
I’ve only been here once with Ian a few months back, but it’s a cool enough place.
The music is good, and there are pool tables in the back—which has me thinking about Abby bent over a table with a cue in her hand, which makes for a dangerous situation in my jeans, so I quickly turn away from that line of thought.
We find a booth in the back, and I let her slide in, not giving her the option of sitting across from me as I scoot in right after to sit beside her. She gives me a look when I do, but I just grin back at her.
“It’s so loud in here,” I tell her with a raised voice. “Just want to make sure I can hear you.”
She looks like she doesn’t quite believe me, but she doesn’t make me sit on the other side, so I take it as a win.
“I’ve never actually been here,” she says into my ear, making goose bumps erupt there. “I just saw a reel about it on Instagram.”
“It’s a nice place,” I answer. “Want to get some food?”
Her nose wrinkles. “Food is very date-ish.”
“Oh, come on.” I roll my eyes. “People get food with their great-aunts that they don’t even like.”
“Are you saying that you’re something like a great-aunt that I don’t even like for me?”
Her teasing tone has me smiling, and I lean in closer. “I think we’ve already established what I am, lov—”
She presses a finger to my lips, narrowing her eyes. “Don’t even.”
“Fine, fine,” I say with a laugh.
I flag down a waitress and get us both our drink orders, asking for a couple of appetizers too. Surely appetizers aren’t considered date-ish. Not that I would mind if they were, really. I’ve just got to get Abby on board with the idea.
Hm. Do I want to take Abby out on a date?
I mull it over in my head, leaning toward yes. I think I might actually want that. For real. I don’t know what that means for us as friends and bed buddies, but now that the thought is lodged in my brain, I have a bad feeling I won’t be able to get it out until I act on it.
Stupid ADHD brain.
Better tuck it away for another day.
“Do you play pool?” I ask her, wanting to get my mind onto other things.
She shakes her head. “I’m terrible at it, really.”
“So you’re saying I could wipe the floor with you.”
“Are you competitive about everything?”
I tilt my head back and forth, as if considering. “I mean…Yeah. Mostly.”
“Oh, Jesus.”
“Jack is fine.”
“Impossible,” she mutters. “Completely impossible.”
But she kind of smiles when she says it, so I don’t think she necessarily means it in a bad way.
“I do feel better being out of the apartment,” I admit. “Thanks for suggesting it.”
She shrugs. “Being cooped up in your apartment with nothing but your wayward thoughts isn’t good for anything.”
“Especially with my broken-ass brain,” I point out.
She makes a face. “Your brain isn’t broken.”
“I mean, it kind of is.”
I’ve sort of come to peace with it at this point in my life. It’s just something that is.
“It’s not broken,” she stresses. “It just works differently. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
Huh.
It’s a simple statement, but the funny thing it does to my chest is a lot less so. No, what it does is downright complicated, because it makes me want to kiss her right here in this bar, and I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t want me to do that.
Before I can really contemplate whether or not it might be worth risking her ire, the waitress brings our food and drinks, setting everything out on the table in front of us as Abby eyes the cheese fries hungrily.
“I knew you wanted food,” I tease. “That’s probably the only reason you lured me out of the apartment.”
She reaches for a fry, scarfing it down. “Yeah, well, anything for my shitty great-aunt.”
A laugh tumbles out of me, the dry way she says it striking me as even more funny. Everything Abby does is sort of dry and matter-of-fact—but I eat every bit of it up, just enjoying seeing these little pieces of her that she rarely shows to others. To anyone, really.
“Sorry,” a voice sounds to my left. “Are you Jack Baker?”
I turn to see a small crowd of women all wearing pink sashes, looking at me expectantly—the one who spoke wearing a tiara that says “Bride To Be.”
“Hey,” I answer. “Yeah, that’s me.”
“Oh my God,” Ms. Bride To Be says. “You’re like, my fiancé’s favorite player. Could I get a selfie? I swear to God, he will die.”
“Oh yeah, sure,” I tell her, scooting over in the booth a bit so she can reach me.
She holds out her phone but can’t quite get us into frame, so I take it from her and hold it out a little further, smiling wide with her when I snap a picture.
She gushes over it for a second before I offer an autograph, snagging one of the napkins on the table as one of her friends wrestles a Sharpie out of her purse.
“I watch all your games,” one of the bride’s friends says, a pretty brunette who until about two weeks ago, might have been my type.
I shoot her a grin. “I appreciate that.”
“So do I,” another one calls.
“Thank you guys, seriously,” I tell her.
“Is this your girlfriend?” one asks.
My eyes widen as I turn back to Abby, who suddenly looks very interested in the cheese fries, her attention anywhere but us.
“Oh, uh, no,” I say, feeling awkward. “This is my friend.”
The brunette smiles sultrily then, leaning across the table. “Any chance of getting your number?”
“Wow, someone’s bold,” Abby mutters.
I have to suppress a laugh at the utter bitterness in her tone, quietly enjoying the fact that apparently Abby is a little jealous over this encounter. I know that shouldn’t thrill me, but secretly, it really does.
“Sorry,” I say, wanting to let her down gently. “I am kind of seeing someone right now.”
Her lip pouts. “Bummer. Can’t hurt to ask, right?”
“Absolutely,” I agree, trying to be polite.
The bride thanks me again for the selfie and the autograph, their group finally meandering off as they all loudly gush about the encounter. I wait until they’re out of earshot before I finally turn back to Abby.
“Sorry about that,” I tell her.
She shrugs like she’s bored. “No big deal. Gotta keep the image up, right?”
“Yeah, but I was just being polite.”
“Tell that to Miss Boobs,” she snarks.
“Is someone a little jealous, Abigail?”
She bristles at the mere mention of it, reminding me of a cat that’s just been thrown into a vat of water.
“Of course I’m not,” she huffs, shoving another fry into her mouth.
“Good.” I lean in a little closer. “Because you’re the prettiest girl in the room.”
I can visibly see the way her face heats with the compliment, and she ducks her head as if this will hide it, so I reach my hand under the table, squeezing her knee.
“Trust me, bed buddy,” I murmur. “You never have anything to be jealous about.”
I don’t miss the little smile on her face when she reaches for another fry (starting to think it’s a coping mechanism now), and my chest does that funny thing again, like it doesn’t know if it wants to be too small or too big.
I wonder again about the idea of actually going on a date with Abby, if she might be as opposed to it as I first thought.
Realizing that I want it a lot more than I thought.
“Let’s play some pool,” I tell her, not wanting this night to end with just beer and cheese fries.
She grimaces. “I told you, I’m awful at it.”
“Don’t worry,” I tell her. “I’m great at it, and therefore with me as your teacher, you’ll be decidedly average.”
“Gee, thanks.”
I have to fight the urge to kiss her cheek, something that is a lot harder to keep from doing than it should be.
I slide out of the booth to let her get by me and head to a pool table, my mind still pinging with daydreams about taking her on a proper date.
Wondering if there’s ever a chance she might agree to it.
I realize then that I might be in trouble, because Abigail Thompson might be the most date-averse person on the entire planet, if I had to guess.
…And I want to take her on one anyway.