Page 13 of Him
I take a greedy gulp and our eyes meet over the rim. His confidence has slipped a millimeter or two. His gaze asks a question. Are we going to make it through the next half hour?
Swallowing, I make a decision. “Shame the Bruins got punished by the Ducks last month.”
I see the flash of arrogance return at lightning speed. “That was a fluke. And a terrible call in the third. Your wing tripped over his own duck feet.”
“With a little help from your D-man.”
“Oh, fuck that. Twenty bucks says the Ducks don’t make it past the first round this year.”
“Twenty is all you’re willing to bet?” I gasp. “Sounds like you’re afraid. Twenty and a YouTube video proclaiming my greatness.”
“Done, but when you lose, you make that video in a Bruins T-shirt.”
“Sure.” I shrug. And just like that, the night gets easier.
The waitress appears with two glasses of root beer and a hungry smile for Wes. He slips her a twenty. “Thanks, doll.”
“Let me know if you need anything,” she says, overselling it by a shade. Christ. Hockey players don’t have a lot of trouble getting laid, but my old friend obviously enjoys his pick of the litter. She’s hot, too. Great rack and a sweet smile.
He doesn’t even spare a glance at her perfect ass as she sashays away.
After she disappears, Wes opens his arms and grins at the group of hockey players standing around him. “Shit, we’re just a bunch of pussies, aren’t we? Root beer and ginger ale on a Friday night. Someone call the cops. We need a game of darts or something.”
“Table hockey!” someone calls out. “Saw it in the game room.”
“Cassel!” Wes thumps the guy standing next to him. “Who won our last game, anyway?”
“You did, you prick. Because you cheated during the shootout.”
“Who, me?”
Everyone laughs. But my mind snags on “shootout.”
Of course it does.
5
Wes
The college sprang for an executive suite at TD Garden, a fancy-ass private box with a gleaming floor-to-ceiling window that overlooks the arena below. The celebratory bottles of Dom that had been delivered, however, were courtesy of my shithead father. The prick is riding the high of our win as if it had been him out on the ice this afternoon—I even heard him bragging to one of his buddies that he was the one who taught me that triple-deke move I used to score the winning goal in the third period.
Bullshit. The old man hadn’t taught me a damn thing. From the moment I was able to hold a hockey stick, he threw money at coaches and trainers and anyone else who could groom his only son into a superstar. The only credit I’m willing to give him is that he’s really fucking good at signing his name on a check.
Canning’s team is on the ice now, facing the same pressure we did earlier. Coach has allowed us each one glass of champagne. We’re playing in the finals tomorrow night, and he wants us sharp. He doesn’t have to worry about me, though. I’m sipping on a root beer. Not just as a fuck-you to my dad, but because my stomach is in knots as I watch the game, and alcohol will only make it worse.
I want Rainier to win.
I want to face Canning in the finals.
I want to pretend I still don’t have feelings for the guy.
I guess I’ll have to be satisfied with two out of three. Because I can’t pretend I’m not still into him. Seeing him again last night made that impossible.
Fuck, he’d looked good. Really good. All golden-boy California hotness, big and blond and sexy as fuck. With those soulful brown eyes—surprising on a blond guy. It’s an understated sexiness, though. Jamie Canning never flaunted his looks in all the time I’d known him. Sometimes I think he’s not even aware of how goddamn attractive he is.
“Oooooh shit,” one of the seniors crows as a Rainier player delivers what might be the hit of the week.
It’s a clean check, but it makes the opposing player bounce off the boards like a rubber ball and sprawl face-first on the ice.
