Page 2 of Riding the Pine

I try again, the damn thing isn’t budging.

To his credit, he doesn’t so much as smirk in my direction. Instead, his brows furrow even deeper, like he’d secretly hoped I’d be able to make it work. He pulls his phone out from his pocket and sneaks a glance at the screen.

“In a hurry?”

He gnaws on the inside of his cheek. “You could say that.”

With a nod, I put my Ugg-boot-clad foot on top of the bar and lift my other foot from the road. It’s not recommended, and given the frosty conditions it’s probably stupid, but sometimes you need your whole body weight and a helping hand from gravity to loosen the nuts when they’re stiff.

And I’ve never really been one to half-ass anything. I’m a whole-ass kind of girl.

It sounded like a good idea at the time, but when my feet both slip, go out from under me, and I’m somehow falling in slow motion onto my brothers’ teammate, I instantly regret my decision.

Not even into his arms, nope, I’m not that lucky. My fall catches us both off-guard, and instead of a graceful, dainty fall into the open arms of an attractive hockey player, I splat on top of him like a fucking cartoon character.

“Oof.” A puff of breath-vapor meets the air as he takes the weight of my fall. “Shit.”

I’m on my back, lying on his chest like an upended freakin’ turtle, legs and arms flailing. My frozen brain seems unable to figure out how to get back up on my feet, so I simply flap harder.

He bands an arm around my waist and flips us like a double-yolked egg. Except now, he’s the big spoon to my little spoon, and his crotch is perfectly aligned with my?—

“Whoa, whoa, whoaaaaa.”

I turn just in time to see his hands, which were on my hips—and dangerously close to my ass cheeks—a fraction of a second ago, fluttering in the air as he tries to find his balance. He backs away from me. “I didn’t mean to... I wasn’t trying to... I...” His hands are crossing back and forward in front of him like he’s trying to wave off a goal.

At the same time I make a dismissive wave with my hand, he jerks his body, and my glove-covered hand brushes against his crotch.

This isn’t quite what I expected to happen at the side of the highway, and if anyone is watching us they’re going to think we’re doing some kind of fully-clothed fornication dance. I’ve known this guy for less than five minutes, and already he’s had his cock pressed against my ass.AndI’ve touched his junk.

Shit. Pretty sure I’ve just gone to second base with my brothers’ friend, and now we have to endure an hour-long car ride to Waterloo together.

Well, shit. This is awkward.

CHAPTER 2

Scott

(SIXTEEN YEARS OLD)

We’ve been sitting in awkward silence in my rescuer’s car for ten minutes. I don’t know her name yet—I’m working myself up to asking. But, between the fact my teeth are chattering too loudly, and the fact I had my hands, like, right there on her butt, I’m really not quite sure how to move forward.

Specifically, from the part where my hands were on her ass. I’d absolutely, definitely like them to be on her ass again. And other parts of her, too.

Fuck. I’ve developed an instant and all-consuming crush on the girl wrapped in a blood-red bubble jacket with a matching red beanie hat pulled down over her ears and forehead.

The radiator is blasting heat out at our toes and into our faces. My hockey bag is in the trunk of her car, and I’ve texted my cousin to go pick up my vehicle. Maybehecan get the damn tire off, or find someone else who can.

I blow into my hands before rubbing them together, risking another sideways glance at the beautiful girl who rescued me. Now her hat is off, I can see her a little more clearly. She’s got long-flowing black hair, partially stuck to her forehead and face,red splotches on her cheeks, and a Rudolph-red nose lighting up the way to Waterloo.

I’m going to be in so much shit for being late and missing the team bus, but the silver lining is that I get to spend an hour in the car with someone too pretty for words, so I’ll suck it up and endure the laps Coach inflicts upon me.

“Eh... do you like hockey?” I’m not sure if she offered to give me a ride to the Waterloo game because neither of us could get my tire off and she was afraid I’d freeze to death at the side of the road, or if she’s actually going to the game.

She nods, humming absently as she narrowly makes it through an amber light on the cusp of turning red.

Daredevil.

I want to get her talking again. Her voice is soothing, addictive, and the accent that curls its way around her words warms my cold extremities. She seems older than me, I’m not sure by how much, I just turned sixteen earlier this week, and she seems at least seventeen, maybe even eighteen.

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