Page 12 of The Sweetest Risk

I reach up and barely touch Tristan’s face. “Your cut on your left eyebrow is starting to bleed again. Did your trainer do a concussion check on you? Because you know that concussions are serious, right?”

Tristan chuckles and reveals a smile that I’ve never seen. A genuine smile. His chuckle makes my body stupidly vibrate with excitement. “Yes, Cupcake. We have only the best athletic trainers on staff. I checked out fine.” After taking a sip of his own water, he says, “Why are you looking at me all goofy like that?”

I bite my bottom lip. “You laughed. You should always do that.”

“You should always make me.” He steps closer and now the air is completely knocked out of me.

Okay, we are entering unfamiliar territory here. We are no longer bantering about how much we loathe each other. We are talking about how we make each other laugh and I am touching his perfect fricken body out of pure worry. While he is in nothing but a towel.

I clear my throat. “So, that first aid kit?”

“Hold on, I’ll be back. Apparently you have a problem with people being in towels, so I will go change into my clothes and get that kit.” He runs up his stairs to where I assume his bedroom is. A small part of me wants to know what his bedroom looks like. My cheeks get hot as that thought enters my mind.

As Tristan is changing, and to distract myself from thoughts of his bedroom, I take this opportunity to peruse his home. I walk into the living room and notice a large bookshelf. I did not take Tristan as a reader, but he is surprising me at every turn. Just like he surprised me by looking up at where I was sitting in that damn arena after he got into that fight with Dean. I could sense that he was looking directly at me. I even have evidence from the jumbotron to back me up. For some reason, I had this strange feeling that with every punch he swung at Dean, he was trying to prove that he cared for me. As if each punch was its own pick-up line for me.

I know that’s ridiculous. Because he hates me. But one thing I know is that players don’t punch their own teammates for entertainment. Tristan had a reason that wasn’t directly linked to hockey.

The real question is why.

Picture frames filled with Tristan’s sisters and his parents grace his bookshelves. He almost looks normal and not like my arch nemesis. Every smile in those pictures provides glimpses of who Tristan maybe truly is. He is a son. A brother. A best friend. At least to my brother, he is. Then I come across the best picture of all. I pick it up off the bookshelf to study it closer. A photo of Tristan with two elderly people, who I am assuming are his grandparents, with the Stanley Cup. He looks so happy and I can see the pride in his grandparents’ eyes as they pose next to him. Now, that’s a smile I’ve never seen come across his face.

“Best moment of my life right there,” Tristan states from right behind me. I jump a little. I can feel his breath near my ear.Heat radiates off Tristan’s enormous body and it sends chills up my spine. And not in a bad way. In a way that makes my core heat up and butterflies enter my vacant stomach.

“Your grandparents look so proud of you. I remember that night. Bradley was so happy. That’s the night he met Jen.” I vividly remember that night two years ago. We were celebrating their Stanley Cup win at a rooftop bar off Greenville Avenue. My brother saw Jen across the room and it was as if stars in the sky came down and took up permanent residence in Bradley’s eyes. They’ve never dimmed. I also remember that Tristan was surrounded by a swarm of women, ruthlessly throwing themselves at him, hands all over, caressing his chest, playing with his hair, whispering in his ear things that made him smile deviously. A knot of jealousy tightens in my stomach as that memory infiltrates my mind.

I shake my head a little, setting the photo back on the bookshelf.Back to reality. I turn around and hold my hand out, waiting for the first aid kit. “Kit?”

Tristan places the small white-and-red box in my palm. His thumb lingers a little too long against the side of my hand. And just when I think he will move his hand, he keeps it there longer. “What were you thinking about, Cupcake? Your cheeks are red.”

Stupid pale skin. Always betraying my inner thoughts. Why wasn’t I blessed with olive skin like Tess? And then I take him in. My God, can this man wear light gray sweatpants and an old Boston University shirt that clings to his sculpted chest. His sleeves of tattoos are the only ones exposed, unfortunately. His damp hair is starting to set in slight waves and even though he has a short, almost scruff-like, beard, his jawline looks more chiseled than ever. It is fucking annoying how he can look like this without any effort at all.

I clear my throat again and gesture to his couch. “C’mon, let’s go sit down.” I pry myself out of the intense gravitationalpull that Tristan apparently has on my body and walk toward his charcoal couch that probably costs more than my annual salary.

“I’m seriously fine, Cup–” Tristan starts.

“Can you not fight with me for once, Lawson? Come sit on the couch so I can help you!”

Tristan lets out a small laugh and plops down next to me. A little too close, in my opinion. I scoot slightly as I open the first-aid kit. I take out some gauze, q-tips, and antibacterial ointment. As I softly press against Tristan’s open wound on his eyebrow, he flinches slightly but says nothing. For once, Tristan Lawson is vulnerable in front of me. No fighting. No quips. No mischievous smirks directed at me after he says something that pisses me off. His guard is down. He put down his firearms for a second. We are at a ceasefire. And I am going to take full advantage of it.

As I apply more ointment, I say, “Tristan.”

“Yes, Cupcake?”

That damn nickname.I roll my eyes, shake my head and continue, “Why did you fight Dean?”

Tristan doesn’t answer straight away. I shift my eyes from his cut and look into his hazel eyes, searching for some way to his inner thoughts. Maybe they are a portal into the inscrutable mind of Tristan Lawson. Maybe I can finally crack the code. “Because Dean is an asshole.” His jaw clenches and he doesn’t look directly at me.

He’s holding back. “That’s it? There is no other reason? From what I know about sports, you usually don’t punch out your fellow teammate.”

“He is dangerously close to getting something that I desperately want.” He looks intensely at me, with fire in his eyes.

My stomach flips and my heart starts to race. “And what’s that?”

Tristan plays with a piece of my hair. He leans a little closer. My breath hitches when I realize that Tristan fricken Lawsonis the closest he’s ever been to my face and…wait, is he about to kiss me? My fingers get tingly and my hands start to shake. My body aches from the possibility of having his lips on mine. Having his fingers grab my hair and not just twirl it around.

A knock at his door breaks the magnetic pull between us. I lean back and I swear I hear Tristan let out a small growl, as if he is frustrated that whatever was about to transpire between us got interrupted. I know I feel the same way.

The knock becomes incessant and finally Tristan gets up from the couch and makes his way to the door. I frantically place the ointment and extra gauze back into the kit. I place some hair behind my ears and try to will the goosebumps covering my entire body away.

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