Page 19 of The Sweetest Risk

“I have to run to the restroom,” Tess says. “I know it’s not an ideal time because everyone is there, but I really need to go! Do you want anything from the concessions before I come back? More beer?”

I look at my almost-empty plastic cup and say, “Yes and can you get a pretzel with extra cheese please.”

“You got it! I’ll be back.”

“Thanks!” I try to open Instagram to mindlessly scroll, but alas I have no service because EVERYONE is on their phones. I turn my phone over and rock my leg back and forth. Then I get a notification. I’m assuming it’s a text from Tess.

I was wrong.

Tell me the number.

Why the hell is Tristan texting me in the middle of a game? Shouldn’t he be recovering or something? Wiping off that disgusting sweat that is no doubt dripping down his body?

The number of what?

Three dots load immediately. What is he playing at? This is a weird game that I don’t know if I want to play with him. Then a gray bubble appears on the bottom left hand side of my screen.

The number of goals I need to score in order for you to take off that fucking jersey that doesn’t have my name on it.

My jaw drops as I read that text message over and over again.Take off that fucking jersey that doesn’t have my name on it?Is he serious? Why would I ever wear his jersey? Over my dead body, Lawson. But if he wants a number, I’ll give him a nearly impossible one. I may not come to a lot of games, but I know all the hockey terminology. Time to get into his head.

My fingers move across the keyboard.

I’ll tell you what Hot Shot: if you get a pure hat trick, I’ll do whatever you want.

About a minute passes by before a response. Maybe he realized that he isn’t as good as he thought. Maybe he realized how ridiculous that last text message to me was. I smugly sit back into the arena seat.

A moment later, I get a text that makes me very nervous. Because if there are two other things I know about Tristan Lawson is that he loves to play games and he loves a good challenge. And the scary thing is, he usually wins at both.

I’ll hold you to that, Cupcake.

My face grows hot again at the possibility that Tristan could pull a pure hat trick off. I am praying so hard that he doesn’t, because I am terrified of what he would make me do other than take this jersey off.

I try to calm down by reminding myself that statistics are on my side with this one. There is a slim chance that Tristan will score three goals in a row with no one else scoring in between. That’s why I was so comfortable betting that he would be unsuccessful.

“Are you okay?” Tess interjects, breaking into my thoughts.

I stand up so she can get back to her seat. I click the side of my phone and put it in my back pocket. She hands me my new beer and the delicious pretzel with cheese. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Really? Because you look like someone just gave you the worst news possible.”

With Tristan Lawson, I fear that’s not too far off. I shouldn’t have provoked him. He’s dangerous when he is provoked.

Once Tristan comes backonto the ice, there is an intensity in his eyes that supersedes anything that I have ever seen before. Within the first minute of the third period, he glides fluidly and swiftly towards the goal and scores. Less than a minute later, he scores again. And out of what seems like pure luck in the last five minutes of the game, he scores one more time. After his final goal and his celebratory embrace with his team, he looks up and winks at me. My stomach does a somersault. I try to convince myself it’s because he won the challenge and my body is reacting to defeat–not because that wink lit a spark that I haven’t felt since the night I met him.

I head homeright after the game because I have to start baking cupcakes for my coworker’s child’s fourth birthday party.

The second batch is in the oven when I hear a knock at my door. That’s weird, I didn’t get a notification that someone needed to be let in. I walk over to the door, lean against the wood, and say, “Who is it?”

“It’s me, Cupcake.”

I jump back from the door. Why is Tristan here? Doesn’t he have to recover from tonight’s game? What does he want? Another knock breaks me out of my head.

“Are you going to open the door, Cupcake, or are you going to keep me out here looking like a creep in front of your neighbors?”

Tempting. I exhale and swing open the door. At the sight of him, my heart starts to flutter and my ears get hot. And I can’t shake the feeling that it isn’t because of my hatred for Tristan. Did I mention how unfair it is that he looks the way he does? He smells freshly clean, with a hint of cedar and mint. He is wearing a backwards hat and his dark, wavy hair is peeking out underneath the sides. His intricate sleeves are on full display, along with the protruding manly veins on his forearms and semi-exposed biceps. My God, even fully clothed, he still evokes a silly reaction from my body, namely between my fucking legs. No matter, I am pushing those thoughts away to the ends of the earth because that would never happen in a bazillion years.

I block the entrance to my apartment. He’s not coming in here that easy. Not if I have any say or control. “What are you doing here, Tristan?”

---