Page 44 of Keeping the Score

He said he’d be home as quickly as he could after the game, but the media wants to interview him about the forty-four saves he made, and also that wild play out of his net. I watch him as he talks, sweaty but confident, his smile cocky when he talks about his taking down the Caribou player. “People probably think I’m crazy for doing that. I prefer the term ‘mentally spicy’.”

The reporters all laugh.

I smile reluctantly. He’s spicy, all right.

After his interview, I change the channel, then turn the TV off and pick up my phone to scroll on social media. The next thing I hear is, “Hey. Andi. Wake up,” with a gentle touch to my shoulder.

I blink Ford’s face into focus. His hand is still on my shoulder, his eyes on mine, his face close enough to see the ring of darker green around his irises.

“I fell asleep,” I mumble. His hand is warm and strong on me.

“I see that.” The corners of his mouth lift. “Tilly’s asleep, too.”

“Yeah.” For a moment, I just look at him, all irresistible pheromones and athletic beauty. Images of him coming down next to me on the couch, moving over me, letting me feel his heat and energy on my entire body, flash through my head.

I push to sit up and he steps back.

I shove my hair back and blink a few times. “Okay! Congratulations on the win! You played amazing.”

“Thanks. I did.” He smirks.

I have to smile. “Tilly was impressed. I made her watch.”

He chuckles. “Somehow, I don’t believe that.”

“Well, I tried.” I shrug. “She’s a little young. But you have to start them young, right?”

“Uh. Yeah.”

“I better get home.”

“Oh. Okay.” He sounds disappointed.

I pause. “What?”

He shrugs. “I need to wind down.”

I shift on the couch. “You want to talk?”

“Yeah.” He takes off his suit jacket and drapes it over a chair, then unbuttons his cuffs. I watch him roll up one sleeve, then the other, exposing his strong forearms dusted with dark hair, the veins on the backs of his big hands prominent. “I’m really wound up.”

Oh, God. Me too. I swallow and try to collect myself as he sits on the couch, trying not to stare at his forearms. “You should be exhausted,” I choke out, sweat breaking out on the back of my neck.

“Well, I am that, too.” A small smile touches his lips. “But the adrenaline is still pumping.”

Oh, yeah. Something is pumping.

I pick up a cushion, turn sideways to face him, and sit cross-legged. “It must have felt good to play so well your first game.”

“Yeah. It did.” He nods with satisfaction. “It’s what I worked for all summer.”

“Yeah. It was interesting seeing all your little habits. The TV announcers said you talk to the goalposts.”

“Damn right I do. When I hear that clank of the puck hitting the post, I’m like, fuck yeah, buddy! And I give them some high five love taps with my paddle. The crossbar, too,” he adds.

I grin. “But when it hits the goalpost, don’t you feel like it got past you?”

“Sometimes. But mostly, I feel good because I’m on my angles and they couldn’t get a better shot.”

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