Page 26 of Wooing the Wiccan
“Have you been waiting long?” he asks, and I shake my head.
“Just a few minutes. I’ve been enjoying the crowd.”
He smiles at me in a way that makes my stomach somersault. I know that feeling will fade the longer we’re together, but I hope it never completely disappears. “And staying warm, I see. That’s some very neat work. I’m impressed.”
Laughing, I hook my arm through his and pull him toward the door. “I learned from an expert. Do you have the tickets? I want to hit concessions and get some nachos before the puck drops.”
“Mmm, nachos,” he agrees, pulling out his phone and holding it out to be scanned. A few seconds later we’re in, and a vendor stall catches my eye.
“This way,” I say. “I want to get a Glaives jersey.” I’ve already decided they’re going to be my team.
Raðulfr raises a brow curiously but tags along. “Why the Glaives? The Warhammers are the home team.” He sounds oddly proud as he announces that.
I take a second to wonder why he thinks it would matter that the Warhammers are the designated home team when both teams are local, but shrug it off. “I heard someone saying the Glaives’ players are all precision weapons like the team name, and I like that idea. Plus, the color is pretty.”
His laugh surrounds us as we join the line, and a few people glance over. One man does a double take, and I figure he recognizes Raðulfr. He must be seriously involved with this league.
Or maybe they recognize him from his job? Government employees are sometimes public figures. But if he was in the public eye enough for this many people to recognize him, shouldn’t I?
The people in front of us move off, and I push the thought aside to ask Raðulfr about later, and get down to the serious business of buying merch.
By the time we have our nachos and are in our fantastic seats, my sweater replaced by my new jersey, the pregame entertainment is starting. I’m surprised, to be honest—I didn’t expect a small local league to have pregame entertainment, and definitely not thisgood. It’s cheesy, two fantasy characters—what looks like a devil and a wolfman—fighting each other with warhammers, but the music is suitably dramatic, and the smoke and lighting add to the whole ambiance.
The hammers clang together, and kudos to the sound guy, because the sound of itvibratesthrough the air.
A sharp breath beside me draws my attention to Raðulfr. He’s staring at the ice, pale.
“Are you okay?” I ask, concerned. It can’t be dinner disagreeing with him, because he’s barely touched his nachos.
He turns a wide-eyed, slightly panicked gaze on me, and then seems to shake it off. “Yes. I’m fine. Sorry, I… uh, I remembered something for work. Do you… Would it be okay if we didn’t stay?”
Shocked, I gape at him. “You want toleave?” I glance back at the ice in confusion, wondering what about the fake fight reminded him of work. “Do you have to cancel our date and go back to the office?”
His throat works as he swallows, and he musters a smile. “No. No, of course not. I don’t know what I was thinking. It can wait until tomorrow.”
All his earlier relaxation and happiness seem to be gone, but I guess if he’d worried about work… “We can go if you need to,” I begin, but he shakes his head firmly.
“No. It’s fine. I don’t want to miss out on this time with you. Let’s enjoy our date.”
Not entirely convinced, I turn back to the entertainment just as the hammers strike each other again, and I swear, this time there are sparks as well as the noise. I lean toward Raðulfr. “Theeffects for this are incredible,” I say, then drop my voice to a murmur as I add, “If I couldn’t see for myself that it wasn’t, I’d swear those sparks were magic, they’re so realistic.”
“But you can see they’re not! Because they’re not. You’re experienced enough to know that you can see it, and if you can’t, it’s not magic.”
I shoot him a look, not liking the forced smile on his face, but before I can ask again if he’s okay, the music peaks and the fight ends, the wolfman vanquished by the devil. Raðulfr rises to his feet with the rest of the crowd, applauding, and I follow suit. It was a great performance.
The lights come back up to full as we sit again, and Raðulfr mutters something that I don’t catch. It sounds like he said something about sorcery, but I must have misheard.
“So,” I begin, trying to get some positive vibes back, “I guess you’re going for the Warhammers?”
Raðulfr seems to pull himself together, and his smile this time is the teasing one I’m used to. “Yep! Felix Ansas is my favorite player. We’re going to smash your precision Glaives.”
I scoff. “You wish. We’ll slip in and strike before you can even lift your overhyped weapon.” I have no idea if that’s actually true. Or even if what I said makes sense.
From the sideways look Raðulfr is giving me, he doesn’t think so. “Overhyped weapon? You didn’t think it was overhyped the other night when you were begging for it.”
My jaw drops, and I sputter a laugh. “Did you just make a dick joke? You’re comparing your dick to awarhammer?”
He winces. “Yeah, in hindsight, not my best choice. I like to think I have more finesse than that.”
