Page 43 of Rookie Season
Noah quirks a smile. “Tried to warn you.”
“Okay we’re ready,” Fisher calls. He presses play, and it’s even worse than I imagined as through the state-of-the-art living room sound system, the opening bars of Boyz II Men’s “I’ll Make Love to You” begins to play.
I bite down on my lip, holding back the fountain of incredulous nervous laughter that’s bubbling up in me.
“Here goes nothing,” Noah exhales under his breath as he lowers his eyes to meet mine.
He surprises me by taking the lead as he extends a hand to me. I reach out my own, and as my fingers slide over his open palm, my whole body feels charged, sparked with an electrical current. When he tugs me against his chest, I feel, rather than hear, Noah’s sharp inhale. He’s still for a moment before his opposite hand slides around my waist.
I can hardly breathe, or think, so I let myself rely on my intuition, leaning into my body’s instinct in a way I haven’t felt safe or able to do in months. But right here, in the living room with Noah, dancing to this old, corny song, something changes in me. I’m able to release my thoughts and just move, my logical thoughts taking a backseat and letting my body lead. I loop my other arm around Noah’s neck, fingers grazing the skin at his nape. In response, he curses again and suddenly his other hand is on my hip, circling around my hip bone and pulling my body even closer so it’s flush with his.
I inhale sharply. I’m wearing a baggy hoodie, so there’s multiple layers of loose fabric between us, but the sensation of being pressed against him is so exhilarating, I might as well be wearing nothing.
There’s heat radiating from his body, racing through my veins and collecting deep in my core, and as the saxophone escalates in the song, I lose myself in his eyes, moving my body against his, leaning into his touch as his hands glideover my side, making their way from my hips to my stomach to my ribs. I’m dancing without fear, allowing my body to move without feeling like I’m leading someone on, or being too suggestive. Being with Noah just makes me completely comfortable in my own skin. Something I didn’t realize would ever be possible again.
I tilt my head up to look at him, and right away almost wish I hadn’t, seeing his face—lips parted, cheekbones ruddy, eyes heavy-lidded and half closed. At this moment, he is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my life, and when his coffee-dark eyes meet mine, I feel an ache deep within myself that shocks me.
It’s like after months of being asleep, my body has woken up. Suddenly I can feel again.
Wantagain.
And what I want is Noah.
Then, the music stops and the spell breaks.
It’s like I’m surfacing from a dream as Penn sticks his fingers in his mouth and whistles, stomping his applause on the floor.
“Puck me!” Fisher cries, making a big show of fanning himself. “You two just set this place on fire.”
How do I keep forgetting Penn and Fisher are here?
Noah’s hands abruptly fall from my body and I step back, breathing heavily.
I choke out a laugh and do a little curtsy, trying to play it cool. Noah makes a beeline for the couch without so much as a backwards glance at me, and I follow him, heart thumping in my chest.
What the hell just happened…and why do I already want it to happen again?
CHAPTER 18
NOAH
Puttingmy hands on Ally’s body was probably a terrible idea, but I can’t bring myself to regret it the next morning. I think I could’ve danced with her for hours if we hadn’t had an audience.
The tension between us feels like it’s reaching a boiling point. If someone doesn’t remove the pot from the heat, we’re going to boil over. And it’s more than just her being attractive and in my space at this point. I genuinely like Ally, and I can’t say that about most people. Like Fisher first told me, she’s a nice girl. She’s also cool and funny and down-to-earth...and I find myselfwantingto spend time in her company. To the point where distancing myself from her is growing more difficult with every passing day.
I mean, some of the greatest players in the league have girlfriends, wives, kids, and lives outside of hockey. Maybe it’s a good thing to have someone special in your life to come home to after a game? Maybe my performance is suffering because I'm pushing myself too hard. But maybe not. And I’m not sure that’s a risk I’m willing to take. If I do give intothe desire I’m feeling for Ally, I’ll feel like I’m failing in some way…like I’m giving up on my goal.The single goal I’ve spent my entire life working towards.
Distance from Ally is clearly the best—the only—option. I’ll have plenty of time to date once I’m a more established player. And keeping people at arm's length is the best way to protect myself. Because tragedy can happen to anyone.
I force that disturbing thought out of my mind, knowing that’s my anxiety talking. Nothing bad is going to happen to Ally, or Penn, or Fisher. But the anxiety is still there in the back of my mind, annoying me like someone poking me continuously.
I continue lacing up my tennis shoes when Harry Styles struts over and distracts me as he plops down and plays with my shoestrings. He’s a welcome distraction, for once.
“Hey, Harry,” I say, gently patting his head the way he likes.
He blinks up at me before standing and jumping onto my lap, purring loudly and rubbing his face on my jaw. I smile, finding it hard not to like his affection. Thankfully no one is up to give me shit about it.
Glancing around the quiet loft, I wonder when Penn and Fisher will be up and ready to work out. After all those cookies last night, the three of us agreed to hit up the gym in our building to do an early workout. And yet here I am, the only one awake at eight in the morning.
