Page 34 of Checking Mr. Wrong
“Well, I’m not going either,” I say, sarcasm sprinkled over my words. “Mom got tickets for herself and Murray but didn’t get one for me because she didn’t think it was something I’d enjoy.”
“I’m sure she didn’t mean anything by it, Mabel,” Neesha says as she pats my hand. “In her mind she was sparing you. You can always hang out with me.”
I throw an arm around my old friend. “I’d rather hang out with you any day of the week over going to any kind of ball orbash or whatever. At least with you, I know I’m being asked, not maneuvered into it.”
“Maneuvered?” Fiona tilts her head to one side as the bell on the front door jingles, signaling a new customer.
“Asher…” I trail off, rolling my eyes with a laugh. “I’m starting to think that man could sell rain to a storm cloud and make it thank him for the privilege.”
“Asher can do what, now?”
The voice, low and amused, has me spinning around, and there he is. Asher stands in the doorway with Carson, looking like a couple of giants who wandered out of a fairy tale book from the children’s section. Only instead of wielding clubs, they’re armed with charm and a dangerous amount of confidence.
I recover quickly, tilting my head at him. “Asher can help me finish my article,” I say smoothly, ignoring Willa’s not-so-subtle groan behind me.
Before anyone can comment, I stride over, grab his arm, and steer him toward a table in the back corner of the coffee shop. “C’mon, superstar, I’ve got deadlines.”
Carson stays put, glancing between my friends. I don’t need to look back to know they’re sizing him up like an unexpected guest who didn’t bother to RSVP.
“We’ll be right back,” I call over my shoulder. “Please be nice to Carson, ladies.”
Asher laughs quietly, leaning closer as we walk. “You just left him in the wolves’ den.”
“He’ll survive,” I say, before I think of Neesha, who may have something to say about his choice of profession. “Maybe.”
Once we’re seated, I pull out my notebook and laptop, placing them on the table between us. Asher leans back in his chair, his arms crossed in that casual way he has that somehow still manages to take up half the room.
“Okay, I’ll make this fast,” I say, opening my notebook andclicking my pen. “I just need to fact-check a few things from the other night.”
He tilts his head, considering. “Fair enough.”
I begin tossing out a string of questions at him, double-checking some of his answers and making sure I’d gotten the right detail. Look, I’m good at my job, but sometimes I have to go back and be this pedantic. I don’t want to ever put something into print that could hurt the reputation of a player, especially not someone like Asher.
He handles everything I toss his way like the pro he is. It takes less time than I’d anticipated. But I like this part of the process, because every now and then, a few new questions come up that I hadn’t thought to ask—like in this instance.
“Okay, new question: How do you stay focused during high-pressure games?”
His lips quirk into a half-smile. “Are all your questions going to make me sound like a motivational poster?”
“Just answer the question, Asher,” I say, rolling my eyes. “You’re the newbie with heat. I’m aiding in keeping your momentum going. Thank me later.”
“Fine,” he says, leaning forward slightly, his voice low and steady. “Routine. You stick to your routine, no matter what. You don’t let the stakes mess with your head.”
“Perfect,” I murmur, scribbling furiously. “Okay, last one: Who’s the toughest player you’ve ever gone up against?”
He’s closer now, leaning on the table, his face just inches from mine as he answers. But instead of the quick quip I’m expecting, he pauses, his gaze steady on mine.
“The toughest person I’ve ever been up against? Well, it isn’t a player,” he says quietly. “I’d like to say it was my mom, because everyone thinks their mom is tough, but that’s not it.” His lips curl into a faint smile. “I think the most tenacious person I’ve ever sat across from is a reporter from a magazine calledAthletic Edge.”
I blink, caught off guard. “Me?”
“You don’t pull punches, Mabel. You ask questions that make me sweat and then stare at me like you already know the answer.” He shrugs, his smile deepening. “That’s tougher than any player I’ve faced on the ice.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I just stare at him, my pen frozen on the page. I stay like this for only a second before looking down at my pad. As I write his response, I can feel his presence more acutely. When I glance up, he’s already looking at me. Our eyes meet, and suddenly, the whole coffee shop fades away. It’s like I’m stuck in a time warp from the other night at dinner, where the noise has vanished and everything is on pause as I’m wrapped in his world. I watch as his gaze flickers down to my lips, and suddenly the air between us feels charged, full of electric current that has no tether, like static before a storm.
My pulse skips, and I can feel my cheeks heating. My grip on the pen tightens, and I’m pretty sure there’s a cold sweat beginning somewhere on my body. This is not happening. Not here. Not now.
I panic when I feel moisture on my upper lip, my anxiety suddenly taking charge. I shift slightly, my elbow bumping into the table. This singular motion knocks over a forgotten cup, which spills a cold, sticky mess of someone’s abandoned drink all over the surface.
