Page 86 of At First Smile
After a few moments of unapologetic making out at my front door, we head out. An hour later, we park in an empty lot surrounding a large oval shaped building.
“Where are we?” I squint, trying to read the large letters scrawled along the cement structure.
“It’s the Bobcats’ practice arena.”
I take in the snatches of green bushes and trees speckled across the blacktop parking lot. Faded orange letters that I now realize readLA Bobcatsdominate the building’s entrance. Floor to ceiling windows flanked by dark gray pillars make up the arena’s front.
“Where you go most mornings.” I smile.
Each morning, Rowan heads to the arena to work out. Their training camp doesn’t start until mid-August, but he sticks with an almost daily workout regimen, and outside our occasionalpastries he adheres to a healthy diet to stay ready for the coming season.
“Are we allowed to be here?” I ask as he opens the passenger’s side.
“Scared I’ll get you in trouble?”
“I’m more worried I’ll get you kicked off the team.”
He threads our fingers together. “Worth it.”
Hands linked, Rowan escorts me through the building. Games are played at the large arena in downtown L.A., but the players spend most of their time here. This is where their almost daily practices are held. Besides the rink itself, the complex features a large workout room for players, their locker room, and several training rooms for physical therapy.
Posters of current and past players line the hallway leading into the team’s locker room. Rowan explains who each player is. I take the opportunity to impress him with my newly-acquired-through-Google hockey knowledge.
Reaching the locker room, I run my fingers across the rows of gold and black lockers. Shiny brown benches line the path through the large room. Rowan leads me to a gold locker.
“This is mine,” he says, opening the middle locker.
Affection tugs in my chest at his boyish lilt. “Have you brought anyone else here before?”
“No.” He digs for something in his locker.
“Not your mam nor your…” A crease notches my brow. “…Finn.”
He shakes his head.
Stepping into him, I press my head to his chest. “Thank you for sharing this with me.”
From everything he’s told me over the last few weeks, his hockey life is separate from most people in his orbit. His mother and brothers go to the games in Toronto. Finn goes to all ofthem, but his mom and Gillian only go to the big ones. They’ve not flown to any of the cities he’s lived in over the last ten years.
“I have something for you.” He kisses my forehead.
“Is it your cock?” I tease, rocking my hips against his upper thigh.
“Christ!” Head tipped back, laughter rumbles in his chest.
Withdrawing something from his locker, he presents me with a large gift bag. That boyish energy returns to him as I take the heavy bag.
In it, I find a pair of leggings, socks, and ice skates.
With my right eyebrow ticked up, I tilt my head. “What’s this?”
“They go with this.” He pulls out a hockey jersey and holds it up.
Biting my lower lip, my fingertips trace over theIversonon the jersey’s back.
“You’ll need to suit up before we hit the ice.”
“Wait, we’re skating?”
