Page 87 of At First Smile
“Of course,” he replies and pats my bum lightly in aget movingkind of gesture.
Changed, we skate onto the ice. The cool air kisses my cheeks, reminding me of an early winter day in Buffalo. I can almost hear Trina’s laugh as we zigzag down the hill behind the house on innertubes.
Looping his muscular arms around my middle, Rowan tucks my head under his chin. “We’re at center rink. Besides the nets at north and south ends, both dead center of those ends, there’s no obstacles or drop-offs.”
“So, basically I have free rein until I hit the boards.” I gesture around us.
He kisses the top of my head. “God, I love it when you use hockey terms.”
“Icing. Hooking. Penalty kill. Powerplay. Gordie Howe.” Spinning in his arms, I list all the hockey-related terms I can think of.
Chuckling, he clutches my hands, and my knees are a little shaky as we move across the ice. It’s not just because this is my first time ice skating, but how adorably sweet this is. Taking his time to orientate me and inviting me into his world.
This is a big part of his life, something he doesn’t share with most people. At Axel’s, he plays the boss. On the ice, he’s the hot-headed defenseman. With Finn, he’s both the beleaguered and pestering little brother. I know from overhearing the chats with his mom, that he’s the quiet, slightly guarded, but thoughtful son. With Gillian, he’s the younger brother desperate for approval from a man whom I believe doesn’t deserve that power over him.
Rowan tends to compartmentalize things, but with me, he reveals all his parts. He’s simply Rowan and I like every bit of him. The strong. The silly. The sweet. The broken. I like it all.
With slow strides, he guides me across the rink. We circle several times, giving me time to get my bearings.
After twenty minutes, my increasing comfort bolsters my bravery. I don’t cling but hold Rowan’s hand more for the connection rather than a need for his steadiness as we skate.
Stopping in front of the team bench, he pulls out two hockey sticks and a puck. “Now that you’re warmed up, time to train.”
Laughing, I take one of the sticks.
Chest pressed against my back, he guides me in the motion of shooting the puck at the goal. After several practice shots, he positions himself in front of the net.
“You’re going down, Iverson.” I taunt and mock glare at him as I line up my shot.
With a wicked smile, he taps the stick against the ice. “I plan on it.”
“Perv,” I sass.
He stops shot after shot after shot. Despite the slight annoyance, I’m grateful he’s not taking it easy on me.
“Rowan.”
“Pen.” His voice is low and teasing.
“Are there cameras in the locker room?”
“No.”
“Good. I thought you could bend me over the bench and fuck me while I wear your jersey.”
“Christ,” he groans, standing up.
And I take my shot. The puck whooshes down the ice.
“Did I do it?” I squint.
“Yes.”
“Yes!” Stick raised in the air, I jump high and promptly fall, my ass slamming hard against the cold ice. “Oof.”
“Pen!” Rowan skates over, leans down, and helps me to my feet. “You okay?” He swipes his warm palm over my butt like he’s brushing away ice. He pauses the motion and squeezes my ass cheek.
“I just scored on one of the NHL’s top players, I’m winning at life.” Winding my arms around his waist, I tip my smile up to him.
