Page 24 of Goalie and the Girl Next Door
"I contain multitudes," I say solemnly, handing her my extra helmet.
“As long as you don’t have a private plane.”
“Just the bike,mademoiselle.”
She hesitates. Looks at the helmet like it might bite. Then she takes it, sliding it on with slow, reluctant movements. "I am capable of walking, you know.”
"But why would you, when you can ride in style?" I flip the visor down for her, brushing my fingers against her shoulder accidentally-on-purpose.
She mutters under her breath and it sounds suspiciously like "drama king," but she adjusts her singed skirt and climbs onto the back of the bike anyway.
I feel it the second she wraps her arms around me—tight at first, then adjusting, then hesitating like she’s hyper-aware of every point where our bodies touch. Which makes me hyper-aware of it too.
Her front presses against my back, warm even through layers. Her hands grip the sides of my jacket in a way that makes it very clear she’s not used to this. Not used to being this close to someone.
Neither am I, not like this.
I rev the engine low, giving her a second to settle.
Then we take off.
The wind lifts my hair, cool and sharp against my face, but it’s her—the feeling of her clutching me, her chin brushing my shoulder once when we turn—that heats me from the inside out.
Marcy holds on tighter when we round the first curve.
The streetlights blur past us in a slow golden wash. Every bump in the road shifts her a little closer, and every shallow breath she takes feels like it’s stitched directly into me.
We come to a fork in the road, and over the roar of the bike, she yells, “Turn left here!”
I hear it. I process it.
And I turn right.
“Hey!” she shouts, jostling behind me. “I said left!”
I glance back at her over my shoulder, grinning wide under my helmet. “Language problem! I misunderstood.”
She smacks my shoulder lightly. I pretend not to feel the warmth blooming in me. I just want an extra few minutes.
A few more minutes of her arms around me, pretending she doesn’t like it. A few more minutes of the way her legs squeeze tighter when we take the curve, like she trusts me without meaning to.
A few more minutes before she figures out I’m not as casual about this as I look.
Indeed, a few winding minutes later—too few—we pull up outside the mayor’s home. I kill the engine but leave us sitting there in the quiet for a moment longer.
"I can wait," I offer. "Drive you home after."
Marcy slides off the bike carefully, removing the helmet and shaking out her hair in a way that makes it very hard to breathe.
"I’m good," she says.
“I mean it?—”
“I’ll be a while. And you professional sportsmen need your beauty rest.”
I hesitate. She raises one eyebrow. The serious one.
Reluctantly, I swing my leg over the bike and mount up again. “I’ll text you tomorrow to make sure your tryst with jogging doesn’t have lasting consequences.”
