Page 31 of Pucker Up
A murmur spread through the room and a bunch of the players nodded. “If you’d like to participate, please fill out this form.” I attached the participation form to a clipboard and passed it to Gideon. He gave me what I think was his versionof a smile: his lips were pressed together, but they were slightly turned up at the sides.
“I’d be happy to participate and help out in any way I can. I think this is a very important area of study. Thank you for doing this.” There was a softness in Gideon’s voice that I hadn’t expected, and like my father’s tax donation, I was caught off guard.
“Y-y-you’re welcome,” I stammered, gulping hard to stop the tears from forming.
Once Gideon signed, the rest of the team followed suit. I had them fill in their contact information and let them know I’d be in touch to set up their sessions. Last in line was Ace.
“Hey.” He scribbled his signature on the pages and filled in his phone number and email.
“Hi.” I took the clipboard from him and set it on the desk. Dad had filed out with the rest of the team and the door clanged shut. With just Ace and me alone in the concrete room, it got very quiet.
Ace cleared his throat. “I guess it’s a good thing you turned me down.”
“Why is that?” I hoped that the tremble in my voice wasn’t obvious. Where Gideon had a commanding presence, one that was a little unnerving, Ace’s was warm. There was an ease about him that I could only describe as feeling like home. It was equally unnerving, but in a different way. The comfort I felt with him was the kind I’d only experienced with people I knew very well.
He ran his hands over his backwards hat and squeezed the brim behind his head. “Wouldn’t it be an ethics violation to get into my head if you were already in my bed?”
The comment seemed so out of character, and it reminded me that I didn’t actually know the man standing in front of me.“That’s awfully presumptuous.” I scribbled my signature on the paper and set the clipboard on the desk.
His breath was hot on my ear as he leaned in close. “Tell me you haven’t thought about it.”
Holy hell. How did Ace Bailey know that I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him since our not-a-date? “You’re one of my subjects. This conversation is inappropriate on so many levels. If you want to participate in the study, you’re going to have to be a lot more professional.”
“Milady.” He bowed.
My brow furrowed. What was he doing?
“I’m your loyal subject and in case you haven’t heard, ‘unprofessional’ is my middle name.” He headed to the door and paused with his hand on the lever. “Have a great day, Professor Goldie.”
The door closed behind him, leaving me standing there with my mouth agape. On our not-a-date, he had seemed the opposite of cocky, but then I remembered his antics on the dock at the plunge. He was a showman. The man was a professional athlete who made more money in one season than I would by the time I was fifty. This cocky side of Ace Bailey should’ve been a turn-off, but the thrum between my legs told me otherwise.
I was in trouble. Being this attracted to one of my subjects was not okay. I had to figure out a way to not want that man’s lips on mine, or I had to exclude him completely. Like my father, we both seemed to have a Bailey brother problem.
ELEVEN
ACE
A coupleof days had passed since Goldie walked into the conference room at the arena. Before that meeting, my life had started to feel like Groundhog Day. Work out, slam protein, practice, run, game, repeat. I wasn’t bored, but I wasn’t content either. My life felt the way Gideon’s looked: structured, disciplined, and boring.
Now, with the session with Goldie coming up, something was back. My stomach felt like it did before my first NHL game: pukey.
What were the chances that the one chick who had caught my attention, and then rejected me, was going to be sitting in a room alone with me? At least now there was a reason that I couldn’t sleep with her—it would be unprofessional, for her. That seemed better than rejection.
After practice, we had a free afternoon. Instead of going for a run, I picked up the phone and called Ethan. An hour later we were lined up at the golf dome with five buckets of driving range balls between us.
“I thought it was bad luck to golf before the end of season.” The ball cracked as Ethan made contact. It sailed well past the three-hundred-yard marker.
“Where did you hear that?” I pulled out my driver and waggled the head a couple of times over the ball before sending it into the next atmosphere. I popped it high and it dropped before the hundred-yard marker.
Ethan laughed and leaned against his club. “I thought it was a superstition thing. At least it was when I played in Florida.”
Smiling, I set another ball on the tee. “Maybe it was to stop you guys from playing too much golf in the season.” We’d only been through one bucket of balls and already I could feel it in my shoulder. It was in our contract that during the season, we wouldn’t do sports that could result in an injury, like skiing, or race car driving, but as far as I knew, golf wasn’t on the list.
Ethan scratched his cheek with his gloved hand. “So you’re telling me that you’ve never heard that it’s bad luck to play golf during the season?”
I nodded and popped another ball high in the sky.
“Motherfuckers.” Ethan hit another perfect shot. “I totally thought that it was a superstition. I guess it doesn’t matter. The courses here are covered in snow anyway.”
