Page 42 of Pucker Up
A weight pressed onto my shoulder and I froze. Even before he spoke, I knew whose warm hand was resting on top of my sweatshirt. “This is the VIP-est of all.” Ace’s voice always had a slight laugh in its tone.
“My apologies, miss.” The bouncer dropped his arm. “Great goals tonight, bud.” He fist-bumped Ace.
“Thanks, Manny.” Ace gestured for me to step onto the elevated platform. “What are you doing out?” He pulled out a chair for me and perched at the edge of the banquette seat, his elbow on the table.
“Mel wanted to come for a drink after the game.” I tilted my head to where Mel was sandwiched between two players.
“Mel!” Ace shouted and waved to her. She grinned and returned the gesture.
Ace focused his attention on me, scanning up and down my body, stopping at my eyes. “She looks like she’s quite comfortable over there.” When he smiled, the room seemed to get a little bit quieter. His gaze dropped to my sweatshirt—again.
“What are you looking at?” I asked, surprised at my own brazenness.
“Your shirt. I think that I have the same one. I should probably check the tag and make sure you didn’t steal mine.” He rested his hand on the hood part of my sweatshirt, his thumb tucked into the back by the tag.
I shrugged his hand off. “Does your mom sew your name into all of your clothes?”
The grin amped up a notch and things in the room started to disappear around us. “Just my boxers.” He grabbed the bucket of bottles from the middle of the table and set a glass in front of me. “What’s your poison?”
Four draft beers over the three periods, mixed with the two glasses of wine, had left me a bit more than tipsy. “I probably shouldn’t have any more to drink tonight.” I pointed to the bottle of sparkling water.
“I probably shouldn’t have any more to drink tonight either, so vodka?” He held up a bottle of Grey Goose. “Come on, Professor. We have to celebrate the fact that you won this game tonight.”
“Me?” I pressed my hand to my chest. “I believe you were the one holding the stick.”
Ace’s eyebrows practically shot up to his hairline and his lips pursed into a line. “You know I’m holding back with that one.”
Shaking my head, I tried to pretend I hadn’t dropped an innuendo. Instead of telling him to grow up, I leaned in. “Give it your best shot—all-star. I bet that the only thing you can come up with is something about me holding your stick.”
He coughed and then pounded his chest. I grabbed the bottle of sparkling water and handed it to him. He chugged the remainder of it straight from the bottle and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “That’s exactly what I was going to say.”
Without asking, he dropped ice cubes into two glasses and poured at least three fingers’ worth of vodka and opened a bottle of soda to top up the drinks. “But you already knew that.” He handed the drink to me and held his up.
“It wasn’t hard.” I touched my glass to his, realizing that I had done it again. He smiled as he drank, but didn’t say anything. At the very least he could’ve thrown out a “that’s whatshe said” comment. “I’ve spent the last week hanging out with your lot, so I know eighth-grade humor is your brand.”
His eyes sparkled as he took another sip. “Or you are a fortune teller.”
I paused halfway through sipping the eye-wateringly strong drink. “What?”
“You know, someone who can see the future. How else did you know about the goalie shot tonight?”
This was not where I expected the conversation to go. A laugh erupted across the table and I caught Mel sucking on a lime. A line of empty shot glasses littered the table in front of her and the players.
I sighed. “I’ve been studying concussions. That means watching hours upon hours of game tapes. Bellamy has been hit in the head so many times with the puck, I’m surprised he’s still in the game. “Plus, everyone goes low with him. If you watch recent tapes, he sets up for low shots. I’m not psychic, I just have eyeballs.”
“Maybe you should be our coach.” He couldn’t have known that it hurt my heart to hear people speak negatively about my dad, even indirectly.
I sipped the drink, crunching on an ice cube. “I think you guys are going to turn things around, and your coach is the best in the league.”
Ace nodded. “He’s good. But, if you’re a chef with shitty ingredients, there’s only so much you can do.”
“The ingredients aren’t shitty. They just needed to ripen.”
His eyes softened and seemed to glisten. “You always say the right things.”
“Well, I should go. I told Mel I was going to come for one drink.” I finished the fiery liquid in one gulp, and with watering eyes, set the glass on the table. “And that’s one drink.”
“You didn’t come to meet me here?” His brow knitted.
