Page 37 of Stick It
From where I’m seated, I can see Griffin, cast in firelight on the far side of the flames. He’s leaning back in his fold-up chair, legs spread, and soda can in hand. Relaxed for all the world to see. My gaze dips lower, noting the dark colored jeans he’s wearing, paired with black boots, and a matching T-shirt that stretches beautifully across his broad chest. If I squint hard enough, I swear I can make out his nipple rings pressing against the inside of the fabric.
His body is angled toward a group of other players who appear deep in conversation. However, Griffin is quiet, mostly nodding along or listening to the others. Every now and then, he says something that makes them laugh, that crooked grin of his making an appearance. But when he thinks no one is looking, his face changes. The easy grin slips, and I seehim—the real Griffin.
The one I caught a glimpse of in the locker room. The one I sense on the opposite side of the rink when we’re alone.
The one I’m curious to know more about despite every instinct telling me to stay away.
Eventually, he gets up, saying something to the ones he’s with before stalking away. I trail him with my eyes until he steps outside of the ring of light cast by the fire, swallowed up by shadows. I squint through the darkness, trying to spot him for a moment longer, before giving up. He’s probably gone inside tograb a drink or chat with others from the team. Hell, perhaps he’s gone to find a hookup for the night.
Returning my attention to the fire, I stare into the flames, allowing my thoughts to drift away into nothing until a sudden presence appears at my side.
I stiffen. “You didn’t think I missed you sneaking out of the house, did you?” Griffin’s voice is low, and despite my better judgment, I find myself relaxing, my shoulders dropping from my ears.
I still don’t look at him, keeping my focus on the sparks that occasionally hiss and spit as they rise into the air, gleaming brightly before burning out.
He doesn’t say anything, the two of us falling into a companionable silence. It’s…nice. When was the last time I just sat with someone? No pressure to talk. No tension or hostility tainting the air.
“Shouldn’t you be inside getting your rocks off?” I ask, still not looking at him.
From the corner of my eye, I notice his lips quirk in the hint of a smile. “Nah, not really my thing.”
Finally turning, I arch a brow. “Isn’t it?”
I overhear enough locker room talk to know that it is. Or, at least, hepretendsit is. Now, I can’t help but wonder if that’s a part of his mask as well.
He only smirks, but it’s not like the smug ones I saw him give the team earlier. More like, we’re sharing a secret. One I don’t fully understand.
Dropping my stare, I fiddle with the tab on my soda can, debating whether to say anything before finally asking, “So, what’s the damage?”
Griffin raises a thick, blond eyebrow.
“With the team,” I clarify. “How much do they hate me?”
He shrugs, tilting his head from side to side. “Most of themare reserving judgment. They’ve seen how good you are on the ice, but they want to know how you’ll perform in a game situation.”
“If I can hold my own or if I’ll be a weak spot,” I conclude.
He nods in agreement.
Okay, that’s not awful. I can deal with that.
Of course, it’s not the entire team who feel that way. I know for a fact Kyle won’t be so understanding—so accepting of Coach’s decision.
“What about you?” I dare to ask. For some reason, I find myself even more nervous to hear his answer than I was to know what the rest of the team thought.
He’s silent for a long time, intense blue eyes hidden by the darkness boring into me. I can feel his stare raking over my face. Can feel it seeing more than it should. More than I’d like it to.
After what feels like a lifetime, he finally looks away, glancing toward the fire. My stare lingers on his profile a moment longer before I follow his gaze. Most of the team are still sitting around the fire, chatting or making out with whatever girl is in their lap.
He’s silent for so long that I assume he isn’t going to respond. My attention has drifted, the silence dropping over me like a warm blanket as I get lost in the flickering of the flames once more.
Like a ripple in still water, his voice breaks through my trance, low and smooth, like top-shelf bourbon. “I think you scare them,” he says, not looking at me. Yet, I sense his entire awareness is attuned to my every move. He pauses, and I’m about to ask what he means when he turns, stealing the air from my lungs with the intensity in his eyes. “You scare them because they know you’re better than they will ever be.”
12
DYLAN
Speechless.
