Page 67 of Her Goal
But we also talk aboutice—a shave ice place in Houston mostly and how he insists I someday try it. This highlights that I’m a home slice and don’t intend to leave Cobbiton—though I do regularly travel with my brother and Jack for games, so I’m sure I’ll see the Knights against the Rangers sometime.
The conversation drifts to our opinions on pumpkin spice. He says,yay. I say,nay. Whether we think the trapezoid hockeyrule is fair, and loops around and around the rink like neither one of us wants to leave.
The one topic we avoid is the arranged marriage. I’m afraid I know why and ultimately have to scratch the itch.
“So when you left Houston, did you leave behind someone special?”
“You mean like my team?”
I level him with a lowered brow look. “No, dummy. I mean like a girl.” A woman with a perky smile, big brown eyes, perfectly styled hair, and a petite figure.
He rubs his hand on the prickly swath of stubble lining his jaw. “Are you asking me about my relationship history? If so, no comment.”
“So your life with the ladies isnon grata?”
“I just mean there’s not much to say.”
“Social media would argue with you on that.” I’m not sure why I brought this up and am now pressing, but I can’t ignore how it felt when he wrapped his arms around my waist when we were on the Zamboni or the moment that slid between us like silk after I gave him an enthusiastic hug. I want to think there was something there, but perhaps he was shocked by my exuberance which was rarely on display back in the day.
“I’ve just noticed that you’ve been seen with some women.”
We’re not parked under a dim street light, but I can see well enough to be confused by his mysterious Mona Lisa—er, Monty Lisa—expression.
I add, “You dated a lot of petite girls.”
“I wouldn’t saya lot.”
“More than a few.”
“Some.”
“And pretty ones.”
“Petite and pretty, yes.”
“So nothing like me.”
I only know I say this last part out loud because whatever I read on his features moments ago changes into dark-eyed desire. Is he thinking about someone special now?
Nervous, I deflect. “Not that I’m paying attention. Don’t mean to pry.”
His voice rumbles when he says, “What if I want you to?”
My shoulders bunch up by my ears. “You want me to ask you about your love life?” Welp. This just confirms that he’s arrogant and thinks oh so highly of himself.
“There was no love, Leah,” he says in a hard tone, but his eyes on me soften, get heavy. I expect him to yawn. It’s late.
“Okay, fine. Lust, flings, affection, whatever you want to call it.” I wave my hand dismissively, wishing I hadn’t brought it up.
“There wasn’t anyone with striking blue eyes.”
“So you prefer brown-eyed girls?” Figures.
“Or ones whose hair smells like summer berries.”
I’m reminded of the conditioner Mami always got for Dani, Valentina, and me. I picked up a bottle recently because I miss home. Unfortunately, I have to keep it under lock and key because my roommate Karter, who lives in the dining room, has a habit of using everyone’s stuff and then putting it in a box labeledLost and Found.
“Do you prefer vanilla scents? Florals?” I ask for no good reason.
