Page 125 of Her Goal
In romance. Sure.
In real life. Never.
Something pokes my hip and I dig a shiny book out from under the cushion. I turn it over to reveal our graduating class yearbook.
Hudson says, “Now here we are all these years later. We could try this marriage thing for real. What do we have to lose?”
Recalling what I overheard him say back in high school, I snort. “Why? Because your dream girl is a former figure skater who is nearly as tall as you and slings French fries at a sports bar.”
“I have a solid six inches on you. Plus, I like your size and shape and the way you …” Leaning in the doorway, gripping the upper frame and leaning in slightly, it’s like he’s entranced and forgot what he was saying.
Something about it sends a current through me.
He glances at the yearbook in my lap. “Forgot where I put that the night of the team welcome party.”
I haven’t forgotten about the first note I wrote him. Hunter and I were hanging out, then he went into the other room to play video games. Hudson left his yearbook on the table. I flipped through. Reached the last page. Started writing. Finally got my grievances off my chest. Guilt sits heavy there now because of the emails I’ve since sent.
“You look murderous. Did someone hurt you?” Hudson’s voice is like gunpowder.
Is it too late to backtrack? Too much is already in motion and I don’t want a court trial on our hands—or a criminal for a husband. “Yes.”
His nostrils flare and his eyes darken.
“Now you look murderous. Never mind. No,” I say quickly.
“Which is it?”
“Yes, someone hurt me, but it’s fine.”
In one sweeping motion, he’s across the room, has his hands around mine, and pulls me to his chest. The internal current sparks.
“Who hurt you?” Hudson asks.
I can’t carry this burden down the aisle. I say, “Hunter?—”
A string of unbrotherly words come out of his mouth.
Cutting him off, I say, “I wasn’t done. And you.”
He jerks backward. “Me?”
37
LEAH
Hudson drops back slightlybut doesn’t move away from me as the space between his eyebrows pinches. “How did I hurt you? Was it because I’d sometimes tease you? If so, that’s how immature boys who don’t know what’s going on with their hormones act and I apologize?—”
I hold up my hand. “So did you have a crush on me?”
“No. Not even a little bit.” His roguish smile suggests he’s struggling to focus on hockey stats and plays right now, so this important conversation doesn’t go off the rails.
“Remember the morning when you came out in a towel?” It’s my turn to practically drool, remembering him in a towel.
“And you were skulking around outside my new house?”
“I wasn’t skulking. I was like a ninja in an action movie.”
He laughs.
