Page 24 of My Puckin' Luck
“Oh, hell no. Not in the mood to handle Barbara right now.” I send it to message. I already transferred funds into her account yesterday. What more does she want? My blood, too? A foul mood leaves a sour taste in my mouth.
Once home, I head inside straight to my room and slam the door. Not that I expect Anastasia home this early, and the guys won’t be arriving yet. In my bottom dresser drawer, I fish out the photographs and spread them on my bed. I don’t often resort to this; it hurts too damn much.
I just need to see her again. Lilah. My sweet Lilah. I sit and shuffle through until I find my favorite, the corners all worn and tattered from holding it so often. Almost ten years?
Dad had passed the year before I met Lilah in college, so I was already dealing with his passing. When she told me she was pregnant, I was in love with her enough, and I only wanted to do what was right. I had my trust fund and didn’t bother telling Mom. Perhaps if things were different between Mom and me, I would have.
We told her family. They were against the marriage from the start, begging us to wait a few years. We’d feel different once we were older, they’d said, and we should put off marriage. But we would not let anyone stop us, so we went to the Justice of the Peace, where I vowed to take care of her and our baby for life.
Only that night, Brady showed up. He wanted to congratulate us, unlike his parents, happy for us, finally reconciled to the fact we’d kept our relationship a secret from him for so long. I’d fallen for my best friend and teammate’s sister. Big no-no in the world of hockey.
Forgive and forget, he’d said. We had friends over to our apartment and partied, celebrating our wedding day, having a great time. At one point, we ran out of beer. He convinced Lilah to go with him, to drive less than five miles away to the liquor store. The accident wasn’t his fault, and that was the last I saw of her.
So excuse me if I don’t show up at his sober wedding, although I wish him well.
I find the exact photo I’m looking for. “There you are. Hello again, sweetheart,” I whisper. But my smile falters, my heart stalling like it hit a brick wall. Lilah stares back at me, fair skinned and dark-haired, with pretty brown eyes, smiling and happy. Only this time, one thought strikes me. Oddly, Anastasia looks a lot like her. Or else my lonely aching heart is playing tricks on me.
12
CALLED IT
SAINT
The little gatheringat my house with the rookies somehow ends up being a party. Not as crowded as my typical after-game affairs, though. Still, the glare on Anastasia’s face when she finally arrives home and finds all the people here and me in the pool isn’t good. She spies a couple of puck bunnies near me talking, when I was minding my own business wallowing in my beer. I haven’t been very good company all night since the phone call from Brady.
With the way she swivels on her heels, she must think there’s something else going on between me the bunnies. She huffs away while I quickly hop out and grab a towel. It shouldn’t matter what she thinks, but somehow it does.
One week into her tantalizing honey scent filling my home, it grates on me how much I like it. Every evening, after she takes off her work outfits, she puts on what I’ve come to call her Teasing Saint outfit. A generic Puckers’ jersey, and a pair of denim cutoffs, so short-short it leaves my imagination plenty wild, running all kinds of fantasies through my head about her. With her hair up in a bun or ponytail, and her contacts swapped out for tortoise-rimmed glasses, she relaxes. And it’s my favoritepart of the day when we eat and talk, play video games, and just hang out.
Tonight, she hasn’t changed yet. That figure hugging black skirt and silk cream blouse has me clapping myself on the back. Knowing she wears clothes I picked out for her, that I paid for, has become a minor obsession of mine. I look forward to seeing which items she wears each day.
Every morning, I make us pour over coffee, discovering we’re fans of the same brand of beans, and fix our cups with cream only. Convenient.I have a wide collection of mugs with different sayings on them, so each day I choose one for her to read and smile about. I like knowing I send her off with a little message from me to start her day.
The couple of times I’ve been home for dinner, when not playing a game, we’ve eaten together and talked more. She even attended one of my games this week, which turned out to be my best one yet this season. She’s a pleasant distraction in my life, easy to talk with and beautiful to look at. But she’s kept me at arm’s length all week.
When I’m dry enough, I wrap the towel low on my hips and follow her into the kitchen.
“You’re home later than usual.” Yes, I’ve been a fan of studying as much about her and her little quirks and habits as I can. I start with that and instantly regret it, given the glare she sends me.
“That’s what happens when my boss suddenly gets a harebrained idea and I have to rewrite several scenes in a completely new direction.” She reaches for a bottle of wine, so I pull a goblet down from an upper cabinet above her head. She peers up at me and softens slightly. “Thanks.”
“Pizza?” I don’t wait for her answer, and warm up a few slices for her anyway as she fills the glass to the brim.
She pulls herself up to sit on the counter and takes her first sip. Her heels come next, as they fall off to the floor, her toes stretching and cracking, something she’s done almost every night. If they hurt her so badly, why does she wear them? Although I’m grateful since I bought them for her and admire her legs in them.
Each night, I take her shoes and place them by the front door, these interesting habits of ours developing only a week into our roommate situation.
Tonight, though, I ignore the shoes, and put my weight on my hands along the counter’s edge on each side of her. I have a good buzz going, my mind filled with too many thoughts I can’t handle right now, so I just stare at her, studying her face.
Shit, I’ve had too much to drink because I think she’s Lilah reincarnated. Why couldn’t I see it before? I picture Lilah coming back to me as an angel. Anastasia, an angel, sent here to save me.
I need to taste her. My eyes fall to her cherry red lips as I move in. I’ll start there, but a hand stops my progress. “What?”
“Nothing.” She crosses her arms on her chest.
I pull back from being so close to her, and I pick up another beer, then I think twice and put it back down. “You seem to be in a mood and it’s more than just work.”
“You think you can read me now, Saint?”
