Page 5 of My Puckin' Luck
She chews her cheek and looks away.
I change the subject. “I saw you at the party with Withers. Is that serious between you?”
“No. Why do you care?” Her head snaps to me, the light chocolate of her eyes studying me intensely.
“Some hockey players can be assholes, that’s all. Just doing my duty, protecting Misty’s friend.” I lift a shoulder casually, like it means nothing.
“Then where were you last year when I could have used you?” she mumbles again.
“Did someone hurt you?”
“Just another dating disaster. Next question.” She might be unwilling to share, but I can read right through her. She rises and adjusts the blanket around her shoulders, leaning again on the railing, gazing out at the view.
I join her there, facing her. The better view. My hand rests on the ledge a few inches from her. I’m so close I can see her throat work. There’s no denying some kind of attraction between us. It’s all the sign I need, and normally I’d take it and skate with it until I slap shot myself inside of her tight walls and score the goal. But something holds me back.
Anastasia isn’t just any puck bunny. Goddammit, I just want to take care of her, hold her curves in my hands, and plow so deep inside of her.
I sigh and force my eyes away, leaning both elbows on the railing. Staring out at the dark abyss and the sea of lights in the valley below, I know I need to back off from this challenge.
She’s the type of woman who yearns for something permanent. I’m the kind of guy who knows that isn’t in the cards for me. And I have a good reason why.
Besides, if I hurt her, and there’s no doubt I would, Storm and Misty would be pissed at me, all our friends, too. And I have very few true friends as it is.
“Seriously, Saint. Are you okay?” Her voice cuts through the melee in my mind. Despite everything, there is an actual reason I asked her up here. It came to me the minute I saw her leaving the party. Hell, maybe even the second my eyes connected with hers through the glass before I fought Sanderson at the game.
“My mother called earlier today. She expects me to attend this fundraiser. I need a date. Would you go with me?”
“Uh… Um…” She blinks rapidly, croaking like I’ve just startled her with the most salacious news.
“It’s just a question, Angel. Yes or no.”
“Why me? I mean, what about that tall woman I saw you with tonight?”
“Look, that’s the third time you’ve asked why you. Whynotyou? We’re friends, aren’t we? I need a friend to help me get through this event.”
“Oh. So you need a fake date?” Something like relief spreads across her face.
“Angel, I don’t fake anything. And when you’re with me, you’d better not fake a single thing, either.” My voice drops low, almost a growl.
Her breath hitches. Anastasia is a complete study of how to make a good girl blush. Gotta say, this is the most fun I’ve had outside the hockey rink all day.
More crashes and noises come at us from the party below. “I need to get these people out of here. So what’ll it be? Yes or no?”
“I can’t believe I’m about to agree; I must have a mild concussion from that glass door over there.” She chuckles. “But sure—we go only as friends, though.”
At this point, I’ll take her as that. I really do need my mother off my back about settling down. Anastasia would be the perfectdate instead of some slutty bunny. And, with any luck, we’ll have a good time together.
More glass crashes at the pool party down below, irritating me. I don’t have time to argue with her about the type of date this is. I lift the glass trap door to exit. “Fine. I’ll text you the details. Feel free to stay up here as long as you like.”
About an hour later, after the last person leaves, I check the roof, but Anastasia isn’t there; I don’t expect her to be.
I fast forward through the feedback from the security cameras until I find what I’m seeking. Shortly after I’d left the roof, she did, too. When she went out the door, she got into an Uber. Alone.
A half smile rises to my lips in relief at that. I’ll be damned if I allow anyone else like Withers to have her.
My phone rings suddenly. I see who it is, and the name sends the past rushing back, pinning me in place. I ignore it, sending it to voicemail. But it’s the exact reminder I need thatIdon’t deserve someone like Anastasia either.
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