Page 38 of Don't Puck His Best Friend
“Careful,” I say, trying to cover the slight breathiness in my voice with humor. “That kind of menacing sportsmanship could get you a penalty.”
“What kind of penalty?” His voice has dropped slightly, and there’s something in his tone that makes the question feel like more than just banter.
“The dangerous kind.”
The game continues, but there’s a new energy between us now, an awareness that wasn’t there during dinner. Every time our knees bump under the coffee table, every shared laugh, every moment of eye contact feels charged with possibility.
He cracks a ridiculous joke about my questionable strategy—something about how I’m playing like someone who learned the rules five minutes ago—and I laugh so hard I have to tip my head back against the couch cushions. When I look at him again, he’s watching me with an expression I can’t quite read.
“What?” I ask.
“You have a good laugh.”
It’s such a simple comment, but the way he says it makes something flutter in my chest. We’re quiet for a moment, just looking at each other, and I can feel that wine buzz low and warm, but it’s not just the alcohol making my skin feel too sensitive.
Oh, I am so attracted to him. And no, it’s not the wine speaking. The more time I spend with him, the more I see how much this could work between us. It’s not just sexual tension between us, even though it’s there, but it’s something deeper. He’s hot in a quiet way. He’s not obnoxious or arrogant. He is who he is, and he’s confident in it. I watch him stare at the board game and smile.
He does something and wins again—barely—and I shake my head in defeat, leaning back against the cushions. “I’m clearly out of luck.”
“Again?” he suggests, but his tone is lighter now, less focused on the game.
“Or,” I counter, “we could call it your victory and save me from further embarrassment.”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
He starts gathering the game pieces, and I watch him work, noting the easy way he moves through his own space. Everything about his apartment feels deliberate but not uptight—comfortable furniture, books on the shelves that look actually read, photos with friends and family that suggest a life beyond hockey and school.
Something in me decides I’m tired of overthinking every decision, tired of being careful, tired of analyzing every interaction for hidden meanings or potential complications.
“Hey,” I say, just to get his attention.
When he looks up from the game board, I lean forward, closing the space between us, and press my lips to his. Soft at first, testing, but certain in my decision.
His surprise flickers across his features for just a second before melting into something warmer. He kisses me back slowly, carefully, like he’s savoring the moment instead of rushing toward whatever comes next. His hand comes up to cup my face, thumb brushing across my cheekbone, and the gentleness of the gesture makes my heart skip.
The board game sits forgotten between us, dice scattered across the coffee table, but neither of us seems to care. This feels rightin a way that has nothing to do with wine or timing or any of the rational reasons I usually use to talk myself out of moments like this.
It just feels like something I want to do, with someone I want to do it with.
When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing a little harder, and his eyes are darker than they were a few minutes ago.
“Well,” he says, voice slightly rough, “that’s one way to celebrate.”
I laugh, suddenly feeling shy in a way that’s completely ridiculous given that I’m the one who kissed him. “Sorry. I just... wanted to.”
“Don’t apologize.” His thumb is still tracing gentle patterns on my cheek. “I’ve been wanting to do that since dinner.”
“Really?”
“Really.” He smiles, that soft expression I’m starting to associate specifically with him. “Though I was trying to be a gentleman about it.”
“Overrated,” I murmur, and lean in to kiss him again.
He kisses me with a smile, and I melt into him.
17
The Kiss
