Page 98 of Pucked Up Plans
“Gag-cough-gag,” he mumbles.
I can’t even argue because he’s correct again. I’ve lost count of how many times he’s been accurate.
“I feel like there’s a dare in there somewhere.”
I study his face, seeking clues about how serious he is. The only hint I get is the tic of his left eye, but hell if I know what it means.
“I’m at a disadvantage to practice, considering we hardly get any alone time together, but you could show up at any time and help in the kitchen.”
He thrusts his hips out to me. “We have all night after the fundraiser.” I can’t be certain through his pants, but I swear he’s sporting a semi.
“Taken under advisement.” The clock behind him alerts me to how little time we have left to get ready for said fundraiser. “We should get ready soon.”
“Right. Although we’re saving time by showering together.”
Even if I wanted to turn him down, I can’t with the way he tells me what we’re doing. I glance at his crotch. “No funny business in the shower. One, we don’t have time. And two, you know.” A shiver runs through me at the thought of our earlier discussion.
Walsh grabs my hand and squeezes once, communicating everything with his action.
At the moment, it’s precisely what I need.
Walsh senses the purpose of the shower—to get clean. Sure, maybe his hand lingers a little longer on my breasts and ass, but other than that, he’s a true gentleman.
We arrive at the restaurant around seven. I’ve yet to try it mostly because I don’t eat out much and because it’s off the beaten path, located just within the town limits. I stick to areas I’m familiar with.
I wasn’t sure what to expect with a name like Orchard View Tavern, and I didn’t have a chance to check out the menu. From the outside, it’s big like a warehouse, almost too large to be a restaurant. Lights along the top of the flat roof illuminate thebrick façade. The name of the restaurant stands out in big, bold black letters above double glass doors.
Inside, the space is a large open area, with tables spread throughout. The brick extends to the interior, one wall painted white, the others original. Wide, exposed beams run from ceiling to floor in a few places. Rows of track lighting brighten the space well. From what I can tell, there’s a section in the back for games of some sort.
Most of the tables are full, which hopefully bodes well for the fundraising efforts.
We sit with his teammates at a long table seating at least twelve. Walsh introduces me to them, and all but one size me up. I’m pretty sure his allegiance to the other team accounts for his lack of analysis.
It’s strange for me to be part of a duo—holding hands, being introduced as his girlfriend—but it feels right. Well, maybe not thegirlfriendmoniker. I almost choked on a sip of water when he said it. We’ve yet to discuss a label for what our relationship is. Now is not the time to discuss it. I’m too enthralled by the banter between teammates.
“First time here. What should I get?” one of them asks. Gabe, maybe.
“If you’re in the mood for meat, their burgers are good. I’m partial to the Hangover Cure,” another one answers. A backward Aspenridge hat hides his curly locks.
“Why am I not surprised?” the one with a shaved head responds. Backward hat guy salutes him with the finger.
“And if I’m not in the mood for meat?” The way his voice intones onmeatconfirms my suspicions about his being gay.
“Veggie Delight burger, duh.”
“Or a salad,” another player adds his two cents.
I don’t hang around many—if any—college students. I lost touch with most of my high school friends except Carley. Anyother friends I left behind in Kansas were other moms. Most were older, and the only thing we had in common was our kids, so the relationships were superficial. Haven’t given them much thought since I arrived in Vermont.
College athletes seem to be a different breed, at least these hockey ones. In the ten minutes we’ve been here, they’ve shown a sense of camaraderie but also ragged on each other the way only people who are comfortable with each other do. It’s fascinating and entertaining for this girl with no college experience. The fact they’re easy on the eyes doesn’t hurt. When the conversation turns to hockey, I zone out.
“What are you thinking about ordering?” Walsh’s husky voice tickles my ear.
“Um, haven’t decided yet.”
I haven’t even looked. I’ve been too busy enthralled with these attractive college hockey players.
“I’m gonna grab a beer? Want something from the bar?”
