Page 35 of Love of the Game
He nodded. “I think so, yeah.” After eating a little more,his smile blossomed more, and he muttered, as if to himself, “A thing!” in a positively gleeful voice.
My heart tumbled in my chest, so I grabbed my coffee cup. Athing, indeed.
Being on a motorcycle was exhilarating.Having a Harley rumbling underneath me while pressed against Jon’s back with my arms wrapped around him? Oh my God. Was almost as good as being on the ice, except I wasn’t in control. I’d had to give up my control to Jon, molding my body to him and shifting my weight when he did as we rode.
I fucking loved it.
We were decked out in leather riding gear, and I had on Jon’s spare helmet. We weren’t going horribly fast or anything, but I was still ginning ear to ear when we arrived at the Hideaway. I took off the helmet.
“Oh,” Jon said. “You liked that.”
I didn’t reply, just clapped him on the shoulder.
He wrapped an arm around my waist and ushered me into the bar—where we were greeted by a long whistle from one of the bikers. “Nice, Jonny.”
Jon rolled his eyes. “He wanted to ride on my bike.”
“Is that what the kids are calling these days,” Ella quipped.
I laughed. “That was last night.”
That got a chorus ofOooohand had Jon rubbing the back of his neck. “Let’s leave that alone for now.” He turned to me, still smiling. “I need to check on some paperwork. You going to be okay alone for a bit?”
“Sure. How much trouble can I get into here?”
The biker who had teased Jon laughed. “We’ll take care of your old man, Jonny.”
Jon sighed. “He’s younger than me, Red Dog.”
“Still your old man,” he said.
I was lost. Kind of. “Wait, is that like someone’s old woman being their partner?”
“You got it, kiddo,” Ella said. To Jon, she said, “Go do your paperwork. He’ll be fine.”
Jon waved the words away as he headed to his office. “It’s not him I’m worried about.” He vanished behind a door on the far side of the bar.
The biker, a burly man with red curly hair all over his head and face, patted the stool next to him. “Come on. Sit down and have a beer.”
He and his friend, a man with weathered brown skin and black hair, were both older—maybe in their fifties judging by the gray in both their beards and hair—but looked fit and tough. I took the offered seat, and Ella put a pilsner of some kind in front of me. Light enough, but it had a good flavor. “I’m Drake,” I said.
“Red Dog,” the man said, then indicated to his companion, “And this is Merrick, my deputy.”
“Deputy?” Suddenly I was a fish out of water.
Red Dog chuckled. “You don’t know much about bikes and bikers.”
I shook my head. “Only how to be a passenger, basically.”
He grunted. “Jonny’ll teach you.”
Ella flipped a towel onto her shoulder. “Red Dog here is the president of the Night Bones, his motorcycle club.”
That explained the jackets with their rockers. “Is Jonny—Jon—in the club?”
“Nah,” Merrick chimed in. “He’s got too much on hisplate. Besides, he never rides on the highways if he can help it.”
“Hockey,” Red Dog said, as if that explained everything. Which it did. “By the way,” he added, “nice goals last night. Bet that felt good to get it behind you.”
