Chapter 9

9

MABEL

Some of the players went away to warm locations for the All-Star break, but Marek and Ben are still here. It’s different having them around all the time. I like having company. I’m not so sure they feel the same about me. But it’s good that Ben and I have time to work on his extroversion plan.

“The problem with all of these things is…” Ben rubs his chin. “I don’t want to do them.”

I blink, then burst out laughing.

“I don’t want to put my phone away,” he says. “It gives me something to do. And I’m not going to stand by myself in the middle of a room. Jesus.”

I bite my lip.

“Insert myself into a conversation with strangers? Fuck, no.”

“Okay. What about this – fake it till you make it. Acting like an extrovert can actually help you be more outgoing. So… acting confident, smiling, making eye contact.”

He nods. “Okay, yeah.”

“In conversation, it’s good to try for 50 percent talking, 50 percent listening. If you can be genuinely interested in what they’re saying, that helps. And don’t hold back – say what you’re thinking.”

He grimaces. “Okay.”

“Here’s a question you can always ask – how is your day going? It’s good because it’s not like ‘how are you?’ where they say ‘fine,’ it makes them tell you more.”

“I like that.”

“And it’s always good to have a couple of topics that are in the news that you can bring up. Like, have you heard they recently discovered dinosaurs might be even bigger than we thought?”

“Really?” His eyes light up.

“Well, yes.” I grin. “You get the idea.” I pause. “I don’t think I have to tell you not to argue with people. Or to be respectful.”

“I’m introverted, not an asshole.”

“I know. That’s why I said I don’t have to tell you. Oh! We could do a role play!” I perk up at the idea.

“Christ.” He covers his eyes.

Disappointed, I purse my lips. “Or you could practice in front of a mirror.”

“That doesn’t sound psycho at all.”

“It’s not psycho. It’s part of a plan. Come on, you have to participate.”

He sighs. “Fine. Let’s role play.”

“Okay! I’ll be a fan.”

He nods with a wary expression.

“Ben Antonov! Oh my God! I can’t believe it’s you!”

He closes his eyes and rubs his forehead.

“I’m such a big fan!” I gush, then wait for him.

He forces a smile. “Hi.”

“You’re gonna need to look like you’re actually happy to see me,” I say dryly.

“I’m trying.”

I arch an eyebrow.

“Uh… so you’re a Storm fan?”

“I am! I love hockey!”

“Great. Me too.” He rolls his eyes. “Obviously.”

I nod encouragingly.

“Do you come to our games?” he asks.

“Um, I went to a couple last year.”

He nods. “Well, hopefully you get to one this year.”

“You guys are playing great.”

“No, we’re not.”

I lower my chin and give him a look.

“Okay. Uh. Thanks. We always want to do better.”

I nod approvingly. “Can we get a selfie?”

“Sure.”

I grab my phone and move over next to him, holding my phone up in front of us. I lean into him and damn, I get a whiff of that peppery, woodsy scent that makes my knees weak. I have to gather my wits. “Smile!”

I take a picture of us for real, because why not. Then I take a few more, making a face, leaning in closer, slinging an arm around his shoulders. He politely keeps a smile in place. I, meanwhile, am fighting temptation – the temptation of being so close to him, wanting to lean in and press my nose to his neck to breathe in more of his scent, wanting to sit on his lap, touch his face, taste his mouth…

“How long have you been a hockey fan?” he asks.

I know he’s talking but the only thing I can think about is riding his beard. “Oh… a while.” I move away from him, resisting the urge to wave a hand in front of my face.

“What do you like about it?”

I roll my lips in, then say, “I like the touchdowns.”

His eyes shoot wide, then he cracks up. “Mabel.”

“Come on, I’m trying to be a puck bunny! Can I get your autograph?”

“Sure.”

“Here.” I hand him a pen lying on the table. Then I unbutton the top button of my shirt and tug it open. “Right here.” I lower my chin to indicate he should sign there. Dangerous game, Mabel.

He closes his eyes. “I’m not signing your boob.”

I give him a reproving look. “Is that what you’d say to a fan?”

“Yes.”

I narrow my eyes. “For real?”

“I don’t sign boobs. Okay, I’d say… sorry, I don’t autograph skin.”

I pout. “Why not?”

He gives me a surprisingly charming smile and says, “It’s one of my boundaries.”

Huh. I tilt my head. “Okay. You can sign this, then.” I shove a notebook toward him and he scrawls his name, adding a small number twenty-three under it. I take it back and clutch it to my chest. “Thanks!”

He looks up and his gaze snags on my unbuttoned shirt and the lacy edge of my bralette showing. Color rises into his face. And probably mine, too, judging from the heat I feel.

I didn’t mistake the way he looked at me earlier. Like he, too, wants me to ride his beard.

My whole body is sizzling hot and excitement twists in my lower belly.

The problem is, I like him looking there. I like affecting him that way. Oh, hell. I flip my hair back. “You’re so hot,” I say, trying for fake-flirty. I reach out and squeeze his biceps. “So strong.”

Okay, this is a mistake. I’m taking it too far. Because I’m kind of real-flirting.

“Thanks.” His voice is low and gruff and sexy as fuck.

“I like your shirt.” I let my gaze wander over his hoodie like the… I stop myself. I never liked the term puck bunny because it seems kind of slut-shamey. Women are allowed to be attracted to whoever they want, even hockey players. I may have defended myself as a teenager when I had that crush on Ben, telling myself I was attracted to him despite the fact he was a hockey player, not because of it.

I’m not sure if that’s true, though, because it’s really hard to separate Ben from hockey. It’s who he is. And honestly, as a teenager, I didn’t even know him. Not like I’m getting to know him now. Now I know he’s not stuck-up or stupid. He’s shy. And smart. And yeah, still hot.

Heat runs through my veins.

“Thanks,” he says, again in that low, craggy tone. He’s watching me.

Our eyes meet. My hand is still on his arm. I rub his solid, rounded biceps and blink. “You should probably tell me to take my hands off you.”

The corners of his mouth lift. “Maybe I don’t want to.”

Gulp. Mesmerized, I stare at him, at his eyes, his mouth. “You let fans grope you?”

“No.”

“Oh. Just me, then.”

One corner of his mouth quirks higher.

Heat floods my body, nearly melting my panties. “I’m sorry about pulling your pants down,” I blurt.

Now he rolls his lips inward, fighting a bigger smile. “I was traumatized by that.”

“I know.” My eyebrows slope down and the corners of my eyes tighten up. “It was an accident. I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

“What were you trying to do?”

“I wanted to talk to you. You kept avoiding me.” I bite my lip and peer up through my eyelashes. “I had a little crush on you back then.”

“Oh, wow. Breaking news.”

I stare at him and then, despite my mortification, I bust out laughing. I thunk my forehead on the table. “Oh my God. I am dead.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay. I figured everyone knew.” I sigh. “Just me embarrassing myself chasing someone who didn’t want me.”

“I didn’t get it,” he says quietly. “Why would someone like you have a crush on me?” Inexplicably, he reaches out and lifts my hair back over my shoulder.

My bottom lip pushes out as a tingle runs down my spine. “Someone like me? A puck bunny stalker?”

“No. Someone fun and bubbly and… shining.”

My forehead tightens and I lift my head. “Shining?”

“Yeah.” His eyes move over my face. “Bright. Glowing. Like a light.” He shakes his head. “I sound like an idiot.”

“No.” I pull my bottom lip between my teeth, not hating his description of me.

“You were lively.” He pauses, clearly searching for words. “Spirited. You were always with a bunch of people and you were always having fun. Or involved in something. You literally danced on a table at a party once.”

I grin. “I did.”

“I remember you at school cleaning up after an event and you were singing into the mop handle while you washed the floor.”

I nod. That sounds like me.

“You organized a protest against anti-LGBTQ policies.”

“I did. You’re not anti-LGBTQ, are you?”

He huffs. “No. I admired you for that. You were fun and fearless and the total opposite of me. That’s what I meant.”

I’m still hanging on his gaze, connected by some kind of invisible tie. “Yeah.” I slowly lower and raise my chin. “I got that a lot. I had lots of friends, but guys always thought I was too much. Unpredictable. Weird.”

“Maybe you’re a little weird,” he says, smiling again.

“Yeah. I know.”

He pulls in a breath. “Don’t take this the wrong way… but I was kind of scared of you.”

“Is there a good way to take that?” My teenage mortification returns, and I dip my chin as heat sweeps from my chest into my face.

He touches my hair again, so gently. “I mean, I was scared of everyone.” He flashes a wry grin. “I was so shy. I know I still am, but I’ve gotten better than I was back then.”

Yeah. He was shy.

“You were a hockey player. All the girls wanted to get with you.”

He rolls his eyes. “Because I was a hockey player. Lots of guys loved that kind of attention. I just felt awkward.”

I remember his teenage image as quiet and brooding. I remember when Jenny managed to score a date with him and I was so jealous, but afterwards she dismissed him and said he had no rizz. I’m not going to tell Ben that, but it lends truth to his teenage discomfort. And makes me feel uncomfortable with how I misjudged him.

My hand has slid down his arm and my fingers are curled around his wrist. We’ve completely forgotten the role play. But Ben is talking to me – openly, honestly, holding eye contact. Progress?

“I guess we were sort of going through the same thing.” My voice comes out husky. I look at my fingers as they move to his hand and gently squeeze.

“That is really weird.”

I huff out a small laugh. “It really is.”

The apartment door opens.

We both jerk apart, hands releasing. I shove my chair away from Ben as Marek walks in.

“Hey,” he says, looking at some mail. “What’s new, kangaroos?”

I laugh. “Kangaroos, huh? We’re making progress.”

My eyes meet Ben’s in a brief, hot exchange that communicates… something. Guilt? Regret?

Why guilt? I glance at Marek as he tosses the mail onto the counter and heads to the fridge. Would it be wrong for Ben and me to… I don’t know… hook up?

My chest squeezes tight. Why am I even thinking that? Now I can’t meet Ben’s eyes.

“Dilly wants to go to an escape room tonight,” Marek says.

“That could be fun,” Ben replies.

“Someone also suggested axe throwing.”

Oh, hey. “Axe throwing would be super fun!” I say. “I’d love to throw axes.” It makes me think of chopping that cord between me and Julian. I could envision Julian’s face on the wall instead of a bullseye when I aim my axe.

They both look at me.

“Oh. I wasn’t invited, was I.” I sigh.

“You can come with us,” Ben says.

Marek lifts his eyebrows. “Sure. I guess.”

“Okay!”

Marek clears his throat and looks at his phone. “Okay, looks like axe throwing it is. The group chat says yes. It’s BYOB so we can pick up some beer, and then get something to eat after.”

“Fun!” I haven’t had much of a social life here although I am going out with Cami and Tala on Saturday night to a mixology class. We’ll be learning how to make cocktails! “What time?”

Marek frowns at his phone. “We have a reservation for six. It’s a two-hour session.”

“Okay! I better get ready.” I hop up and scoot over to my suitcases in the corner.

“You need to tidy that up,” Marek says.

I pause and look at the open suitcase with all kinds of clothing spilling out of it. “Sorry. I’ll do that tomorrow.”

It’s really getting old living out of suitcases and having no privacy. But I’m working on it.

I dig out a pair of flare-leg jeans and a crocheted sweater in shades of cream, peach, and green. The white lace bralette I’m wearing will work under it. Then I head to the bathroom to change and fix my hair.

When I come back, both guys look at me. Ben’s eyes move over me in a way that’s… hot. My body goes all twitchy and tingly.

Marek says, “That sweater looks like the blankets Granny Smits makes.”

“I know!” I look down at myself. “Isn’t it cool?”

Marek grunts.

I catch Ben’s eye. He gives his head a tiny shake and makes a face that tells me he thinks I look nice.

Thank you, Ben.