23. Josie

23

JOSIE

" O kay. I'm gonna give birth to a food baby," I groaned, holding my stomach. I'd eaten way too much, mostly due to Rick offering a complimentary dessert that I just couldn't say no too. No mere mortal could decline fried donuts rolled in cinnamon sugar. You just can't.

"Don't worry, I have something that will help with that," Wyatt said.

"A time machine that will take me back before I devoured those fried donuts?"

"Maybe not that good, but what I have in mind should help."

My eyes were drawn to Wyatt's hand as he used one to turn the wheel. His large hand easily turned the wheel as he turned onto the road. His other hand rested on the gear shift between us.

Who would have thought something so simple could be so damn hot?

"Enjoying the view?" Wyatt didn't take his eyes off the road, but I could see the corner of his mouth quirk up.

Clearly, I wasn't too sly with my staring. Why deny it at this point?

"Yes, I am." Deciding to make the most of it, I grabbed my phone and clicked the camera button. Angling it just right, I snapped a picture of him. While it was a simple shot, it highlighted exactly how attractive Wyatt was. His nose may be a little crooked from too many hockey mishaps, but it made him hotter in my opinion. So too, did the casual way he leaned back in his seat, wrist resting on the top of the steering wheel, the sleeves of his shirt pushed up past his elbows. My inner hand kink reared its head at the sight of the veins bulging in his hands and forearms.

I stared at the picture on my phone like a weirdo, and once again, my imagination soared. As I admired his strong jawline, I wondered how the light stubble would feel against my inner thighs. This picture was definitely going to become one of my favorites.

"Is it a good picture?" he asked, and I blushed profusely, as though he'd caught me red-handed.

"No wonder your face is on billboards," I mumbled, not daring to look up.

"Good genes, I guess."

"Does that mean your brothers are also attractive?" His head snapped in my direction so fast that I couldn't help but giggle. "Are they single too?" I innocently asked.

His eyes narrowed, and he shot out his hand and grabbed my knee, squeezing, just like he did last night. It made me jump, and I reached out, gripping his wrist. Wyatt waited a moment before doing it again, making me half-gasp, half-laugh.

"Wanna say that again?" he asked, and as he moved to squeeze my knee again, I jerked on instinct before erupting in a fit of giggles.

"I'm kidding!"

"You little siren." He released my knee, only to move his hand along my thigh, leaving it there. "I'll remember that later."

There was a daring promise in his voice that made me want to shift in my seat, and it took all my willpower to keep still. A barrage of dirty thoughts flooded my mind, making my skin heat up.

The possessive way Wyatt gripped my thigh had me wondering if he was the dominating type. Then there was the intense look in his eyes when he kissed me last night.

"I hope you like this next surprise," Wyatt said, interrupting my thoughts. I doubt I could hate anything Wyatt does.

Less than a minute later, he steered us into the Toronto Knights Arena.

I gazed up at it through the front windshield, marveling at how much bigger it looked in the daytime, without tons of fans waiting to get inside. The parking lot was empty as Wyatt drove through the security gate and around to the back entrance.

"I saw how much you enjoyed the game last night, so I thought, why not let you see it all up close?"

"Wait, seriously?"

"Yep." He flashed me a grin before jumping out of the car. With excitement building, I grabbed my phone out of my bag which I placed at my feet, not needing it. I opened my door and stepped out, finding Wyatt standing there frowning.

I think I found one of his love languages. Acts of service.

He scowled at the door like it did him dirty as I shut it behind me, trying not to laugh.

"You can glare at it later; I have a hockey arena to explore." I grabbed his wrist and tugged him towards the entrance door.

"I wasn't glaring at it," he protested behind me.

"Yeah, you were. Do you have a thing against car doors?" I called back.

"My mom taught me to never let a woman open any door." Proving his point, he took out what looked like a key card from his pocket and held it to the door scanner. As soon as the lock on the door clicked, Wyatt grabbed the handle.

"After you m'lady," he said dramatically, as he bowed and waved his hand in front of him.

I slid past him into the semi-familiar hallway from last night. With a hand on my lower back Wyatt led us down the hall.

"First stop is the locker room for skates."

Our steps echoed along the concrete hallway, and I was grateful that Wyatt knew his way around. After the second turn, I lost all sense of direction. When we reached the locker room door, Wyatt held it open, and I ducked under his arm to get through.

My first thought was how huge the room was. Not that I should have been surprised, considering it needed to be big enough for the players and their gear, not to mention the coaching staff and the rest. I felt a little like I was trespassing as I walked through the room, taking everything in. It was clear they spared no expense when it came to building the room.

It was rectangular in shape, with a massive carpet displaying the Knights logo in the center of the room. The player's lockers or cubbies lined both sides, benches right in front. The lockers were made of a gorgeous dark oak, providing each player with adequate space to change into their uniforms. At the far back of the room, I could see what appeared to be two large offices that I assumed were for the coaches.

Whoever looked after the locker room did a great job—there was no way a team of men were so neat and tidy. All the uniforms were clean and neatly hung in their rightful place, the pucks in a container, and the player's hockey sticks lined the wall in a rack. I was surprised it smelled nice, too. I'd expected an overwhelming smell of body odor and dampness, so I was pleasantly surprised at how nice and fresh the place smelled.

Yep. Whoever looks after this place deserves a pay rise.

Wyatt lingered near the door as I took it all in. I felt his eyes on me, following me around the room. As I caught sight of his jersey number above a cubby, I moved closer, running my fingers across the back of his jersey. For the first time it dawned on me that I stood in the locker room of a professional hockey team.

This doesn't happen to normal people.

Feeling a little overwhelmed, I needed to break the silence, and I turned around to face Wyatt. "So, what really goes on in here? Do you guys sit around and braid each other's hair?"

"And talk about boys," Wyatt said in a high-pitched voice.

"I think you've done that voice a few times," I teased.

"That's my real voice. Didn't you know?"

"It suits you."

"I think so too," Wyatt said, his voice dropping back to normal as he walked towards me. I felt my breath catch in my throat as he stopped so close we were almost touching. Then, with a cheeky grin, he reached behind me and grabbed a pair of white ice skates and handed them to me. "Here you go."

I stared at the pretty skates, unable to wipe the smile off my face, excited—and intimidated by the thought of hitting the ice with Wyatt. Little did he know, I had no idea how to skate.

"I had Bryton drop off Mila's skates for you to use. They may be a bit small but it's better to have a snug skate than a loose one," he said, as he moved around the room, collecting two hockey sticks and a handful of pucks. I held my skates by their laces, my nerves growing as I watched Wyatt collect his own skates from his cubby.

"Ready?" he asked, and from the mischievous grin on his face, I could tell he found my nerves amusing.

I must look like a total fish out of water standing here.

With a jerk of his head, the two of us made our way out of the locker room and back down the hallway, skates in hand. When we turned a corner, I was surprised to find that carpet replaced the concrete floor.

"It's easier for our skates to grip the carpet," Wyatt explained. "You'd be surprised how often we eat shit on the concrete."

Just picturing huge hockey players hobbling in their skates and falling made me laugh under my breath. "Are you sure we're okay to be here?" I asked after a moment. The last thing I wanted was to get Wyatt in trouble.

"Afraid of getting caught lil rebel?"

"Nope."

It was like he had some kind of innate knowledge that calling me that was enough to get my competitive side going. In the past, while Tasha was the one who came up with the crazy ideas, all it took was a little goading to get me to go along with— I couldn't stand to lose.

Now was no different.

To prove my eagerness, I tried to push open the huge set of double doors that lead to the rink with my shoulder. Tried being the operative word. The doors must have weighed a ton, and with my hands full, seemingly impossible to open.

Chuckling, Wyatt reached over my head and pushed, the door swinging open with ease. I glared at the door for betraying me. In an attempt to maintain my dignity, I squared my shoulders and stepped through the doors.

Only to stop in my tracks.

The ice rink stretched out before me, the bright, white, ice glistening beneath the stadium lights. It looked freshly Zamboni-d.

With wide eyes I stepped forward, ignoring the chill in the air. The entire arena was empty and appeared so much larger with row upon row of empty seats.

I wonder if I shouted something, if it would echo through the whole place?

Wyatt gently nudged me, motioning towards the player's bench. "Watch your step," he murmured softly.

Stepping into the players box, I was struck by its size. From the stands—and the television—it appeared small, but the reality was it could easily fit ten of me standing shoulder to shoulder.

"Wow," I breathed.

I can't believe I'm only a few feet from the ice.

I appreciated Wyatt giving me the chance to take it all in.

"Do you ever get nervous stepping onto the ice?" I asked.

"At first, I did. Having thousands of eyes on you, all those voices screaming your name, it can be nerve-wrecking."

I glanced over at him as he spoke. He was looking out over the ice, his face animated as though he pictured the crowd in his mind. It revealed to me just how much he loved what he did.

"It was more intimidating when I first joined the league, but now I love it. There's no feeling like skating out onto the ice and hearing the fans. The adrenaline rush that comes with it."

"You look at home on the ice." And he did. From the moment we entered the arena I saw an ease in his step—the comfort and confidence that came when someone was in sync with their passion.

"It's become my second home," he said earnestly, and it made me want to hear him talk about it further. I sat on the bench, placing the skates by my feet, and looked up at Wyatt as he leaned his hip against the side of the wall.

"Whenever I needed to clear my head or get away from things, it was always the ice I turned to," he continued. "Whether it was the local indoor rink a few blocks from home, or a frozen pond a friend had. I was always there," he chuckled at the memory.

"I know what you mean." And I truthfully did. "Sometimes you just need an escape." Wyatt looked at me curiously, as though waiting for me to elaborate.

"I found the same thing with running," I explained. "When things got rough, a run was all I needed. So long as I had my headphones, I could run forever and just leave everything else behind me."

Wyatt nodded slowly. "What got you into running?"

I was quiet for a moment, trying to think how best to answer when the reason was a story I hated to tell and a topic I typically avoided.

But this is Wyatt. I feel like I can tell him anything .

"I'd just turned fifteen when I learned my dad had colon cancer," I swallowed thickly as a lump formed in my throat. "The whole drive home I just felt numb, like my mind couldn't process the news. The moment we got home, I just ran."

My heart seized painfully at the memory.

"After months of my father being unable to keep any food down, getting thinner, and so fatigued he could barely get out of bed, I pleaded with him to the doctor. I knew something was wrong. It was just the two of us; my mother left us when I was six, and the last thing I wanted was to lose my dad too." I paused, taking a shaky breath.

"When we got a call from his doctor asking for us to come in for the results, I knew it was bad news. I knew it in my soul, yet when he broke the news of my dad's diagnosis, my heart sank. It was like being doused with cold water. From that moment, running became my safety net."

"Josie, I'm so sorry," Wyatt said, sitting beside me on the bench and taking my hand in both of his. "That had to be rough, especially as a kid."

"Yeah," I said softly, playing with the hem of my sweater with my free hand. I was terrified that if I looked at him and saw sympathy in his eyes that I would burst into tears.

Definitely not first date vibes, Josie.

"Is he doing better now?" Wyatt asked, his question opening a hole in my heart, one that hasn't healed. I wrapped my free hand around my thigh, nails digging into my skin through my jeans as I shook my head.

No. He passed away a year ago. After so many years of fighting, he couldn't anymore. Deep down, I knew his prognosis was bad, even when he lied and said he was recovering. He fought for ten years but it got to be too much."

"Oh, Josie," Wyatt said, stroking my hand gently with his thumb as he squeezed my hand. The ache in my chest expanded, the pressure behind my eyes building. It was hard thinking of my dad. For most of my life, he was the only person I had. The one person who was there through everything and who'd had my back no matter what.

My mind drifted back to the time I came home from elementary school in tears because some girl laughed at my hair. The lopsided pigtails my father spent forever on. Or in high school, when the guy I liked asked someone else to prom, so my dad took me out to get ice cream and listened to me vent about how much of an asshole the guy was. Even the awkward conversations like when I got my period or had my first kiss. My dad was there for it all.

Yet, while I never wanted to lose my dad, I hated seeing him in so much pain. I loathed the cancer that ate away at him until he was a shell of who he used to be. I wanted him to be pain free, even if that meant not being here with me.

"I am so sorry." Wyatt's voice was so soft as he continued brushing his thumb against my knuckles. "I bet he was a great man."

Finally, I lifted my head to meet his gaze. He graced me with the kindest smile, and there was no stopping the hot tears as they streamed down my face.

"He was. He taught me everything I know about hockey."

"Oh really?" Wyatt raised a hand and wiped away my tears.

"Every time there was a game on, we watched it together. We'd sit on the couch with snacks and drinks. If one of us were busy, the other would tape it so we could watch it together later."

"That sounds like a blast." His smile widened. "What was his favorite team?"

Normally when someone asks me about my dad I shut down—talking about him was still too painful. So, it surprised me when I found myself answering his questions.

"He went back and forth. He liked the Calgary Flames," At that, he scoffed. "And of course the Knights." Which wasn't a lie, my dad grew up watching the Toronto Knights. "He would freak out if he knew I'd met you. Neither of us would have a say in the matter–he would have demanded I bring you home so he could do the whole ‘mean dad thing' but then he'd ask you a million questions about hockey."

"Well, he was clearly a man of great taste," Wyatt joked, his smile wavering slightly, as though he was unsure of himself. I found myself smiling, appreciating his attempt at lightening the mood. As sad as it made me, talking about dad, on the flip side, it also felt good to share my memories of him with another person. Someone other than Tasha and Lydia.

"Wait, does that mean you've seen me play before? Are you secretly a stalker?" Wyatt asked with wide eyes.

"Yep, totally. I know where you do yoga and everything," I deadpanned.

"I knew I felt eyes on my ass the whole class." He played along, making me laugh, the sound scratchy.

We fell into silence, but it wasn't uncomfortable. His fingers soothed me as he wiped at the last of my tears and drew his fingers through mine.

"Thank you for telling me about him," Wyatt said softly. "I would have loved the chance to meet him."

I leaned my cheek into the palm of his hand meeting his eyes.

"Dad would have really liked you."