19. Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Nineteen

A few weeks have passed since the Fourth of July party. Mac and Dean did call in their prize, but certainly didn't do it at the same time. Mac didn't wait long just a few days later and we're in his room as he slowly kisses me. Not going to lie, I whined a little when he pulled away, and he only smirked as he backed away and out of the room. Dean had waited a week to press me against the wall and ravage me with a single kiss. We had found ourselves alone at the house and it'd only taken him moments to press his body to mine. Where Mac's kiss had been sweet and sensual, Dean's was dark and hungry.

I wanted more kisses. But that would mean admitting I wanted more in this odd thing between us, and I couldn't do that just yet.I'd expected it to be awkward, but Dean's been more talkative lately, and Mac has upped his flirting game. The guys have been trying to help me search for an apartment, and I finally found one. They even helped me move, and I've found the best way to do it.

They love home cooked meals, and they told me they haven't had homemade fried chicken with mashed potatoes. So, since today is my day off, I've managed to gather all the ingredients to make it.

Spotify is playing on shuffle, though most are country songs. The boys have me on a country music listening spree. The next song that pops on is Yeah Boy by Kelsea Ballerini . I smirk and sway my hips to the beat.

I'm in the middle of whisking the gravy and flipping the chicken while singing along when I hear Dean's voice behind me, and I let out a loud squeal. "Whatcha cooking there, Liz?"

In a flurry of gravy and hair, I spin around, and the tongs go flying out of my hand. Dean yells, "Oh shit!" but he ducks fast enough that the tongs hit Vicy in the chest.

"Ouch!" he yelps and rubs his chest.

"You scared the shit out of me!" I screech. Then I throw the gravy-covered whisk at Dean, who ducks again, which means Vicy gets hit by the whisk as well.

He throws his hands up in defeat. "What did I do?"

Dean looks over his shoulder and chuckles. "Bad reflexes."

"How was I supposed to know she was going to start throwing things? I'm not the one who scared her!" Vicy whines.

Turning off the heat for the gravy and grabbing a new pair of tongs, I pull out the chicken. Once done, I take my handmade cookies from the oven that has been keeping them warm. With a chocolate-chip cookie in hand, I turn and ask Vicy, "Will a cookie make it better?"

His eyes fill with excitement as he bounces over to the kitchen. "Yes!" He grins as he takes the cookie and immediately takes a bite. He groans and mumbles, "This is so good."

Dean goes to grab one, and I swat his hand. "You scared me; you don't deserve cookies."

He pouts and asks, "What can I do to get one of those cookies?"

I ponder the question for a moment before giving him a mischievous grin. "You have to come to my ice-skating class and participate for a month."

His eyes widen, then narrow. "Seriously? For a cookie?"

I chuckle as I wave the smell of the warm cookies toward him. "For a cookie and an apology for scaring me. You could have ruined dinner."

He huffs as he holds out a hand. "Fine. Can I have a cookie?"

Instead of handing him one, I put my hand in his and give it a shake. "You shook on it."

"This seems like a deal made under duress," he grumbles.

With a chuckle I replace my hand with a warm cookie. "Let me know if it's worth it."

He stares at me with narrowed eyes as he takes a bite. It only takes seconds before his eyes flutter closed, and he hums in satisfaction. I smirk as he opens his eyes and narrows them on me again.

With a knowing look, I ask, "So?"

"I plead the fifth," he mumbles through another bite.

Laughing, I wave the guys out of the kitchen. "Out. Out, so I can finish making dinner."

Vicy plants a kiss on my cheek as he steals another cookie before running off. "Thanks, Roe Roe!"

I chuckle, shaking my head. The others walk out of the kitchen, and I assume they're heading for the couches in the living room. Mac and Dean stay behind, silently leaning on the counter on either side of me.

I arch a brow as I fry more chicken. "Yes?"

"Do you need help?" Mac asks.

I shake my head as I begin to bop to the new song playing. "I'm good. You guys relax. This is my thank you for helping me."

Mac chuckles. "You wouldn't have been able to move all your stuff by yourself. Plus, do you think we would make our favorite athletic therapist move everything by herself?"

"I suppose you're right." It's quiet for a moment, and it's becoming awkward as they stand there and watch me cook. When I look up, Mac is looking at Dean with a concerned expression.

Switching my gaze to Dean, I see him staring down at his hands while he rolls a beaded bracelet with his thumb. Mac and I exchange a quick glance, his eyes pleading for me to do something.

With a deep sigh, I bump Dean with my shoulder. "I like your bracelet."

He hums but continues to fiddle with it. I turn to Mac, whose eyes are flicking his eyes between me and Dean. What does he expect me to do? He leans forward and whispers in my ear, "He got a call from his dad today. He's been down all day. Help him, please."

As he pulls away, I arch a brow and ask with my eyes, how am I supposed to do that?

He smiles softly as he whispers, "You helped last night."

Huffing a sigh, I hand him the tongs. "Don't ruin my chicken."

"Yes, ma'am," he says with a mock salute.

I take a deep breath and turn my focus on Dean. I brush my fingers over the bracelet as I say, "It's really pretty." The bracelet holds all his focus right now. Maybe if I can get him to talk about it, he will open up about what's on his mind.

He answers, but he sounds far away. "Mère gave it to me."

If I remember correctly, that means mother in French. I'm not sure what his relationship with his parents is like, but considering his attitude right now, I'd guess he's not close to his dad. Is he close to his mom, though?

"So, your mom gave that to you?"

He shakes his head and finally looks up at me. "No, my mère. She was Mac's mom."

I hadn't realized Mac and Dean were so close that he would call Mac's mom an endearment like that. Trying to keep the conversation light, I comment, "That was nice of her."

He nods as he looks back down at the bracelet. "She would know what to do. She always knew how to handle my parents." He lets out a bitter laugh as he continues, "A quality I was envious of. Still am."

When I turn to look at Mac, I see him staring down at a matching bracelet on his wrist. He must feel my eyes because he sends me a sad smile. He mouths the words, she died.

Well. This conversation just turned heavy. I bite my lip, not entirely sure how to go about helping. Should I give him a hug or talk him through his thoughts? I inwardly sigh but ask, "What would she do first in this situation?"

He shrugs as if it's no big deal before saying, "I guess she would give me a hug and say, je suis fier. "

"That's pretty. What does it mean?" I ask softly.

"It means, I am proud, " he whispers.

He's still fiddling with the bracelet, so I cover his hand with my own and ask, "What did your dad say?"

His shoulders drop. "Same thing he always does. That I need to be better. Don't sully the Lewis name. Make sure I do better than my best in the first game of the season."

My heart aches at the words spilling out of his mouth. Do better than his best? I've never seen him do less than his best. He's his own worst critic and often pushes himself too hard. I have a feeling those are words his father says often and have been drilled into his head, over and over, for years. I can see why he turned to Mac's mother when it came to comfort.

I push into the space between his arms and wrap my own around his torso. I didn't realize how small I was until this moment, but if a hug is what he needs, then a hug is what he'll get. His body stiffens for a moment before he seemingly melts in my arms. He wraps his own around me and pulls me in closer.

"I'm proud of you," I mumble into his chest.

His chuckle sounds hollow. "You don't know me well enough to say that."

My arms tighten around him as I say with force, "I bet I know you better than you think. I have those notebooks for a reason."

He lowers his head to rest it on my shoulder as he grumbles, "Enlighten me then."

I smirk. "Well, let's start with the easy stuff. You are twenty-seven years old and grew up in Bellevue. Your birthday is March 27 th , which may explain why you are so hotheaded."

He snorts and huffs. "Alright. You said that was the easy stuff, and I agree. Anyone can find that information. What's the hard stuff?"

Squeezing him tight, I say, "You are loyal and extremely protective of those you consider family. Your favorite ice cream flavor is vanilla, but you will argue otherwise because you don't want people to think you're ordinary. You hate chocolate and chewy candies because you don't like the way they stick in your teeth. Your favorite color is blue."

"Blue is so not my favorite color." He chuckles softly.

I roll my eyes. "Blue is the generalized color, you dork. Your favorite blue is sky blue. When there aren't any clouds in the sky."

His arms tighten around me as he whispers, "All that is in your notebook?"

I nod and whisper, "Yes. There's other stuff not in my notebooks though."

"And what's not in your notes?"

Swallowing my nerves, I reply, "You are your own hardest critic. You stay for hours after practice if you feel like you could have done better. Your caliber of skating is higher than most hockey players I've worked with previously. And playing both offense and defense positions are no issue for you."

I pull away just enough so I can look into his eyes. His head is lowered as if still resting on my shoulder. I want to make sure he can see the truth in my eyes. "When I say I'm proud of you, know that it's the truth. I'm proud of all my guys, but I see how hard you work to always be your best."

He looks away from me as if my words are too hard to hear. I reach up to press my fingers to the side of his jaw to pull his eyes back to mine. "Stop being so hard on yourself. You are amazing the way you are. Sure, you can always grow and become better. But don't make it seem like there NEEDS to be improvement. You are enough just the way you are."

There's a gleam in his eyes when he lowers his head to my shoulder and pulls me into a crushing hug. "You are too perfect, you know that?"

I laugh as I pat his back. "I'm far from perfect. But I appreciate the sentiment." I give him one last squeeze before saying, "Now, I need to get back to my chicken before Mac ruins dinner."

There's a mock scoff beside me, and Dean allows me to pull away. "I'm offended you think I would ruin your chicken!" Mac says, his tone dripping with fake hurt.

Laughing, I pull away from Dean and dart toward Mac to snatch the tongs. I snap them at him. "Get out of the kitchen, so I can finish."

His smile is wide as he leans in, pressing a kiss to my cheek before jumping away. "As the boss commands." He then mouths ‘thank you' before leaving to join the others in the living room.

Dean chuckles and kisses my other cheek. "Thanks, Ice Princess."

I roll my eyes. "You've been calling me that lately. I'm not a princess. Plus, calling me ice princess makes me sound cold and heartless."

He tugs on my ponytail. "You are a princess on the ice. That's why I call you that. You're confident and passionate when you are near or on the ice."

My cheeks heat. "So that makes me an ice princess?"

I see him shrug from the corner of my eye. "You are too me. That's a nickname only I can use, though."

I smirk. "Only for you?"

With a mischievous smile, he lifts a hand to brush his thumb across my bottom lip. "Mac isn't the only one interested in you."

I swallow down the squeal my inner, love-sick self wants to release and stutter, "Y-yeah?"

He leans in to bump his forehead against mine. "Be careful with my heart, Ice Princess. You'll find it's as delicate as the ice we skate on." He pulls away, leaving me speechless. I let out a squeak when hot grease splatters on my hand. I quickly pull the fried chicken out of the pan.

Leaning back against the counter, I take a few deep breaths. Good lord, these boys are going to test my will to keep them at a distance. Friend zone is a safe zone. Though, I'm not sure how much longer I want them to stay in the friend zone. I want more; I hunger for something forbidden.