21. 21

21

Robbie McGuire

“Who’s keen for dinner at my place next weekend?” I ask. “How’s Friday night?” We have the day off and the next game’s a home game, so I think it would work well.

I’m with Luddy and Bodie and a bunch of the other guys. We’ve just finished rewatching last night’s game, breaking down plays that worked and those that didn’t. For once, even Coach Santos had his work cut out, trying to find plays that weren’t shit-hot. Most of the team has already left and the last of us are in the parking garage, about to head home. Like always, Decker is on the periphery, on the outside looking in.

“It’s Louis’s birthday,” says Luddy, “but we could do our next day off for sure. I think it’s the following week, Sunday.”

“I’m in,” says Pejic.

“Is Beth coming?” asks Bodie.

“Nah, doubt it,” I reply .

“Why not? You should ask her to come, Robbie. She’ll have a great time.”

“Doubt it,” I say again.

“How come?”

Hmm, how do you say ’cause she finds hockey and hockey players dull as shit’ in a nice way?

Car doors slam and brake lights paint streaks of red on thick concrete walls as the guys disperse. Everyone is either in for dinner at my place or has promised to check with their partners and get back to me.

When I get to my car, there’s a lone figure leaning against the car parked nearest to mine. A dark, sexy-as-fuck figure. A huge, burly guy with a thick, nearly-black beard and an aura of pure sex around him.

My heart skips a beat and makes up for it by beating three times in rapid succession to recover.

“What d’you say, Ant? You coming over for dinner at my place, week after next, on Sunday?”

“I dunno, you got a sofa or chair for me to sit on?”

As a matter of fact, I don’t. I’ve gone around and around in circles shopping online and haven’t found anything I like enough to pull the trigger on. I think the bottom line is you have to sit on a sofa to decide whether you like it, and I haven’t had the time or inclination to go shopping recently .

“No,” I admit.

“You know you can afford to buy that shit, don’t you?” His voice and words are accusing and judgmental. His eyes are the exact opposite. There’s a low sheen in them. A slight glimmer that makes them look soft. Approachable almost. Not approachable exactly, but approachable adjacent.

“Mm-hmm, I do know that.” I nod sagely and go in for the kill. “And you know you owe me twenty grand, right?”

His nostrils flare and he draws a quick breath. He looks up to the left of me and works his jaw to release the tension he holds there. “Yeah,” he says eventually. “About that, I’ll have my interior designer call and set up a time to meet you. She’ll hook you up, and I’ll pay the bill.”

“No.”

“No?” He looks pained, bored, and something resembling amused. “You can’t just say no to things like that, McGuire. You have to give a reason or defend your opinion in some way. It’s a social norm.”

“Fine. No, I don’t want to do that because I don’t like interior designers, and I don’t like houses that look designer-y. I don’t like it when everything matches and looks the same as other people’s houses. I want to choose a sofa that looks and feels right for my house.”

“It’s not that deep, McGuire. You need a sofa so people can sit their asses down when you’re entertaining, that’s all. Let Pam help you. She’s great.”

“Tell you what,” I say as the idea takes hold, “why don’t you help me? We can test drive a few sofas, find one I like, you can pay, and then you can take me for a hot chocolate afterward. You can pay for that too.”

“Absolutely not.”

The second he says it, it’s on. I can’t really explain it, but for some reason, it drives me wild when he gets difficult about things like this. When he tries to hold me at arm’s length, it causes a nuclear reaction in me. It makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up straight. It makes my cock stand up straight too.

I don’t know why it happens. It’s not really like me to be like this. Maybe it’s because it’s in such sharp contrast to the way girls usually treat me, and I’m not used to it?

Maybe he’s right, and I am reading too much into things today.

Either way, my mind is made up—Ant Decker is going to take me shopping if it’s the last thing he ever does.

I walk over to him, stopping only when I’m positive I’m crowding him. I can tell I am because he leans back against his car, shifting his weight from foot to foot, trying in vain to buy a little more distance from me.

“Didn’t take you for a guy who doesn’t pay his debts,” I say in a neutral tone that’s only purpose in life is to provoke him, “but I guess I could be wrong about you…”

There’s a heavy sigh and a hard, long eye roll. Begrudging doesn’t begin to describe his mood, and that fills me with joy. “I’ll pick you up at two-thirty.”

“Great,” I say. “It’s a date.”

His face drops. There’s pure panic in his eyes, and holy shit, I love it. “I-it’s not a date.”

“Sure it is, baby.” I smile, batting my lashes and clenching my hands over my chest. “I can’t wait.”