I opened her text with a heaviness I wasn’t ready to deal with.
Stevie: One of Trent’s big clients is getting audited. He’s worried he may need to pull in more help.
ME: Sounds messy.
Stevie: Very.
Stevie: I’m excited about tonight though. Thanks for the tickets again.
I ignored my growing apprehension. I’d have to tell Stevie about this picture, and I promised myself I would some time later tonight. Right now, I’d let myself focus on how she was “excited” about the game. The way she had me feeling like I’d known her longer, beyond the short amount of actual one-on-one time we’d spent together, it was a natural attraction. There was no hesitation. Only that persistent pull. And I couldn’t wait to kiss her again, watch her come alive beneath my touch.
ME: Did you decide who you’re going to bring?
When I’d called her and told her she had two tickets she’d been relieved to not have to sit alone, but her relief had turned quickly into an adorable panic attack. Her boss and business partner were huge fans, and would “kill her” for the tickets.
Stevie: I never told the guys.
Stevie: I’m bringing my friend, Reagan.
ME: Good choice.
Stevie: Less hurt feelings.
ME: I’ll get my teammates to sign something for them.
Stevie: You’d do that?
ME: I’d do just about anything if it means I’ll get a repeat of the other night.
Stevie: Such a whore.
My laugh was loud enough Atlas barked and trotted over to where I was leaning against the counter. I wondered if she was blushing, if her bottom lip was trapped between her teeth, a shy smile playing at the corners of her mouth. I could almost hear her light giggle.
ME: Seriously, it’s no big deal. We sign shit all the time.
Stevie: They’d love that. Thank you!
I rubbed Atlas’s head, his gray and black-spotted face stared up at me, his big eyes pleading for something.
“What?” I asked and a low grumble sounded in his throat. “Should we send her a picture?”
I leaned down to his level, opened the camera app on my phone and snapped a couple of shameless selfies. There was only one decent picture. My smile was goofy as fuck, but Atlas had his ears up and his eyes right on the camera. I attached it to the next text message.
ME: Atlas told me he wants to meet you this time.
She didn’t take long to respond.
Stevie: Does he now?
I wanted to hear her voice, hear the sexy laughter in her tone. I pressed the call button. It rang barely once.
“Hey,” she whispered and I wanted to lose myself in the sultry, almost sleepy quality of it.
“Come over after the game.”
“Are you sure you won’t be tired?”
“It doesn’t matter. I’d rather hang out with you than sleep.”
Amongst other things. But I kept that to myself.
“Mark… I…” I heard her softly exhale. I was ready for her to tell me I pushed too hard, that coming over was a bad idea. “Should I meet you there after the game or…”
“Have Reagan take you to Time Out, it’s right by the rink. We always go there after the game.”
“Time Out?”
“Yeah, it’s the same place I met you.” My smile stretched wide. “We don’t have to stay long, but it will give you and Reagan a place to chill until we wrap up at the rink. I’ll text you when I’m about to head over.”
“Sounds like a plan,” she said and a quiet laugh drifted through the phone and hit me in the chest. “Reagan is going to lose her mind.”
“Why?”
“She’ll have an entire hockey team to drool over all night, and when she finds out we’re having drinks with said hockey hotties she might implode.”
“You’ll have to keep her away from my captain, Bryson.”
“Noted.”
“Hey, Stevie?”
“Hey, Mark?”
“Thanks for coming tonight.”
She was quiet for three, maybe four, long seconds. Each one marked and etched into the beat of my hungry pulse.
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“Shit, shit, shit...” The arena was a storm of sound, and I couldn’t hear myself think as Reagan and I made our way down to our seats. “We’re so late.”
“You have to calm down,” Reagan teased, clearly enjoying my dismay. “You can’t help that he had a game in the middle of rush hour.”
I should’ve left earlier, I thought to myself and practically tripped down three stairs when the crowd exploded. I vaguely heard Reagan’s giggle over the announcer’s deep boom. He was saying something about a power play when our row finally came into view. It wasn’t until we climbed over five or six annoyed fans, their beers spilling onto my Converse, that I allowed the anxiety to ebb.
“The game’s barely started.” Reagan gave me the ‘wide-eyed, you’re a crazy person‘ stare, as we settled into our seats.
I’d been so focused on finding our spot I hadn’t realized how close we really were to the rink. Five rows up from Tampa Bay’s bench.
“Wow,” I whispered but it was swallowed by the roaring cheer of the audience.
Everyone around us suddenly rose to their feet, hands up in the air as a loud horn blared overhead. Streams of swears and violent joy pounded their hands together as they celebrated. We’d been engulfed in a sea of blue jerseys as the announcer hollered, “Goal!”
Reagan and I both stood, and I wondered if she felt as clueless as I did. “Did they score?” I asked and she shrugged.
The announcer started to bellow again, but I couldn’t decipher what he was saying until he uttered two words, “Mark Car-mel-o.”
The arena echoed back his last name, enunciating every syllable just as the announcer had. Reagan and I turned to look at each other at the same time. An incredulous giggle tickling my throat. Her smile was ear to ear while mine shook a little. My heart pounded staccato beats inside my chest, desperate to get a glimpse of him. Like everyone else, I was in awe, but for a completely different reason. This was his life. Every row of this arena was alive, buzzing, and brimming over with adrenaline because of him. Every single person here knew his name, and I was here because he knew mine.
Reagan screamed, “Go, Mark!” as the crowd stomped their feet, and I stood on my tiptoes to see over the giants standing in front of us. Ray nodded her chin to the large monitors hanging above the rink and I followed her gaze. Mark’s stick was raised, his mouth split into a gorgeous smile as he skated past the row of players sitting at the bench bumping fists with each of them. That smile, I wanted to catalog it, remember how it radiated, and how its warmth flooded my chest. I hadn’t before witnessed this smile, this side of Mark.
The men in front of us finally sat down, and maybe I should’ve too, but I was mesmerized, clapping like a mad woman, when his eyes found mine. I was paralyzed by the power of it and how the lights of the arena bounced funny shadows over his sharp features. He didn’t look real. For a half of a second, I thought I had dreamed him up entirely. He chuckled, or it looked like he had at least, as he stepped up to the bench. He lifted his glove-covered hand and gave me a small nod of his chin before he sat down.
My cheeks flushed and Reagan bumped her hip into mine. “Jesus, that man is hot.”
“Hey…” I laughed as we both sank into our seats.
“I wasn’t talking about your man.” She pointed to number twenty-three. “How do you pronounce that?”
I stared at the man’s name on his jersey. “Ra-nan-ow-ski?”
“He’s a giant, and your man better introduce me tonight.”
“I’ll never understand the relationship you have with Pete.”
“We have a nice thing going.”
“You’ve been with him for years.”
“Friends with benefits,” she corrected me. “I prefer it that way. It’s less messy.”
“You’re delusional.”
“I’m a genius.”
“If you say so.” The last word of my sentence faded into a cacophony of jeers. There was a flurry of movement on the bench, and just like that, Mark was on the ice again.
Hockey was an organized chaos. The fans were rabid, and even though I didn’t exactly know all the rules, or what was happening, I could feel it. I never liked sports, never liked watching them, if I was being honest. In college, while everyone was at the football game, I was in the library studying with Ben. I wasn’t sure how much of it was hockey, or how much of it was the sexy player with the number nineteen stitched into his jersey, but as the clock ticked, and the game went on, the pressure in my lungs stretched past comfortable. My spine felt rigid, and my hands rotated between clenched fists and clapping. I was on the verge, a silent scream queued and ready stuck in my throat, and every time our team looked like they were about to score I would lose my shit. I’d jump or scoot to the edge of my seat. At one point, I might’ve stood, yelling like a crazed lunatic when some meathead from Dallas smashed Mark into the glass.
My favorite part, and I pocketed away every single one of them, were the private smiles Mark kept sending me every time he came to the bench. Each smile, each subtle nod of his chin was for me. It fed the competitive pulse that thundered inside my ribs, and when he scored again, I got to see it this time, witness the power behind his shot, the skill honed into one defining second. He made it look so easy.
All that pent-up anticipation emptied, as I flew to my feet, my hands at my mouth and shouted, “That’s right, baby!”
I stomped my feet with the crowd and high fived Reagan. I actually “wooed” and took pleasure in the way the bass of the arena melted my muscles. When Mark scored a third time in the second period, a hat trick is what I’d overheard the guys in front of us call it, I’d pretty much morphed into the world’s craziest cheerleader. My cheeks hurt from smiling. The fans threw their hats into the rink while Mark’s team surrounded him on the ice. It was barbaric the way they punched and shoved each other’s shoulders, the way they smacked their helmets, and yet, it was the most adorable group hug I’d ever seen.
Reagan had been so thrilled with my little displays of sports-induced lunacy that during the first intermission she’d bought me a t-shirt from the shop. It was white and had Tampa Bay’s logo on the center of it. Carmelo and his number were scrolled across the front, as well, in bold blue. When she’d first handed me the shirt, I had no intention of wearing it, but during the second intermission I’d gone to the bathroom and changed. I wanted to be all in, to belong to this win, to this team—to this man.
Ray and I had taken longer than I’d wanted, and by the time we got back to our seats, beers in hand, the last period had already started. Mark was on the ice and I couldn’t tamp down my excitement.
“I love hockey.”
Reagan sipped from her beer to hide her smile.
“It’s fun,” I said and hated the defensive tone of my voice.
“You’re all fired up, it’s darling. Mark has himself a fangirl.”
I looked down at my shirt wondering, if maybe after all, it was a stupid idea to wear it.
“Does this seem too—”
“Groupie?” Reagan interrupted. “Definitely.”
“I’m taking it off.” I made a move to stand but she held her arm across my chest like my mother used to do when she’d slammed on the brakes too hard while driving.
“He’ll love it. You’re his own personal groupie, Stevie.”
As if to prove her point, when I turned toward the bench he was staring at me. A smirk formed on his lips.
“See.” She raised her cup to him.
The pride in his eyes wasn’t something I imagined. It was the same thing I was feeling. It was mutual. His gaze held me. The arena disappeared and it was just him, just Mark looking at me like I was the only thing that mattered. My heart sputtered and sprinted and split wide open as I caught my breath. It was only a look, but there was a promise in his light brown eyes, and it made my limbs tingle with its intensity.
“Yup, you’re so getting laid tonight.” Reagan’s immature statement brought the reality of the room rushing back.
“Sometimes, I wonder if you’re mentally stuck in high school.”
“I’m only stating the obvious.”
I exhaled a laugh, and when I turned to the rink again, Mark was talking to one of his teammates.
“It’s too soon for that…” Wasn’t it?
“Stevie. Who cares about limits? You guys are like the definition of attraction. I’m hot just watching you eye fuck each other. Can you honestly say, without a doubt, that last year, if you hadn’t been married, you wouldn’t have accepted his invitation that night?”
I let my gaze slide back to the bench and lied, “I don’t know.”
I would’ve said yes in a heartbeat and it scared me. There was this wildness blooming inside me every time I thought about him, looked at him, and that night, as much as I wanted to embrace it, it was what I’d been running from when I’d married Ben. That trait was my mother’s. I loved her with all of my heart, but I’d seen her loneliness etched into the frown lines of her mouth, the creases that surrounded her eyes, and I’d worried sometimes if I let that wildness take root, if I let feelings like I had for Mark grow, I would end up like her. The negative voice, I was pretty good at keeping at bay for the most part, snuck in a few jabs. How long would a guy like Mark, a guy with options, a guy who was always on the road, stick around?
“Stop overthinking.” Reagan laughed. “You’re too easy to read, chickadee. Have fun, take your time, whatever. You’re a pup all over again. Enjoy it.”
She held up her beer and I gently touched the rim of my cup to hers. “Enjoy it,” I repeated before I took a sip. The burst of carbonation and hops spilled over my tongue. Ray gave me a knowing smile as I leaned back into my seat, lightly tugging at the hem of my new t-shirt with my free hand. “I think I can do that.”
Hundreds of girls were wearing Mark’s last name. Okay, maybe a hundred was overly dramatic, but I’d stopped counting at fifteen. Some had on his jersey, which spurred some weird, misplaced adolescent jealousy inside my stomach, and others had shirts like mine. Reagan and I were at the bar and on our third beer when my phone buzzed on the table top.
“God, I hope that’s him. It’s getting a little claustrophobic in here.” Reagan eyed the growing crowd.
Mark: Walking in. Where are you?
ME: In the back.
I stared at our previous texts. The one I’d sent congratulating him, with the little top hat emojis, seemed juvenile to me now. The palms of my hands began to sweat as I laid my phone down. Nerves I should have gotten over after our first date worked their way up my throat as it contracted. He’d just won a game, he was the only player who scored on his team, and he’d done that hat trick thingy. He was special and I’d sent some stupid emojis.
“Finally,” Reagan muttered and I lifted my head.
I’d half expected the room to fill with applause when he walked in. But his fan club was either too enthralled or too used to seeing the guys here. I, on the other hand, couldn’t tear my eyes away. Mark’s tailored, charcoal gray slacks clung to his muscular thighs as he approached us. He had the sleeves of his navy blue button-down rolled past his elbows displaying his tattoos. The top two buttons were popped, exposing his neck and a slice of his tanned chest. I swallowed as his full lips pulled up at the corners, his white teeth, that cute little gap between the top two, made my heart flop, stop, and then restart again.
“Hey.” His husky tone vibrated down my spine as he leaned in and kissed me on the cheek first, and then allowed his lips to hover over mine as he spoke. “Nice shirt.”
I crinkled my nose. “Is it too much?”
“Fuck no. I love it.”
The heat of his breath tickled my lips as he closed off the small space and kissed me. His mouth was soft and sweet mint as
it moved against mine. The fight, the war between hesitation and need flavored his kiss as his fingers slid into my hair. He made all the insecurities I had seem trivial, unnecessary, as we lost ourselves to the taste of us. His thumb pressed against my jaw as he pulled away from my mouth.
Reagan cleared her throat. “Great game.”
Mark lowered his hand from my face, only to run it through his damp hair. I liked how it curled and flopped onto his forehead.
His cheeks matched the scarlet flame of my own. “Thanks… Reagan, if I remember correctly?”
“That’s me,” she said and took the last sip of her beer.
“I’m glad you could make it.”
“Ray’s a little infatuated with number twenty-three,” I said and Reagan’s devious smirk made Mark chuckle.
“Rananowski? He’s married.”
“Well, shit, I waited around for nothing.” She looked over Mark’s shoulder and a crestfallen expression marred her smart-ass smile.
His head tipped back as he laughed. “The guys will be stuck for a while, I think. Big crowd tonight.” His teammates had lingered behind chatting up some of the fangirls.
“I think I’m gonna take off. I have to work tomorrow.” Reagan stood and opened her purse.
“I got it.” Mark held up his hand.
“Dating a hockey player perk number three hundred and five. He buys drinks for the friend.” She pushed a chunk of her hair behind her ear and offered him a friendly smile. “Thank you.”
“No problem.”
She turned the full weight of her gaze on me. “Text me tomorrow?” But her eyes, they held secrets. The conversation we’d had at the game about tonight, about enjoying it, danced behind her irises.
Breakaway (The Rule Book Collection) Page 10
